Struggling for Understanding

As I watch Hoarders and am given the motivation to clean up the toys that my daughter, the tornado, deposited throughout my entire apartment, I’m also struck with a painful realization.  I’m watching this episode about a woman in Hawaii, whose home is so cluttered, dirty and filled with roaches that she is at risk of having her children taken away from her.  But what strikes me so much about this isn’t the deplorable condition of her home or the risk to her children.  What strikes me is her husband, who is by her side, helping her clean up, helping her deal with the emotional and mental struggles that she is being faced with during the clean up process, who is going to counseling with her to help keep their family from ever being in that situation again.  I watch him cry for his wife and for her sickness, despite the enormous frustration that it’s caused him.  And I think, that is love.

There’s a lot I still struggle to understand about my own situation.  I have looked inside of myself and have faced the truth of my own flaws and shortcomings and looked at what I can do to try to become a better person.  I have come to terms with the disease that I was afflicted with after my child’s birth and I am proud of myself for how far I have come.  I believe that I’m strong, forgiving, loving and compassionate and I’m happy with the person I am. I’m not perfect and will continue to falter now and then.  I’m human.  I’ve made apologies to the man I love, to the father of my child, for how my disease impacted him.  And I have tried everything that I can think of to suggest to work on repairing our family.  Not just for our daughter’s sake but for us as well.  Because we deserve to have love.  Everyone does.

What I can’t understand is the unbreakable wall that I am met with.  I fell in love with a man who talked to me.  Really talked.  About feelings.  I swear, I’m not making him up.  They do exist.  I fell in love with a man who wasn’t afraid to tell me or show me how much he loved me.  He wasn’t afraid to tell or show everyone else how much he loved me, either.  He showed up at my place after a disagreement and apologized, telling me that he doesn’t ever want to let me down again.  And what I can’t understand is how there doesn’t appear to be a trace of this man left.

CC admits that he has changed.  He’s implied that I’m responsible for that change and, he’s probably right.  I said and did some unexplainable things during the first few months of my daughter’s life. For which I’ve already apologized.  There is nothing more that I can do.  I can’t take them back.  I can’t turn back time.  All I can do is say that I’m sorry.  And I’ve done this over and over again.  Despite his admitting that he is no longer that same person that I fell in love with, CC is adamant that I’m the only one who needs to change in order for us to ever be able to be together again.  When I try to talk about working towards reconciliation, I’m repeatedly told that “You haven’t changed.”  But I can’t understand how one can expect change when they’ve done nothing to help facilitate it.  We don’t talk. We make small talk about our child.  But even trying to have a conversation about her birthday turns into a battle of wills and it winds up being a fight and I wind up crying.  When nothing is done to work on improving our communication with one another, nothing will change.  I can’t understand how someone can expect change to just happen.

I can’t understand why I’m blamed for so, so much.  I can’t understand how two people can see one situation so differently.  I can’t understand how someone can put their foot down and say “I will xyz” when trying to have a conversation about our child’s best interests, instead of having a calm, rational conversation, and yet state that I’m controlling and everything always has to be my way.  I’m not the one putting my foot down.  I’m the one trying to talk things out, to find a way for everyone to be able to live with the decisions that are made.

I can’t understand how someone can truly believe that they were always there for you when they left you alone because they “couldn’t stand to be around you” and told you that you had to leave your home, saying that it was never your home to begin with and they just allowed you to be a guest there.  I can’t understand how someone can say that they are still always there for you yet they won’t go to counseling, won’t stay after putting your daughter to bed so that you can talk like adults, and when you ask for help with your child because she’s sick and you’re exhausted, they tell you no.  I can’t understand how someone can do all of these things and still believe that I’m the “bad guy” for saying that he wasn’t there for me. Being there for someone means getting on the floor with them while they’re crying and holding them. It means accepting their apologies. It means being there. Physically.

I can’t understand why I can’t win, so to speak.  I know that there are wonderful things that CC has done and continues to do.  And I have bragged about him many times.  When I was recovering from childbirth, a bad infection and a back injury all at once, I couldn’t pick my child up from her bed.  CC would bring her to me for her night feedings and then put her back to bed for me afterwards.  He changes diapers.  Gives her baths.  He would leave breakfast on my nightstand before leaving for work in the mornings because I wouldn’t eat otherwise.  He shoveled my car out of the snow for me during our recent snowstorm.  He has a good heart.  Underneath all of the hurt and anger and frustration is a wonderful man.  I can’t understand why me bringing up something that’s hurt me or that I don’t think is right seems to negate all of that to him.  It’s as if just because I think he does one thing wrong, it means everything he does is wrong.  And that simply isn’t the truth and for the life of me I can’t understand it.

I can’t understand why I’m always wrong.  What CC took away from my heartfelt post, The Day the Earth Stood Still was that he wasn’t there for me and he’s to blame for our relationship falling apart and that I love him.  And yet, I spent so much of that post talking about what I did to contribute to our relationship failing.  I took ownership of my part in all of this and I can’t for the life of me understand how nothing I said in that post could touch him in any way.

I can’t understand how someone who held my hand and cried watching the amount of pain I was in during labor could later turn around and tell me “Women give birth every day.” Like it was no big deal what I went through to give him the incredible child he loves so very much.  I can’t understand how this man who told me that I was his best friend, could truly believe that we always had a poor relationship.  I can’t understand how this man who has left work to go to the aid of a family member who suffers from seizures could not show any compassion for the challenges I faced as a result of my disease.  I can’t understand how, when I point out how much I have changed already, when I talk about how I get up and shower and get dressed every day and my home is maintained (whatever that is with a ten month old) and I’m singing and dancing and taking our daughter out somewhere every day, how he can respond to me with “that’s what human beings do.”  It’s cold.  It lacks any kind of understanding or compassion.  It’s belittling.  Because it isn’t my fault that there were times I was in the same clothes for three days straight.  It isn’t my fault that I couldn’t stay on top of a breastfeeding newborn, recovering from major surgery and a serious infection that landed me back in the hospital when my daughter was only a week old, a back injury that made caring for my daughter incredibly difficult and trying to maintain our home.  It isn’t my fault that I was sick.

It isn’t my fault that I suggested counseling several times before we actually went.  Or that, after only two sessions, CC gave up, while I kept going – alone.  It isn’t my fault that I went to the church to speak with a Deacon about the state of my family – alone. And that when I ask him to go he tells me no because “I don’t have to.”  It isn’t my fault that every thing I do to try to be pleasant with one another, to try to rekindle some spark between us is interpreted as “manipulation”.  I can’t understand how he can question my motives so very much when all I want to do is anything in the world that I can to somehow be a happy family.

I can’t understand how someone can be so admittedly unhappy.  How they could say that they do want to have their family back together but just don’t want the arguing, yet be unwilling to do anything to facilitate that happening.  It took months for us to destroy our relationship.  It will take time to fix it as well.  But if you want a family, if you want to be together, you make it happen.  You try anything you possibly can.  Because, really, what more do you have to lose?

I like my apartment, for the most part.  I could do without the noisy neighbors and unassigned parking spaces.  And the flight of stairs.  But it’s mine.  No one can tell me that it isn’t.  It’s cozy.  It’s warm.  It’s inviting.  It feels like a home.  It’s filled to the brim with toys.  And love.  I feel more at ease here then I did in his house for a long time.  Perhaps because it was his house.  At one time it didn’t feel that way, it felt like home, but that was a long time ago.  And yet, I still fell asleep every night next to the father of my child.  I kissed him goodnight every night, no matter what.  He was always there next to me for me to curl into, to put an arm around.  He was there for me to cook dinner for and to enjoy family days.  And that is greatly missing from my home.

I made a lot of mistakes.  I hurt people who I cared about.  I stopped truly showing appreciation for the good that I had.  But I stopped being appreciated as well.  I stopped being understood and loved for who I am unconditionally.  I stopped being allowed to take up residency in his heart.  And so, here I am, confused.  Lost.  Because I can’t understand how two people can want the exact same thing and yet not be able to find a way to work together towards that common goal.  I can’t understand what more I’m supposed to do.  And I can’t understand how to not feel guilty for my daughter being in the middle.

“Right now it don’t make sense I can’t make it all make sense So I’m gonna sit right here On the edge of this pier Watch the sunset disappear” ~ Luke Bryan

I’m a Mommy

I’m a mommy.

I don’t always find time to shower every day. Sometimes a toothbrush and deodorant have to suffice. My hair dryer is collecting dust and, while my hair has grown beautifully long from my pregnancy, it is almost always piled on top of my head to avoid pulling, etc. And because I just don’t usually have the time or energy to do it. I have traded in my skinny jeans and heels for sweatpants and flip flops most days. My latest fashions come with clip-down straps instead of designer tags. And they are almost always covered in spit-up by the end of the day. I haven’t watched a full TV show, uninterrupted in months and movie theaters and restaurants have become mostly foreign to me. My child has started sleeping through the night but I am still awake every hour – checking that she is breathing. I wake at every sneeze/cough/fart/thumb-suck. I eat most of my meals standing up or driving or while playing with musical elephants. I hear the song from that musical elephant everywhere. I don’t entirely remember how to hold down an adult conversation that doesn’t include the words “poop” or “nipple”. I hear phantom crying while in the car/shower/backyard/supermarket. I have had to pack away 80% of my clothes and buy a new wardrobe, two sizes larger than my pre-pregnancy clothes. It took me weeks to actually figure out what size I am because trying on clothes with the baby with me is like Defcon 1 and is, therefore, impossible. My previously rock hard booty is now slightly saggy and adorned with stretch-marks. While I have the desire to work out, the time and energy to do so are simply fantasies. My house has gone from neat and organized to a state of almost constant disarray.

Silly time with my girl ❤

I’m a mommy.

I am beautiful without silky, blown-dry and straightened hair. My skin glows from the inside out with love, nurture and pride. I am filled with so much love that my body simply cannot contain it inside. I have traded in my compulsive shopping for the latest fashions for compulsive shopping of clothes I am comfortable in and allow my child comfortable and easy access to nursing and snuggling. I have learned that, more important than the clothes on my body is my body’s ability to provide my child with life, vitamins, nutrients, immunity and love. I have worked through raw, cracked, bloody and painful breasts to provide this benefit to my child. And I would do it all again in the blink of an eye. I’m strong and now my child will be too. I don’t miss my TV shows. I’ve replaced them with teaching my daughter how to get that crazy little elephant to turn on and play music all on her own. Instead of filling my time with make believe lives, I now fill my time with helping another life to thrive. I’m a teacher; Of language skills, smiles, laughter, cause and effect, motor skills, social skills. I teach trust, love, healthy-sleep habits. One day I will sleep through the night again. And I will miss the days when my little girl was so little and would wake me up, needing to be close to me. So I cherish the middle of the night feedings, where she looks up at me and smiles, holding on tight to my finger. If my old clothes never fit me again, I will find comfort in providing them to someone who desperately needs clothing on their back. My new body is incredible just the way it is. That body grew and brought forth life. It nourished my child, enabling her to be able to survive on her own and become her own, independent person. Every new wrinkle, sag, pound is a symbol of the irreplaceable bond between my daughter and I. A bond no one else will ever have with her. A bond that means more to me than the size printed on the inside label of my jeans. I do not have stretch marks. I have tiger stripes. They are a symbol of my strength as a woman and mother. They are a symbol of my greatest accomplishment in my life, now or ever: My child. One day, they will fade. But my love and pride will remain strong. As for my house? That disarray isn’t “mess”. It’s love, knowledge, fun. When my daughter grows up, she will not look back fondly on how clean or spotless our home was or wasn’t. She will look back fondly on the memories we’ve created spending time together, being silly and snuggly.

I’m a mommy. And I’m beautiful and so is my life. You’re beautiful too, mommy.

Fill Your Mommy Arsenal With Knowledge

They say that knowledge is power.  I’m not sure who “they” is but, just the same.  So why is it that, with certain things, like doctors, we just take what we’re told to be fact?  Most people I know research big purchases before they make them, like cars, computers, houses.  If someone told you that the foundation of the house they’re selling is sturdy, would you just take their word or would you have it checked out – research it a bit for yourself?  Why don’t we do the same when it comes to our doctors, to giving birth, to the most important decisions of our lives?

We all know there are certain “no-nos” during pregnancy: drinking, smoking, drugs (although these should perhaps be on the no-no list all of the time?).  I think most people would at least think twice before going sky-diving or skiing while carrying a giant bowling bowl in their abdomen.  But what about medications, pain interventions, birthing options?

When I got past the excitement of teeny-tiny shoes and onesies and I thought about the actual process of giving birth, my first thought was, I assume, similar to many women’s –epidural!  With scoliosis, I didn’t know if that would actually be a possibility (sometimes they don’t take or numb only one side of the body, etc.) and I began vigorously researching this and talking to my doctor about getting an anesthesia consult.  Then, I did some more research on epidurals only, this time, I wasn’t researching the likelihood of one working on me.  I was researching what’s actually in them and what effect they can have on my child.

I learned that epidurals make you feel so good because, well, they’re drugging you.  Now, that may seem like a pretty “duh” thing to say.  But I suppose I just never really looked at it that way before.  According to the Physicians Desk Reference, “Local Anesthetics rapidly cross the placenta and when used for epidural, paracervical, pudendal or caudal block anesthesia, can cause varying degrees of maternal, fetal and neonatal toxicity.”  What a minute!  My doctor never told me that!!!  And so began my research into many other interventions.

My doctor constantly tells me to stop watching the baby shows on TLC.  You know, Baby’s First Day, A Baby Story, etc.  Naturally, they show extreme situations otherwise, they wouldn’t be all that entertaining.  But, I have always been the kind of person who likes to prepare myself for all situations.  Prepared for the worst case scenario, I should be able to handle anything that comes along.  These shows mention Pitocin pretty frequently, in fact, I think on about every episode.  Pitocin is a drug that’s used to either induce labor or speed up labor in certain situations.  Seeing as induction is sometimes necessary (doctors don’t let you go past 42 weeks due to a decrease in the functioning of the placenta and an increase in the risk of meconium)  I thought to ask about this means of intervention at our last doctor’s visit.  My doctor’s response?  Pitocin is something your body produces naturally so it’s perfectly safe.  Sometimes your body just isn’t producing enough and so they provide additional Pitocin by means of IV.  Okay, sounds good, right?

The problem is that what pregnant women receive in their IV’s is actually a synthetic form of what our bodies produce naturally and there is nothing natural about it at all.  The bodies natural hormone is secreted in bursts, causing spaced-out contractions.  When given through an IV, Pitocin is received in a steady flow.  So, what’s the big deal?  The big deal is that this causes contractions to be stronger and closer together.  During contractions, there is a major decrease in uterine blood flow aka the amount of oxygen reaching the baby.  With normal contractions, there is enough time in between for the baby to recover.  However, with Pitocin induced contractions, they come on too strong and too fast most of the time, making it difficult for the baby to recover their oxygen between contractions.  This can and often does result in fetal distress, making an otherwise unnecessary c-section suddenly an emergency situation.  Pitocin can also cause premature separation of the placenta, rupture of the uterus, postbirth hemorrhage, fetal asphyxia, neonatal hypoxia, physical injury and prematurity (if the due date is not accurate).  There is also research showing that Pitocin is linked to disorders on the autism spectrum.  I guess my doctor, and many others, aren’t quite up on their reading?

It can be a vicious cycle, one that starts with an epidural, which often slows down and eases up contractions.  This can create the need for Pitocin which may result in the need for a c-section due to fetal distress.  Or, in situations where induction is necessary due to being past the due date or for other medical reasons, the cycle may start with Pitocin.  Which increases the pain from the contractions (they’re stronger, remember), resulting in an epidural when previously unwanted.

To be fair, there are absolutely times where medical interventions are absolutely necessary and I’m so thankful that these options exist for the safety and well-being of delivering women everywhere.  Let me say that I do not begrudge any woman’s right to the birthing plan of her choice, including epidurals or other medicinal pain management.  Every woman and every pregnancy is different and, for all I know, when I’m actually in that situation two months from now, I may be screaming for someone to just “give me the f’n drugs already!!!!”  I like to think I have a decent pain tolerance but, then again, I’ve never had a human being coming out of my body before.  Either way, I’m thankful that women have these options and the right to make these choices when it comes to their bodies.  I just think that those choices should come with the responsibility of fully researching the options and their possible impacts on both mothers and their children.

After my own research, I have made drastic changes to my own birthing plan which, let’s be honest, is really just a wish list.  When the time comes, BB will be the one calling the shots that day.  It’s the first time as mothers we are called on to let go and trust our children to know the right thing to do.  I trust BB, he/she has a smart mama.  All the same, having a plan is something that makes me feel more prepared for the big moment.  And boy, has my plan changed.  I went from freaking out that an epidural might not work on me to not wanting one at all.  My plan?  A natural birth.

I want to know that, not only is my baby drug free at birth but that I am too; that I’m not too loopy to hold my baby or to remember that very first contact.  There’s a lot of documentation about women who give birth naturally being able to breast feed more quickly, to actually walk to their room rather than being wheeled in, etc.  There is also research about babies being born with healthier coloring (no blue Smurf look at birth) and I find it all fascinating and worth reading up on at the very least.  I do not want to be held back by IV’s, especially if I’m not receiving any medications through them.  It always amazes me how, anytime you’re in an ER or hospital for any reason, they immediately hook you up to an IV.  Most often, if you ask, they will tell you that it’s a precautionary measure, so that if they do end up needing to medicate, they are one step ahead of the game.  This is something I routinely refuse.  If I wind up needing medication, then you can stick me with an IV.  Until then, please leave my skin and veins in tact, thank you very much.

During labor, IV’s are very restrictive and make the possibility of natural childbirth much less likely.  They can restrict a woman to the labor and delivery bed, with other monitors, etc. hooked up.  What’s amazing to me to learn is that there are indeed alternatives.  As in any other time, women have the right to refuse a precautionary IV during labor.  Which leaves them free to walk (one of the most recommended ways to speed up labor), use a balance ball, squat (also recommended for speeding up labor), bathe, eat, drink, etc.  The list goes on and on.  Our bodies were designed to birth babies after all.  We just need to know what we’re doing to help them along.

I will soon be starting my Bradley Classes although I have already been reading the books, practicing my exercises, ensuring proper sleeping position etc. etc.  I’m hopeful that, with proper breathing techniques, positioning, exercising and of course, CC’s support, that this whole natural birthing thing will be a reality.  Of course, I am prepared for the possibility that I may wind up needing every single intervention that I’m not interested in having.  But, at least I know the pros and cons, the risks and benefits and how to determine if the doctors and nurses are making a decision because it’s medically necessary or because they want to get home to watch their favorite show.  And I know that I have the option to say no and that, whatever spur of the moment decisions arise that day and need to be made right away, I will at least be making them intelligently, backed with the knowledge of all of my research.

Whether women choose Bradley, Lamaze, natural birth, c-sections, epidurals, etc, it is a personal choice every woman can and must make for herself, hopefully with the input and support of her partner.  Just remember that these choices are going to be with you much longer than that new car you’re thinking about buying.  A little research and arming your mommy arsenal with knowledge can be a powerful thing.

** To anyone considering natural childbirth or just looking to learn more, I highly recommend Husband-Coached Childbirth by Robert A. Bradley, M.D. **

 

No Pressure!

When you’re pregnant, it somehow becomes everyone’s business and, suddenly, even people you don’t know are coming up to you and giving you unsolicited (and often unwanted) advice.  And what’s up with the fact that it’s usually negative???  Looking tired?  Just wait until that little one comes!  You’ll never sleep again!  Great, thank you for that uplifting news.  It’s like Captain Obvious and Debbie Downer got together and hatched a million offspring.  Everyone who’s ever been a parent is part of this secret society and they just can’t wait to lure you into the other side of darkness.  This is supposed to be a positive, exciting experience, or so I’ve been told.  So how about we say exciting, positive things to one another instead?  Hello, this isn’t rocket science people! The one thing that I think everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, from your mother, your best friend, your doctor and every single book/magazine/article/mobile app you read (and I read A LOT!) seems to agree on is that pregnant women shouldn’t stress.  I’m sorry but…what???

From day one, we are bombarded with the statistics of miscarriage.  I don’t know about you but, twenty-six weeks later, I still check the toilet and the toilet paper after every time I go to the bathroom to make sure there’s no blood.  At the very first doctor’s visit, we are given what I’ve come to refer to as the “No Packet” – it’s the packet full of useful information the doctor gives out that basically says everything you can not eat, drink or do for the next nine months.  Eating out has seriously become like studying for the SAT’s.  Talk about turning a negative into a positive!  To be fair, it’s information we all need for the benefit of having a healthy baby.  But couldn’t it at least be given to us in a basket full of low-sugar cookies or something?

And then, something happens, and you switch caregivers.  Whether yours is part of a group practice and there’s at least one doctor there you definitely don’t want to be the one on call when you go into labor (partially my reason for switching OB’s), you relocate, insurance reasons or to deliver at a better hospital (my biggest reason for switching), you learn that most of these rules on what not to do aren’t exactly set in stone.  My original doctor, who I love and is the reason I’m even able to have a child right now, guaranteed me that using a semi-permanent hair dye once or twice in a well ventilated area was harmless.  And a cup of coffee a day wasn’t going to kill anyone, especially not my baby.  When I reluctantly switched my OB for the benefit of a far better hospital to deliver at, I fond that my new doctor wasn’t quite on the same page.  Apparently dying my hair and drinking even a teeny-tiny cup of coffee once or twice a week (not even a day!) meant that I might give birth to a cyclops with his or her leg where the arm should be.  So who’s right?  And if this is all scientific and based on research, why isn’t there any clear right or wrong answer???  I mean, I hate my grays but I could tolerate them for the benefit of my child being born with two, well-placed eyes.

If you’re a working mama, add in more things to stress about.  Maybe you’re fortunate enough to work somewhere that your boss and all of your coworkers are incredibly understanding.  If you are, please let me know where you work!  Anyone ever hear “You’re pregnant, not disabled!”?  Well, when you’re lugging around an extra 30+ pounds, you’ve been awake for three straight days, your stomach is burning a hole in your throat, you need to spend more time in the bathroom than at your desk, your heart is pumping out double the amount of blood (most of which appears to be coming out of your nose), you’re suffering from hemorrhoids and there’s a living being doing a full gymnastics floor routine inside of your body, it’s bound to take its toll on even the best employee.  But, there are goals and deadlines to meet, filing to be done, meetings to attend and no rest for the weary.  That recommended power nap during the day to recharge?  Yea, good luck with that one!  Work, work, work!

I’ve always been a very independent woman.  Asking for help isn’t quite my thing and, because of such, I’ve learned how to do a lot on my own.  But, suddenly, we’re not allowed to do ANYTHING without help.  I can’t take a bath without having to ask for help getting out of the tub.  Want to carry the heavy hamper into the laundry room?  Have to ask for help.  Need those cute shoes you forgot about off the top shelf of the closet?  It’s not as easy as grabbing a chair anymore.  Nope, no climbing for preggos.  Have to ask for help for that, too.  So if you’re home alone, then what?  STRESS! STRESS! STRESS!

Monitor what you’re eating.  Monitor your weight gain.  Monitor the baby’s kicks.  (Most pregnancy apps now have a “kick counter”.  I recommend What to Expect When You’re Expecting, Baby Center and Sprout.)  Another blood test?  You want me to drink what???  Don’t sleep on your back or your stomach (as if you could if you tried!)  Best to sleep on your left side so the baby gets optimum blood flow and nutrients.  Oh, that side of your body is starting to fall asleep?  Well, it’s okay to roll over onto your right side for a bit but be prepared for the extra weight of all that guilt that you’re robbing your child of necessary nutrients!  STRESS! STRESS! STRESS!

My biggest current stress?  Birthing classes and a birthing plan.  I’ve always been convinced that I wanted an epidural.  Until now.  At the end of the day, I don’t want ANY amount of drugs getting to my baby, however minimal the “experts” may say that amount is.  And I want to be clear-headed for the first time I hold my little BB.  It’s a personal choice that, fortunately, women have the right to make and I respect everyone’s own birthing plans.  It’s just not for me.  And so, I started looking into the difference between Lamaze and the Bradley Method.  Convinced the Bradley Method is right for me, and WOWED by the statistics that approximately 86% of Bradley graduates go on to have healthy, natural births, I started looking into classes.  Apparently they’re anywhere from eight to twelve weeks long???  But no one – not my doctor or my books or apps – told me that I was behind the ball on signing up for a class!  Why didn’t anyone warn me that I needed to do this months ago???  And the fees?  I was not at all prepared for the astronomical amount of money it would cost to have someone teach me the proper way to breathe, squat and for CC to learn how to be the best birthing coach he can be.  So, in addition to trying to pick between the class that runs right into my due date but is led by someone highly recommended and the class that starts in two weeks but is led by someone I really know nothing about, I am know feverishly on Amazon.com ordering books on the Bradley Method.  Yes, I realize I do it to myself but, hello, STRESS! STRESS! STRESS!

As for the birth plan?  I’m a planner, planning is good.  But so is accepting that, sometimes, even the best laid plans go right out the window.  Or the delivery room door.  When it comes to that time, I am completely aware that the baby will be the one calling the shots and that there is the possibility of all sorts of unforseen complications which I need to be prepared for.  What I’m afraid of, however, is that the nurses may not be on board and may pressure me away from the birth plan with fancy medical talk when, in reality, those changes may not actually be necessary.  I’ve read (see, too much reading is bad for you!) about numerous stories where women went in for natural births, things were slow in progressing and so they were given Pitocin to speed things up, only to be in severe pain (Pitocin in your IV will do that to you) and to wind up needing an epidural or emergency C-section, etc.  And, after the fact, these women find out that they still had time where it would have been safe to put off those interventions and continue working towards birthing naturally.  I like my shows as much as the next person but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be pressured into straying from my plan and doing something I’m not comfortable with just so my doctor or nurse can get home to see American Horror Story.  I DVR it.  They can too.

At the end of the day, the truth remains that women have been giving birth since, well, I guess since that bitch Eve made Adam eat the apple.  Or did Eve eat it?  I suppose it doesn’t really matter.  Women have been doing this FOREVER and, our bodies pretty much know what they’re doing.  I just wish sometimes that my head knew as much as my body does.  Stress free pregnancy?  It’s the funniest thing I think I’ve ever heard!

Maternity Mopiness

There are days it’s nearly impossible to get out of bed and it isn’t because of the normal back pain/extra weight/need to roll instead of sitting up. It’s because of an overwhelming sense of sadness and hopelessness; like there is a massive black cloud following me around, raining on my parade. Pregnancy is supposed to be a happy, beautiful time in our lives but it isn’t always rainbows and butterflies.

Most of the time, I love being pregnant. To be fair, I don’t love the gas, burping, constant urination, imbalance, etc. But I do love watching my belly grow, feeling (and seeing!) my baby kick/dance/do the cha-cha, reading about BB’s growth and development. I absolutely love photographing my growing belly to always remember this time with this little life I am literally giving my flesh and blood too. Those are the good days.

But what about the days where it feels like everything I do is wrong? Or more likely, that I simply can’t do anything without help anymore. It’s like being a child and needing help getting things down from the high shelves. As someone who’s always been a very independent woman, constantly needing assistance isn’t easy to accept. Sometimes though, it isn’t so obvious what’s got me feeling so blue. Sure, it’s easy to just blame hormones but that doesn’t help me snap out if it!

Continuing working as long as you can so you have the most time possible with your child after the birth is difficult enough. Exhaustion, aches and pains, frequent urination…the list of challenges goes on and on. Add to that crying hysterically over seemingly nothing and literally not being able to bring yourself to get dressed in the morning. Life as a pregnant woman isn’t a highway, it’s a roller coaster and the protective harness is missing.

Not all women who suffer from the “mopies” would be considered to be affected by depression. These feelings are often fleeting or pass after a day or two. When they’re not constant, we just have to find a way to deal…that doesn’t include alcohol, a hot bath or rigorous exercise. Anyone want to teach me how to crochet???

A Few of My Favorite Things

Since my last post was all about the things I miss since becoming pregnant, I thought I’d take a more cheerful route and post about my favorite parts of being pregnant. What do/did you love the most about your pregnancy?

1. Kicking: Yes it’s totally weird and reminds me of the scene in Spaceballs where the alien pops out of the guys stomach and dances on the counter. I mean, there’s something very science fictiony about something living inside of me. But those kicks are also super cool. They remind me that my baby is in there, growing and, well, alive and kicking. It’s a beautiful bonding experience.

2. The food!: While I’ve always been a food lover, being pregnant has opened me up to new foods I love now but used to hate. Eggs anyone?

3. Learning: I love reading all of the magazines and books and downloading the apps to my phone. There is so much to learn and now that its about my own little bundle of joy, I can’t soak it up fast enough.

4. Maternity Clothes: Seriously. Who knew? They’re now stylish and chic and some of my maternity clothes are cuter than my regular clothes. And they’re so comfortable!!! Plus it’s an excuse to shop for a whole new wardrobe!

5. Pregnancy Pillows: Greatest. Invention. Ever. It took me awhile to break down and buy one because they’re on the expensive side. Now that I know how incredibly comfortable they truly are, I would pay double if I had to!

6. An Excuse to Rest: Most of us need about ten hours more in a day to accomplish everything. Being pregnant makes it okay to say “that can wait” and to just relax more.

7. Presents!: Okay so they’re not technically for me but we’ve already received adorable outfits and hooded towels and hats and socks oh my! Sometimes I just go in and stare at them!

Pregnant in Heels: An Ode to Ankle Straps

My sister and I have very different fashion senses. Basically, she doesn’t have any. That being said, when I became pregnant, she graciously loaned me a giant tote bin of maternity clothes with the following disclaimer: “When you’re huge, you won’t care.” As I unpacked the scratchy t-shirts and pepto-bismal pink cable knit sweater, complete with green flowers across the chest, I was convinced I would never be huge enough to wear any of it. And, to that, CC replied “That’s why I love you.”

Don’t get me wrong, to each their own when it comes to fashion. Everyone has their own taste and far be it from me to judge an individuals sense of style (or lack there of, in some cases). Fashion isn’t a priority for everyone and that’s fine. But, with Liz Lange for Target, A Pea in the Pod (if you can afford it*) and even Motherhood Maternity, which now carries Jessica Simpson and Heidi Klum, there are tons of super-cute options out there and pregnant women are no longer destined to be clothed in giant, shapeless frocks. In fact, preggos can now rock skinny jeans and jeggings and, I adore all of my maternity clothes. Some of them are actually cuter than my regular clothes. I plan to wear them for as long as possible after B.B. is born, to be honest. Just because we’re pregnant doesn’t mean that we’re invisible or not entitled to look our best anymore.

At my cousin’s engagement party, someone commented about my “cute” dress and how was it possible that I was fitting into non-maternity clothes. The dress was indeed maternity. From Target. And it’s incredibly hot! (The rouching and the fabric make it easily adjustable to any length you desire. I wore mine shorter. I’m pregnant…there is nothing wrong with my legs!) This is a time in our lives when we’re supposedly “glowing” and should be enjoying the miracles that we’re experiencing. Why shouldn’t we be able to look and feel our best while doing it? The same is true when it comes to shoes.

I’m a shoe whore and proud of it. It’s not that I’m a brand brat, in fact, I don’t own a single pair of Jimmy Choos or Monolos. Some of my favorite shoes actually came from Payless. (Shhhh…that’s our secret!) Regardless of their store of origin, I can’t help but fall head over heels (literally!) in love with the colors, shapes and the way they can transform an outfit. And my mood. There is absolutely no amount of blahness that the right pair of peep toed shoes can’t overcome.

Being pregnant, I have absolutely traded my “hooker-heels” (anything four inches or higher) in for more sensible flats, kitten heels or even sneakers most of the time. But special occasions still call for special shoes and I don’t see anything wrong with that. A few hours in a pair of fabulous heels isn’t going to hurt me or my baby. And so, when I went out looking for those sensible flats to add to my fall wardrobe and I came across a pair of to-die-for Marc Fishers instead, I allowed myself to indulge. After all, they were beyond perfect for my dress. So, I got comfortable in my chair and sipped my hot cider while I waited for the sales girl to bring me my size. Little did I know that I was about to learn a horrible, terrifying truth.

Everyone warns pregnant women about reaching that sad milestone where you can no longer see your feet. We’ve all heard the stories about women who went to work in two different shoes. Hey, it happens. But no one ever warns you about the day you have to say goodbye to ankle straps.

While I may be a wee bit above the suggested weight gain for my build at this stage in my pregnancy, I can still see my feet. If I try. I can put on my own socks and shoes. As long as they don’t have ankle straps, it seems. As I slid my feet into the gorgeous, camel and black wonders, I soon realized that I can no longer bend around to the outside of the ankle strap to see the holes to buckle them. Much like the child I’m about to have, I needed help putting my shoes on. What gives??? I tried and I tried but, at the end of the day, the kind sales girl had to buckle my shoes for me. (So I gave her a pass when she made a comment about being pregnant and not being able to walk in those heels.) This, of course, did not stop me from buying what very well may be the most perfect shoes. Ever.

This entire experience has taught me so many things; about vitamins and eating healthy; about taking care of my body and my mind; about selflessness and the ability to still create romance among the ever-increasing bodily functions. And about relationships in general. I have learned that you are supposed to be married or at least in a very committed relationship before becoming pregnant. This is so there will always be someone there to buckle your super-cute new ankle strap heels for you when you’re just too darn big-in-the-belly to do it yourself! Thankfully, I had just the right person at home. (I let his comment about not needing another pair of shoes slide as well since, without him, I would never have gotten them on.)

I have said goodbye to many things over the past five months; alcohol, cold cuts, hot baths, my adorable belly button, sleep and much of my sex-life. But I’ll be damned if I give up my shoes.

* Destination Maternity carries A Pea in the Pod, among other brands, and often has a decent clearance section of the pricey Pea in the Pod line. Definitely worth checking out. The clothes absolutely fit better and are made better/more comfortable than the cheaper counterparts.

Baby Mine

“From your head down to your toes You’re not much, goodness knows But you’re so precious to me Sweet as can be Baby of mine” ~ Baby Mine, Bette Midler

It’s believed that, at this point, B.B. can hear me.  Something I read actually said that there’s a theory that if an expectant mother sings the same song repeatedly while pregnant, that the baby will recognize the song when it’s born.  And so, I tried to think of a song that’s soothing and appropriate for B.B.  When my niece was a baby, my mom would sing the Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music to soothe her.  Hey, whatever works, right?

The first thing that came to my mind was Baby Mine, sang by Bette Midler in Beaches.  It’s calming, it’s gentle and it’s about love.  What could be more appropriate.  I sing it in the shower, when I’m making breakfast and when I’m just feeling maternal.  And so, when I was in a car accident during work on Friday, I sang that song to B.B.

I had just gotten off the phone with my supervisor after leaving a client’s house and was on my way to type up some paperwork for court.  I stopped at a light and was hit from behind.  While the car that hit me had its bumper hanging off, my car barely had a scratch.  But I wasn’t concerned about my car.  Safety first says to wear your seat belt but, when in an accident, your seatbelt tightens and presses right into the baby (my belly isn’t quite big enough yet to get the lap part of the belt to stay under my belly.)  While I know that B.B. is surrounded by tons of protection, I was still terrified for my baby.  And I worried that my fear and emotions were making my heart pump blood to B.B. too quickly.  Which just made me more scared.  Of course, the guy who hit me and the three other guys in his car, as well as his sister, all got out of the car and were screaming in my face and making matters worse.  And then his sister threatened to punch me in the face.  Not usually one to back down from defending myself, I knew that I had someone else to protect and I let it go until the police came and I filed a report.  By this time, I was hysterical and having trouble breathing.  And cramping.

I called my doctor expecting her to tell me just to keep an eye for blood, etc.  But because I haven’t really felt any movement yet, the doctor told me to go to the hospital and be checked out just to be safe.  My world was spinning around me and I didn’t know how to make it stop.  I waited in the ER for two hours before anyone saw me.  Two hours.  What if something was wrong with my baby???  And I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything.  Um, hello, I’m pregnant!!!  Finally, I was wheeled in for an ultrasound and got to see B.B., moving around, as always.  That is a type of relief you can never put into words and can only understand if you’ve experienced it yourself.  At the end of the day, B.B. was fine.  My back is banged up, I can’t go back to work right away and I am in constant, sometimes debilitating, pain.  And I can’t take anything for it but I don’t care.  My baby is okay and that’s all mommy cares about.  It’s amazing how quickly we make that transition.

And, as I lay here on the heating pad  (only 15 minutes at a time for B.B.’s sake), preparing for a house full of guests for C.C.’s birthday, I keep singing to my baby.  Maybe it comforts me more than it comforts B.B.  I’ll never know, I suppose.  But does it really matter?  What makes me calmer and happier ultimately creates a healthier environment for B.B.’s growth.  And when B.B. is born and is crying his/her little head off, I’ll sing this song to him/her and test the theory:

Sweet Dreams

Sleep is now forever changed for me as existing mommies already know. All of the know-it-all books suggest sleeping now, while you still can, before the baby comes. But who can sleep??? Is this a sick joke that all pregnancy authors are in on? Between waking up from back pain, leg cramps, having to pee…again, hot flashes or the need to devour an entire pizza, there isn’t a whole lot of sleeping going on. Most of the time, despite my exhaustion, I’m highly motivated to clean out and organize the closet or just clean in general. Which leaves me more tired. It’s a vicious cycle, ladies and gentlemen.

When I do finally lay down, it’s no small task. There are pillows for under my head, behind my back and a body pillow to wrap around. CC and I may as well be in separate beds with all the pillows in between us.

Then, there’s the dreams. For a population that wakes up so often during the night, what is it with pregnant women and dreams??? Suddenly, I remember dreams like they were real events and they feel like they’re real events. I’ve dreamt of missing the school bus and my mom taking me on a train, past lovers and JJ, as if he were still alive. It was so real I could smell the gel in his hair. It’s amazing preggos aren’t all schizophrenic!

I suppose the saying I’ll sleep when I’m dead was coined by a mother