Easier doesn't mean easy

When I was pregnant with this Warner Brother, several of my friends told me how easy the second child was.  Less anxiety they said.  Less stress they said.  More knowledge, more tolerance, more confidence, they said.

All of that is true.

However: More or less of something does not equate to all or none of something.

Newborndom is certainly less anxious and less stressful this time around. I don't panic as easily regarding his well being.  I don't worry as much because I sorta have the hang of this.  I know when he's hungry, I can tell when his cries are gas, I have an idea how to teach him to nap, and I totally knew as soon as I saw his first real smile.   I don't have to learn as much, so I can enjoy more.

Although I feel tremendous empathy for the first-time parents in my life who have not yet caught up to my level of experience, I still want to be completely clear:

This is not easy.

I am not one of those parents who "forgot" how hard it was.  I remember the misery of newborndom. I remember walking her around the mall trying to get her to sleep.  I remember standing over her bassinet with my pinky finger in her mouth for endless minutes, maybe hours.  I remember the fear associated with her breastmilk intake - nipple shields, pricey consultants, painful boobs, and cold washcloths on her bare, sleepy back.  I remember late-night cluster feeds, kicky gas legs, and crying on the bathroom floor (me, not her).  I remember whisper-arguing with Hubby and assuming we'd be divorced by the end of the day.  (He would have called a lawyer if he didn't have a sleeping baby on his lap.  The survival of this marriage is attributed to a long nap and a rescue visit from @msfreshfish.)

After all of this, though, I also remember that IT GOT BETTER.  I remember drinking coffee while she peacefully napped, visiting with friends, playing in the sun, smiling above her on a yoga mat.

So, when we diligently weighed the benefits and risks of a second baby, I was not operating in a hormonal or sentimental illusion. I knew precisely what I was in for.  Disaster at first, and generally ongoing heartache and exhaustion in one form or another for the foreseeable future.

Until my friends confused me.  They somehow convinced me this would be effortless.  They claimed "It's so easy this time!" And sure, by comparison, it can be... easy - but only in relation to last time.  Not standing alone.

Standing alone, this experience is just a different kind of impossibly hard.  I still only get two hours of sleep at any given time, except I also have to entertain a toddler most of the day.  I still have a baby who won't allow me to set him down, but I also have a toddler asking for my help to reach the soap/put her socks on/play in her tent.  I still spray breastmilk all over the house, except I also spray it into my toddler's dinner.  I still have to whisper and tiptoe all day long while he attempts to sleep, but I also have to make a toddler whisper and tiptoe while she attempts to play live.

I still have the hard parts - albeit minus some of the anxiety - but with a whole other whack of shit to fill its place.

I still have to take off to the children's hospital when my infant seems to have a fever (with the same unnecessary panic attack). Except this time, I have to do it by myself while Hubby stays home with our other precious child who just wants me to tuck her in.

The constant competition between opposite emotions is staggering. Parenting is wonderful. It's bliss. It's joy. It's pride. It's a gift that we are ever-grateful for. It is an incredible satisfaction, a surprising sense of purpose, an indescribable love.  But it is never easy.

You don't have to read this, either

Nearly three years ago I posted my Fraggle birth story on this blog. You didn't have to read it; it was for me. Same with this post, which is also for me - because if I don't write it down I may later doubt that it ever happened.

***

Monday morning. 5:00 am. Contractions start. But they've started and stopped several times in recent weeks, so I figure who am I kidding? This baby is never coming out. 

Ok 5:30 and they hurt. But they aren't exactly regular. I wait and see. 

Alright. 6:00. I wake Hubby. I'm in labour. Yes for real, maybe don't just ignore me and go back to sleep this time. 

We decide to take Fraggle to daycare early. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. He wakes the sleepy (but surprisingly happy) toddler. 

Oh. Ouch. That's a lot of contractions isn't it. Or is it just one big, long one? It's impossible to tell. That can't be a good sign. I take a tooth-brushing break, leaning over the counter like women on tv often do. 

6:30. I ask Hubby to please page the midwife. Yes, now. 

Hi, midwife? This fucking hurts. No, contractions don't really stop, there isn't a break. Yep it's starting again. Ok, I'll see you at the hospital. 

Hubby feeds Fraggle. I walk downstairs. One. Step. At. A. Time. 

We have to go. Yes, now. 

Oh look. I got my boots on. Who needs socks. 

Fraggle screams because she doesn't get to finish her breakfast. The beginning of several disappointments resulting from this baby, honey. I'm so sorry. 

I walk to the car by myself. Win. 

Wow the car is cold. Hubby starts it. I try to wash the frost off the windsheild but there's no washer fluid. Better than no gas, like last time. 

I look at the clock. 7:17. Contraction. Yelling isn't an option so I breathe. I chant. "It's ok... It's ok..."  I wait. 

7:18. Contraction. Uh oh. "It's ok... It's ok..."

7:19. Shit. "IT'S OK..."

Hubby gets the kiddo in her snowsuit and into the car. Longest three minutes of all time. 

Hubby suggests maybe we drop Fraggle at daycare and then go to the hospital. Not gonna happen my dear. Drop me off first. Thanks for not asking if I'm sure. 

Hubby drives in the wrong direction. No, the hospital is *that* way. I wish yelling was an option. 

Fraggle's very quiet but asking where we're going. I'm answering through my breath. Hubby can't even hear her, he's too busy scraping the frost off the windshield with his credit card at the stoplight. I praise his ingenuity. He doesn't hear me. 

Oh good the hospital. Fraggle asks where we are. "At the midwife's office" seems like a good answer. I walk out of the car, wishing in retrospect that I'd had the capacity to remember to say goodbye to her - a fuck up for which I may never forgive myself. 

Hubby starts to walk in with me, but he can't leave her alone in the car. It's fine. I walk in on my own like a soldier in a trance. 

7:24. I pace into the main doors and request/demand a wheelchair and a ride to the birthing unit from the poor old hospital volunteer man wearing a blue vest. He wheels me upstairs, nice and slow. He asks if I think the baby is coming this morning. I tell him the baby is coming right *breath* now *breath*.  When can I yell?

He wheels me to the birthing unit triage. They know who I am thanks to my midwife who called ahead. It's a good thing because I couldn't tell them my name anyway. I thank the nice volunteer man (A simple "merci" is all I can manage in French at the moment), and I wait for a nurse to help me. No midwife in sight. 

I tell the nurse I'm scared and all alone and yes the baby is coming. I climb on the table and yell for her help. Yelling is finally an option. I vaguely remember arriving here last time and never getting checked by a nurse because six other poor women kept coming in ahead of me, yelling. As I've always said, yelling gets shit done. 

She returns and tells me I'm nine and half centimetres. I get wheeled to a room, leaving my coat and wallet and phone in triage. I don't know where my boots are. I might still be wearing them. 

I tell them that Hubby's coming. He's kinda tall, thin and blonde. His name is Hubby. 

Several nurses help me climb on a bed. I'm loud now, this fucking hurts and it's the worst and YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. Yes I want gas. One nurse asks another nurse where I came from. She answers that she doesn't really know, I've been here for four minutes. 

I tell every nurse to stop telling me I'm doing a great job and distract me with questions. Some of them ask questions and I nod or shake my head. Is this a boy? *Nods* Do I have another child? *Nods* Is Hubby tall? *Nods/shakes head* (Translation: Yes, compared to me but no, not really.) They eventually run out of questions and revert to telling me I'm doing a great job. I hate them. 

Midwife! Thank god. I very slowly and deliberately move my eyes to her eyes. She seems to want me to calm down. I don't, and I kinda start to hate her too. 

She asks a nurse to help her. She rushes around (much like the poor nurse last time but far more competently). She says we'll just need to break my waters but we'll wait for Hubby.  I - with gas mask locked firmly on my face - shake my head NO with fierce insistence that cannot be mistaken. 

Do I want more gas? Hmm. Is it helping? *Shakes head, shrugs shoulders, can't move muscles in face, shakes head again*

Ok. Not waiting for Hubby. Waters broken. I can start pushing if I want. Oh, ok. 

And then I scream bloody murder as I feel a human person's small-but-not-small-enough head move through my body and I can't seem to stop screaming even with three or five nurses trying to calm me the fuck down. THIS IS WHY I WANTED AN EPIDURAL YOU SHOULD NEVER DOUBT MY JUDGEMENT. 

I look up to the right and there is Hubby's glorious face through my scream. Relief like I've never felt. 

The baby falls out. 

Even more relief. 

One push, and a very long scream, and holy fuck what the fuck. 

It's 7:49. 

I whimper for a while. Do I want skin-to-skin? *Nods vehemently.* 

Hey look a baby. 

Now, god knows how long I endure body repairs by a midwife with very little patience for my complaining and even less interest in updating me on her progress - but a Hubby with remarkable patience (guilt? pity?) for my complaining and incredible tolerance for me squeezing his hand too hard. 

And yet there's a precious (although unnamed) 7lb 3oz baby boy on my chest which seems to make it all ok. 

A couple hours and some rushing by the midwives and we're home by 11:45 texting pictures to everyone we know. 

What is this life? 

Goddamit, New Year. Gimme a break.

Happy New Year!  And sincere apologies if you, too, are in the process of readjusting to the throes of Real Life.  

Having 10 days of vacation during the Christmas holidays is a blessing and a curse.  What we actually need is 10 days off beforehand to prepare all the things (Sorry Gram, I haven’t mailed your gift yet but I still love you.), and then 10 days off afterward to recover.  

If you’re like me, you run yourself ragged before and during Christmas (Sure, let’s make lunch for 15 people on Boxing Day.), and then spend the remaining holiday sitting in your pajamas eating Lindt chocolates and watching Downton Abbey.  

Until.  

Until the return to Real Life, where all of a sudden it snows two feet, and shifts from a balmy, non-winter 16 degrees on Christmas Eve, to a painful, colder-than-a-witch’s-titty minus 30 degrees the Monday I return to work.  

This is all miserable for most people, I’d venture.  For me, add a toddler who needs to wear nine layers of wool and can’t zip up her own snowsuit because her giant mittens turn her arms into little, useless, puffy snowman sticks floating off the side of her body.  Plus:  A tiny human growing increasingly cumbersome in my abdomen, making it near impossible to bend, sit, stand, breathe, or otherwise function.  

It’s all a bit much.  

Then today happened.  Still minus 30 degrees, still a floating arm toddler, still a breathless mess, and – wait for it – stuck in a snowbank.  

Driving away from daycare, I misjudged (read: didn’t look at) the width of the poorly-ploughed residential street and drove into a pile of snow/ice boulders and couldn’t move an inch.  I don’t know if you’ve ever floored your car in reverse, but if you’re stuck, nothing happens except a big cloud of exhaust.  

The whole situation left me hunched over the front wheel, seven months pregnant, sad and tiny yellow shovel in hand, ridiculous pashmina scarf in my face, hacking away at the bottom of my already demolished bumper.  At minus 30.  With the gas light on - because of course it was.  

Fifteen minutes and several cursey rants later, I managed to rock my car free and make it to a gas station in time to pump 17 dollars’ worth of over-priced gas at a freezing, windy gas station.   

I’ll take my year on maternity leave with no sleep and a screaming baby now, thanks.  

The year *after*

Part of the problem with getting older is feeling older. 

In some ways, this can be a benefit. For example, I like feeling a bit emotionally stronger, a bit wiser, a bit more me. On the flip side, however, feeling older also includes feeling a bit weaker, a bit more crippled, a bit less agile. 

Up until this point, the changes in my body have been gradual - a slow but relatively steady decline. Sure, this me isn't as tight or lean as the early 20s me, but whatever, I've been alright with that. 

Until pregnancy. 

Pregnancy beat me up. Not only was it risky toward the end, but it kicked the shit out of my unprepared and unfit body, and it did so at a rapid pace. It started with not being able to eat properly, moved onto not being able to tie my shoes, and ended with two months of "rest" and daily shaths. (Aka shower-baths.) Oh and then labour and delivery and stitches and hormones and breakdowns and oh good god save us all. 

My mind was probably stronger than when I was young, but not if you consider ignorance bliss (which may have served me well when pregnant). 

In any case, this year isn't only the year I turn 30. It's the year after the year I grew a tiny human and became its mother. 

As a mom, I feel so fucking OLD. Not only mentally and socially, where I'm a member of a new (super cool) club of parents - which means I relate more to the grandmas at a bridal shower than the bride and her friends - but also physically. Physically, I am so fucking WORN OUT. I'm tired all the time (although she does sleep 8 hours now!). My back is pinched in ways I didn't know were humanly possible. My knees ache. My neck aches. My head aches. 

The only thing that makes all of that not excruciating is the fact that it doesn't really matter. In a world where I have Fraggle, and Fraggle has me, I've got the mom superpower* that makes it all possible... even tolerable... even wonderful. 

But for chrissakes I'm in pain. I'm an old lady with kinks and cracks all over and I need a friggin massage. And an exercise routine. And probably a doctor. 

So. Tonight's Birthday Month activity was: a) a brief walk outside, providing much needed fresh air on a rough day; and, b) two pathetic sun salutations. 

And that totally counts. 

*See @msfreshfish's semi-recent post! 

Careful. Don't pee in the bath.

Last Friday was a good day.

Just like every Friday, we kicked it off with Baby-Mommy Yoga (aka "Baby-Mommy Sitting On A Mat").  This is the highlight of my week due mostly to the lovely moms I get to hang out with and our visit to the coffee shop afterward.

Later that afternoon, I got to experience my favourite part of motherhood - watching her learn.  You see, after a month of plainly sitting in her bouncer and staring at the toys, she finally figured out how to actually bounce. And bounce and bounce and bounce.

When Hubby arrived home, he played with Fraggle while I - wait for for - GOT DRESSED UP AND WENT TO A PARTY.  Yes, that's right.  I curled my ever-decreasing hair, put on a dress and heels, and went to dinner with a room full of adults - adults who spoke to me about adult topics.

(Although I adore talking with my mom friends at a coffee shop following Baby-Mommy Mat Sitting, my conversation earlier that day was primarily centred around the fear of having my nipples bitten off by a teething baby, and the joyous procedure of sucking snot out of her nose.)

Not only did I relish in adult conversation, I also enjoyed belting out K-Os' "The Dog Is Mine" at the highest possible volume on my fancy car stereo, ate a giant steak meal, downed a glass of pinot grigio, and... ATE ICE CREAM FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FOUR MONTHS.  (Thank you Fraggle for your improved tolerance of dairy in my diet.)

I arrived home a mere two and a half hours later after what felt like a miraculous three days of freedom.  After ranting to Hubby about my joyous solo outing, I headed upstairs for my regular evening bath, Kobo e-reader in hand.

This is where I was unceremoniously reminded of my new parental identity.

I was enjoying my hot bath and e-book, when I suddenly had the urge to pee.  Now, in case you didn't already know, a mother's bladder control is not what it once was, before she pushed a tiny human out of an even tinier hole.  So, the urge to pee is not something that can be ignored.  I jumped out of the tub and in my haste dropped my e-reader directly into the water.

This was precisely my fear four years ago when Momma bought it for me.  Of course the damn thing went sketchy.  Ruined I was sure.

Hubby happened to come up and I begged him, dripping wet and precariously holding my pee, to bring me some rice - because when you accidentally immerse your electronic device in water, burying it in rice helps eliminate the moisture.

That said, I had little hope of saving my Kobo, humbled by my realization that no day is perfect.

It seems, however, that the universe was watching out for me that day, because guess what?  My Kobo works.  Perfectly.

So now I want to thank the people of Kobo for making an e-reader with the durability to survive a new mother, a bathtub, and weak bladder control.  And also Uncle Ben's rice, for supporting its recovery. My only question is if the rice is still edible...

You don't have to read this

I wasn't going to write this because, well, nobody gives a shit.  But then I remembered my rule about this blog:  write it for ME, and don't leave anything out.  Ultimately, this is a creepy online diary which I fully intend to read years and years into the future - and what woman's diary doesn't include her birth story?

********* 

I wake up on Monday July 8th - two days after my due date - around 6am, with ridiculous back pain. This is the same back pain I've woken up with for the past several months.  Hubby is busy getting ready for work and I'm busy propping up 50 pillows so I can lean over them like a drunken hobo.

By 7:00, Hubby is about to leave, making a bowl of cereal, when he hears from upstairs: "Ahhh!  HUUUuuubbbyyyYY!  MY. WATER. JUST. BROKE!"

Which it did.  In the bed.

Aaaannnnnddd... PANIC.  Because that's what I do.  It's kinda my thing.

Hubby calls the hospital.  They say we should come in, but we could probably have breakfast first.  We jump in showers, wolf down cereal, pack last minute crap in our bag, climb in the car, and of course STOP FOR GAS because Hubby's goal in life is to make me crazy.

We arrive at the hospital around 8am.  I'm having regular contractions but they aren't much different from the constant Braxton Hicks I've been having for eight weeks already.  Problem is, I've learned, even if you are in labour, no medical professional will even look at you until you're screaming.  There are six screaming women ahead of me.

So we sit.  And wait.  My contractions are getting worse, but I'm breathing through them.  Maybe I won't be one of those screaming woman, maybe I'll be able to breathe through it, at least until my epidural.

We finally see Smart Smiley Nurse.  I'm three and half centimeters dilated.  Progressing, but still early enough for MORPHINE.  Shoot me up, doc.

We go sit in the "Early Labour Lounge."  How charming.  Hubby gets snacks and I call our car dealer to ask him to hold the car I've been trying to buy.  True story.

A couple hours pass, I keep leaking, but pain is fine.  I try to pay brain games but I'm loopy from the drugs.  Bonus.  Hubby discovers a cereal spoon in his back pocket that he apparently brought from the house.  You know, in case he needed it.

By noon the pain is getting worse.  Back to Smart Smiley Nurse.  Five centimeters!

Time passes. OUCH OUCH OUCH.  Epidural please!  NOW.

Funny how they start paying attention to me.  Now I'm the screamer. Seven centimeters.

Oh, the anesthesiologist is in surgery? Oh, he can't come and drug me up? Oh, I have to keep enduring this pain?  Oh, you can't find a wheelchair?  Oh, FUCK YOU.

Somehow I get to my delivery room, screaming every minute or two.  It's getting worse.  WAY WORSE.  Where is that godforsaken anesthesiologist?  I'mma kick that mofo in the shin.

I remember staring at the wall, trying not to lose my fucking mind, smacking my lips as a signal for Hubby to feed me ice chips.  I remember wondering why the hell we attempted that pinky toe massage reflexology shit the night before to encourage labour because it apparently worked and I totally regret it.  And I remember the worst part: when each contraction begins because I know what's coming...

Mofo Anesthesiologist arrives.  Once upon a time, I was afraid of the needle-in-the-spine process, but now I'm just terrified that I have to STAY STILL for ten minutes, through a few contractions, while he does his work.

I lean over Friendly Nurse André's shoulders begging her "You. Have. To. HELP. ME."  Hubby sits helplessly nearby.

Oh, that's better.  Hey Mofo Doc, they should pay you more.  I mean, I know you make a lot of money already, but you deserve more.  Hubby, get my purse.

Clearly, I'm feeling much better and acting less insane.  New Nurse is putsing around the room, and informs us that it may take a few hours to get to 10 centimeters.  Once I do, we'll wait TWO MORE HOURS before pushing, so the baby can get closer to her grand entrance on her own. Baby will probably arrive around 10pm or midnight.

Huh. Clearly New Nurse has not met my baby.  My baby is in a rush to join this world, or hadn't you heard? But ok, you're the professional.  I trust you.

Hubby goes to grab dinner.

All of a sudden, a skippy dude doctor waltzes in.  Apparently Fraggle's heart rate has been too high for a while...

Doctor Skippy:  "I'm just gonna check you.  If you're fully dilated we're gonna start pushing.  If not... well, let's check before I scare you."

Yes he said that.  And no, Hubby was not there.

He checks, I'm fully dilated, and Baby Fraggle is blowing New Nurse's estimated timeline out of the water.

Oh great.

"Let's try pushing."

Um, WHAT?

"Just try a push.  I want see how you do.  If it's tricky, we'll do a C-section."

WHAT THE FUCK.  Uhhh... ok... here goes...

"Oh, you're doing great.  You push for a while and I'll come back in a half hour."

Hubby returns, hearing from Doctor Skippy that I'm pushing.  "Not my wife" says Hubby.  YEP, YOUR WIFE.

New Nurse is panicked because she was too stupid to set up her baby table.  I'm begging her to warn me when I'm having a contraction so I know when to push.  She says she will, but she never does, so I end up pushing whenever the mood strikes.

And here's where it gets really nuts.

Apparently I'm a rock star pusher (something for the resume).  This baby is coming out, and she's coming out NOW.

From across the room, New Nurse is counting to five instead of ten on every push, and Hubby and I are concerned that there's nobody there to catch the child when she slides out of my body.

Finally, Smart Smiley Nurse returns and makes this seem fun and exciting instead of TOTALLY FUCKED UP.

We do a few more pushes and everyone praises me for my skills.  Hubby looks at all the hair emerging from my vagina.  Everyone says "So much hair!" - a phrase I've been hearing on a daily basis ever since and, for some reason, take great pride in.

Smart Smiley Nurse adjusts our pushing pattern, counting to TWO instead of ten.  I push a couple more times.

In total, I push for 17 minutes, mostly miniature pushes.

Baby Fraggle arrives at 7:40. ("Arrives" makes it sound like she danced into the room.  Let's be clear: the tiny human is pushed out of my loins through an even tinier hole.)   They plop her on top of me.  I think whoa, she's bigger than I thought. Hubby cuts her cord, I don't notice.

They take her away for a second to clean her off (damn meconium), then bring her back.  She's 7 pounds, 8 ounces.  She's round and cute and pink and LOOKING UP AT ME and HOLY FUCK WHAT IS HAPPENING.

New Nurse gives me a shot in the leg, I don't notice.  Smart Smiley Nurse grins and pushes on my tummy, I don't notice.  Doctor Skippy marches in (a bit late there shit head) and Hubby gets a rundown of the placenta.  He does not eat it. I wouldn't notice if he did.

I puke.  Then Student Doc somehow squirts my blood all over the walls and ceiling.  Seriously.  It looks like a CSI scene in there.

Doctor Skippy parks himself in front of  my vagina and goes to work like a mechanic or a painter.  I pay very little attention, but I do notice.

After a couple hours, Young Hot Nurse helps my broken body into the shower.  "This is a weird part of your job," I tell her.  She doesn't seem to mind.  Of course she doesn't - she looks great.

We spend the next two days trying to breastfeed, trying to absorb fifty different "expert" opinions on breastfeeding, trying to sleep, and trying to crack the code of this tiny child who is totally and completely dependent on us being at least somewhat competent in caring for her.

In the end, I could totally do that again for the reward.  It was survivable.  Pregnancy SUCKED, but if you could promise my next labour would go like that? Sign me up.

I'm a goddam medical mystery. And a failure to boot.

I wrote this in June, but I was afraid to post it.  It was a dark time for me; I wasn't sure how many details I wanted to share.  Time has since passed, and now I want to share it - for any woman struggling through pregnancy, with or without complications and/or antepartum depression. 

*************

How common is pregnancy?

Probably about half the human population is physically capable, and it's safe to say that most of those do happen to experience it at some point in their lives.  Even for those women who don't experience pregnancy, there are several others who experience it multiple times.

Not only that, but pregnancy has been going on since the beginning of time.  It isn't even specific to certain parts of the world - women get pregnant internationally.  Plus Arnold Schwarzenegger in Junior.  

I think it's safe to say, then, that pregnancy is the most common medical "condition" of all time.     

So, I find it continually dumbfounding that the most common medical condition, particularly in an advanced nation such as Canada, is such a FUCKING MEDICAL MYSTERY.  

Perhaps it's because I've never actually experienced a significant or long-term medical condition, nor have I ever had much direct exposure to the medical system, but tell me:  How is it possible that doctors have so few immediate or precise answers?

Not only is my little Fraggle's health and well being entirely relying on me and only me, but I have essentially little-to-no control over her safety and development, let alone any true knowledge of how she is progressing.  

Every time I speak to a medical professional, they seem to apply 50 different random and uncertain measures of baby wellness, but they don't actually know the answers to anything.  

Is Fraggle happy in there?

Well, here, let's strap this monitor to your belly and listen to it for 30 minutes.

Is she growing?

Well, we can put this measuring tape on your belly to see if it's getting any bigger...

Can't you measure her?

Well, we can do an ultrasound, but we just did one last week and so any change would be imperceptible.  

Am I in labour?

Well, that depends on you - What's your pain level, on a scale from one to ten?

Am I dilated?

Well, if we check, we may dilate you, so we're not going to check.  Actually, let's check and make matters way worse.  

Is there a chance of me going into pre-term labour?

Well, let's do a test. 

What were the results of the test?

Well, they're inconclusive.  

Is she moving enough?

Well, that depends on you - Here, hold this little clicker and click it every time she moves.  

How many Braxton Hicks contractions are normal?

Well, you're having too many. 

What do you mean "too many" - what does that mean?

Well, we don't really know, except that you should sit still for several weeks on end.  

What causes them?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we think your uterus is irritable.  

Huh.  Doesn't that just suit me perfectly.  What "irritates" it?

Well, moving.  So sit still.  But don't limit yourself.  But don't go shopping or anything.  And drink lots of water.  But don't let your bladder get full.   

So, my uterus doesn't want this little one in there, or what? I'm a terrible mother already? My body is incapable?

Well, no.  Maybe.  We don't know. This is not your fault.  Just sit still. 

Ok, so can these constant, uncomfortable, and terrifying contractions lead to labour?

Well, there isn't a lot of research but we doubt you'll make it to your due date.  Then again maybe we'll have to induce you at 42 weeks.  But just in case, stop moving.  

So now I'm terrified of pre-term labour.  How can I prevent it?

Well, sit still, and call us if anything changes, but no, Braxton Hicks contractions are not real contractions.  But we don't want you in pre-term labour, so please sit still. Hopefully we can just get you to 34 weeks.  

Ok, 34 weeks.  Good news right?

Well, yeah.  But let's get you to 37 weeks. You should probably sit still.   

Ok, what about after 37 weeks? Then we're good?

Well, every week after that is better.    

So, we're still aiming for 40 weeks then...

Well, no, 37 is full term, but yes, 40 weeks.  Please sit still.  

I never anticipated that keeping myself physically well would be so fucking emotionally exhausting... 

Fraggle ended up staying put until 40 weeks and 2 days.  And she rushed out of there like a bat out of hell.  

Let's be honest - what it's like to have a newborn

People kept telling me it would be hell.  That doesn't describe anything. That just scares me while also making me doubt that it's true.  So as I was laying in bed at 3am, I decided I needed a way to describe the joy/misery that is nerborn-dom.

I figure it's kinda like a natural disaster, a tornado or a hurricane.

First, the storm is coming.  You have some warning from the experts and you start to prepare, but you don't really know how bad it will be.  Will it be like the one you saw on tv? Or maybe it will pass right over you?

When the baby comes, the storm hits.  In an adrenaline-rushed flurry, you run to your storm cellar.  You grab whatever supplies you guess you'll need and you barely keep your wits about you. For the duration of the storm, you hold up in the dark and inevitably go nuts.  You're scared and you can't concentrate.  You have moments of lucidity and moments of panic.  You can't fall asleep, even if the noise outside did subside long enough for you to try.  You're terrified of what will become of you.  You cling to your partner to keep you sane and safe.

Not only that, but you are weak.  You've just finished competing in the iron woman competition and your whole body is wrecked. Also, you may or may not be recovering from a "saw the lady in half" magic trick you were forced to participate in yesterday (after the iron woman events).

On top of it, in a freak occurrence of nature, you are suffering from puberty, PMS, and menopause, simultaneously.

Oh, and there are stitches in your vagina.

Furthermore, you aren't alone in the cellar.  You've been entrusted with the care of a very tiny, very delicate baby koala bear.  Sure, it's a cute koala bear, but you have no idea how to take care of a koala bear, particularly in these traumatic circumstances.

And this isn't just any normal koala bear.  This is the world's most precious koala bear - a koala unicorn - the first and only of its kind known to humanity.  Should anything happen to this koala unicorn, you will never forgive yourself, and neither will society.

This goes on for a couple weeks - you locked down in the cellar during the longest tornado in Earth's history, scared and crippled by exhaustion.

But then the storm begins to subside. You inch your way to the cellar door and gently open it inch by inch, carefully emerging into the light.  Sure, there's an utter disaster around you, everything is a mess, and your whole world is wiped out.  Parts of your life before the storm have been lost forever (including bladder control) and you're generally very fragile.

HOWEVER, your surroundings have never looked so beautiful.  You're in awe of nature.  It may look grim in some ways, but also so promising in others.  Your friends, family, and neighbours will help you put your Humpty Dumpty world back together again.

Ultimately, you're hopeful that everything will be better than it was before.  You're just so fucking grateful that everything truly important - you, your family, and your koala unicorn - are safe and happy. Everything else will fall into place.

Dear Fraggle

In case you didn't get the memo, I FINALLY gave birth to my tiny human a few weeks ago.  (Wait, has it been four weeks already? What the hell? Is she driving yet? Has she graduated?  Is she married?)

Although I have been saving a ton of blog material in this pathetic messy brain of mine, who knows if I'll ever find time/energy to expel it from my mind onto the interwebs.

So, I'll start with this one post, this one thing I've wanted to write for a long, long time - a letter to my darling daughter.

********

Dear Fraggle,

My god, I had no idea having you would be like this.  Nobody could have prepared me for it.  It doesn't seem to matter what people said or how they tried to warn me - the overwhelming nature of growing, birthing, and loving you has been, well, indescribable.

Sure, your life inside me was tricky for both of us, and for Hubby too, but my god I loved you.  I talked to you all the time, I sang you "I Will" by The Beatles on a daily basis, I imagined what you looked like, I adored when you moved inside me, and, above all, I worried about you pretty much every minute of every day.

And then you came out, in a flurry of (holy super painful) labour and only a few quick pushes. You came out and the nurse plopped you on my chest, and all I could really think was "wow, she's bigger than I thought she was."  Seven pounds eight ounces, with the cutest little face and ohmygosh so much long dark hair.  And those big brown eyes looking up at me.  And then Daddy cut your cord and before I knew it we were parents.

That first week was, (well, Fraggle dear, I'm always going to be honest with you) one of the hardest things we've ever done. Trying to feed you, laying crooked in a hospital bed opening my eyes every 5 minutes to look at you through that clear plastic bassinet, coming home and camping out in a not-dark-enough and anxiety-cloaked bedroom for days on end trying to figure out how the heck to keep you safe.

But then, then there was a light.  Slowly, very slowly, some weird normalcy began to emerge unlike any "normal" I have ever known.  A new normal where nothing else in the world matters as much as you do, and where Hubby and I truly rely on each other in a way we never had before, finding a way to exist as your parents rather than whoever those two fools had been beforehand.  I woke up the other night wondering, where is the grown up that is supposed to be caring for this child?

Now, honey, you'll be four weeks old on Monday.  I have no idea where this time has gone, or how I managed to survive it, but I'm starting to see what everyone was trying to tell me.  It was worth it.  All of it.  Because you are the most lovely, sweetest little baby known to humanity and it aches my heart how much I love you.  You are the most beautiful thing I've ever done. It kills me when you cry, and it warms me when your eyes gaze at mine.  And this week, when I was feeding you, you held my hand...

I love everything about you.  I love your jazz hands (aka newborn reflex), and your "ET phone home" (aka burping bliss), and even your giggle-cries (like Dick Van Dyke floating on the ceiling in Mary Poppins) and your monkey scream (which sometimes sounds more like a Michael Jackson "Ah hoo hoo").  I've watched your hair lighten, and watched your eyes shift from dark brown, to a deep sea blue that I can't describe, to now a grey blue that mesmerizes me, just like Hubby's.

I promise, no matter what, I will keep watching.  Be patient with me, though I'm not perfect, not even close.  But I will always do my best.  I will be there, for everything, all the time. I will support you, no matter what, without judgement.  I will hold your hand, and teach you things, and take you places, and adore you, unconditionally, forevermore.

Love always,
Mom

All I wanted was strawberries

At 38 weeks pregnant, I'm into the weekly doctor appointments.  Usually, I end up waiting forever and then some random baby health indicator requires more monitoring or testing.  Two weeks ago I was there for six hours.  SIX.  HOURS.

Don't get me wrong, I want to check on her and I'll wait as long as it takes.  However, I'm not really gonna be happy about it.  Don't you know me at all?

Today I headed to my regular appointment, and amazingly I was only there for 40 minutes.  Sure, parking cost me 7 bucks, but everything looks fine and I didn't even have to wait.  Huh.  Having a lucky day.

So I thought to myself: well, maybe I have time to stop at the bank then.

The bank.  I HATE the bank.  I never go to the bank. I would take cash out of my iPhone if it would dispense it.  I use the internet and maybe an ATM whenever necessary, and I rip Hubby apart every time he makes an actual trip to an actual bank (old man).  I hate banks.

Unfortunately, though, I've had this one cheque for a month that I need to deposit, and it isn't a cheque that I can deposit into the machine.  I actually need to walk into a bank and speak to a human.

Instead of going to my regular branch near my house, I decided to stop on the way home from the doctor so I could also withdraw some cash in order to purchase fresh strawberries at the local fruit farm on the way home.

Strawberries are KEY, and much to my dismay, fruit farms don't accept MasterCard pay-pass.

I used my bank's iPhone app and found a nearby location.  Once I arrived, I stood in a stupid bank line and eventually made my way to the stupid bank teller.  And then it happened.

The fucking POWER WENT OUT. Right at that moment! I'm standing there, in a bank, in front of a human bank teller.  Not even my normal bank, but a bank that I made a special stop to visit.  And the whole place was rendered utterly useless by a lack of electricity.

So no cheque deposit, and worst of all, no fucking strawberries.  Story of my goddam life.

I bet parenting is a shit show. But he's got this.

I never really had to think about Father's Day, given that I never actually had one. I mean, sometimes it popped up here and there, but generally? Generally Father's Day doesn't really occur to me. 

Until this year, because this year HUBBY is the new father in my life. 

This little Fraggle is due to exit my womb in about 3 weeks (we'll see what she actually decides to do - she's indecisive, I can already tell... Like Hubby maybe!) and all I can think about is what a wicked dad my Hubby already is, let alone how awesome he'll be once he can actually, ya know, *see* his daughter. 

First, he will totally play with her. Not just "Hey let's play catch after dinner" but also "Hey let's get down on the floor and build forts! And stack blocks! And tackle each other! And tickle each other! And dress up dolls! And have a tea party! And bounce around on the exercise ball! And use power tools! And fix things! And run with a grocery cart, jump on it, and coast through the parking lot! And sing songs! And STRUM THE GUITAR! And hey I'll race ya!"  I picture Hubby as the "let's do anything you want to do" kind of dad, because: a) he's young at heart: and, b) he will in *no way* be able to resist her smile.

Second, he will understand her. I think he *may* have a little doubt on this one, simply because she's a girl - and growing up as the oldest of three boys makes him a little uncertain about girls. (Who can blame him? Girls are volitile and mysterious jerks.) However, it is, in my estimation, completely impossible for a sensitive and loving man such as my Hubby to not fully understand his daughter - or at least fully support and adore her, no matter what. Even when she needs a diaper change, or a pretty outfit, or a braid in her hair, or when she cries about some dumbass boy. She'll go to him for that stuff. She'll go to him for anything. 

Finally, Hubby will protect her - protect her in a way that I was never protected, a way that only a daddy can protect. That "you're safe in my arms and I will NEVER hurt you" kind of way that (no matter how much feminism I spit at people) I know I missed out on - even with a strong and independent momma. The way I see it, Fraggle will get the best of both worlds on this one. Me, being strong and conscientious on my own, but also knowing I depend on Hubby as my rock and my defender on a daily basis; and Hubby, being patient and helpful, and overall an active participant in his relationships. 

Hubby dear, I can't wait for you and I to tackle the SHIT SHOW that this whole parenting thing is bound to be. I wouldn't have it any other way. We got this. Hands down. 

 

Hello Antepartum Depression

Is there such a thing as pre-partum depression? Or I guess it would just be partum depression? Because it's 4am and I've been laying here for an hour realizing that I have not felt any good for an extremely long time.

I've stopped blogging lately, because all I can really think to blog about is how hard this pregnancy is, but I'm pretty sure most people either don't understand that, don't buy it, are sick of hearing it, or are judging me for it. 

Add to that a month of pregnancy complications that are beating the shit out of me (and Hubby) and then ask us if we'd ever do this again...

So I stay silent. 

And it eats me alive.

Somehow I'm supposed to go into labour/delivery/newborn/parenthood mode on this remarkably *depleated* capacity. How the fuck am I supposed to do that?  Everyone keeps saying "the first three months are hell."  What am I supposed to do with that information? I apparently can't handle the 9 months prior to the three-month hell and you want me to raise a child on top of it?  My body and mind are clearly not strong enough to grow the human, let alone be its mother. 

At this point, I feel like the only thing I have to cling to is the possibility of upcoming *change*.  I already adore this little Fraggle more than anything and I really just need her to be OUT of my body. I need to go for a bike ride. I need to roll over onto my stomach. I need to pick something up off the floor. I need to hug her and soothe her and call her by name. 

But I can't do any of that. So instead I face every day like a marathon and try to find any single solitary little source of stability that provides any small fraction of peace. 

But I'm running out of sources...


****
Updated

Elle (below) shared this link with me.

The Beast Known As Antepartum Depression - By Allison Zapata

Although my situation hasn't gotten as bad as it can for others (yet), I apparently am experiencing what's called Antepartum Depression.  I wouldn't be so quick to self-diagnose if I didn't already have a propensity for Depression in the first place.  It's been a slow build-up over time, magnified by recent complications and doctors orders to stay still all the time - the Stir Crazy has added to the already-existing Crazy and I'm running out of power to overcome.

But having a name for it helps, and knowing there are some women out there who understand and who are maybe not judging me helps too.  I also have a therapist that will get me through and an understanding and supportive Hubby who *always* makes me feel unconditionally loved.  And then there's hope - hope that when this adorable little darling arrives I will find some form of peace... new stressors, sure, but hopefully some new strength as well.

Our love story will freak your freak

Hey look.  I'm blogging.  Weird, eh?

I can't put my finger on why it's been so long, necessarily, other than the fact that I'm now 8 months pregnant and it has not been the easiest thing I've ever done - to say the least.

But something funny happened today that made me and Hubby laugh, which is nice because if I'm honest with myself, laughter hasn't been as prominent in my daily life as it once was - another symptom of pregnancy, I suspect.  So laughing out loud today, shaking this giant belly of mine, felt, well, pretty damn good.

We went to Hometown for a wedding this weekend.  Not just any wedding, but my best friend's wedding.  My best friend who is so sweet, and so considerate, and so happy with her new husband that I have been devastated - and I mean devastated - that I haven't been able to be the perfect maid of honour.  The effort and emotional energy that growing a baby requires has unfortunately taken away from my capacity as best friend.  I've done my best, which in my eyes it isn't good enough.  In fact, I almost couldn't even be there, so at least I accomplished that much, right?

So.  Hubby and I drove to Hometown, enjoyed the wedding, and then made our way to our hotel for some much needed rest.  Given the emotional disaster I had become throughout the course of the day, a two-hour drive home late last night stopped being an option.

I felt a bit better this morning.  We packed up our stuff (poor Hubby carrying my 16 heavy bags) and walked (in my case, waddled) to the lobby to check out.

When I came around the corner I immediately recognized the girl behind the counter.

"Annie!"

Annie went to school with me.  In fifth grade.  And in case you haven't heard the story a million times before, not only did she go to school with me, but Hubby too.  Yes, Hubby and I went to school together in fifth grade, and every grade after that until we started dating at 16, married at 25, and are now in the process of growing a tiny human at 29.

Annie recognized me too, and quickly noticed how fat I am - but that's not the funny part.  She looked at me, and then Hubby came around the corner.  Annie, like every other girl in our class (including me), had a huge crush on Hubby.  She looked at him, recognized him right away, exclaimed his name, and then:

"...wait..."

*eyes to me, eyes to Hubby, eyes back to me*

And then?  Then came the most hilarious confused and surprised facial expression I've ever witnessed.

See, Annie is apparently the one person in Hometown that I haven't actually seen since we were about 12 years old, and it seems she wasn't familiar with the adorable Hubby-Wifey Love Story.

It's as if she was in the twilight zone.  We freaked her freak.  The look on her face said "Whoa. What year is this? Am I on shrooms?"

I laughed. "Yep.  We're married."

She laughed "And you're pregnant!"

We chatted for a minute, left the hotel, and then laughed for about 20 minutes.

This is Hometown; this is my remarkable history with this wonderful husband of mine.  And I adore it.

Seven reasons I cried at work today

Crying at work is not necessarily uncommon for me.  Life upsets me and I don't really know how to hold it in.  Today, however, the crying at work was the result of a series of related reasons, of which I will enumerate here:

1) When I arrive and run into a coworker I haven't seen for weeks, I don't need him to exclaim "Well, let's see your belly! Let's see the reveal!" as I'm removing my jacket - even if he is the kindest, sweetest colleague of all time.  This makes me feel like an object that is being pointed at.  Not to mention, I don't think if he were gaining weight he'd want me to point at his ass and shout at him. 

2) I am a whale.  I'm already too big to touch my feet, or bend, or do yoga, or sit up, or roll over, or put on my underwear, or shave my legs, or wear any of my clothes, or find new clothes that I like, or tolerate my bulky winter jackets (WHICH I STILL NEED BECAUSE SPRING WON'T COME).   And guess what sunshine? I still have 3 months to go and this tiny human is less than 3 pounds so far.  There's nowhere else for her (or me) to grow.  I am as big as I can handle, and I'm so terrified about that fact that I can't even type it without wanting to cry. 

3) Add to that: I am fucking tired.  Not only is my mind running at warp speed with baby thoughts all hours of the day, but I can't sleep because my back and hips hurt like hell (yes I have pillows). 

4) I am in pain.  See above.  The back pain has started and I'm still working on ways to relieve it.  Anyone who is in pain might be a little extra sensitive, no?  Well, add pain to the other 6 reasons, and I feel justified. 

5) I am hormonal.  I have to admit this must be part of the problem.  I tend to resist the "crazy pregnant hormones" hypothesis, but I do feel fragile lately which must at least be partially due to the raging ridiculousness that happens to one's body when she is housing an ever-growing human being.

6) I am embarrassed.  Being the centre of attention is hard for anyone, especially when it comes to a person's body.  Not to mention, nobody likes crying in public - it tends to lead to more crying. 

7) The barrage of attention is constant.  There is no reprieve.  So even if you are a well-meaning colleague, friend, or family member, having people comment on or point at my body all day does not make it easier to withstand. If I've learned anything in my life, it's that tolerance boils down to volume and frequency. 


I get that some pregnant women don't feel this way.  Or they do and they just don't talk about it.  Or they do and other people are not paying attention.  But I am not the only one to say this.  I am not crazy.  This is hard, and it's allowed to be. 

My advice to people (including Past Me who has also made this mistake): Please don't make everything about the baby, even if it is all you can see.  Remember that she's a person - a person going through a lot right now - and maybe you could just act normal sometimes.  Or at least be subtle...

Hubby should never leave me to my own devices

Hubby is working today (yes, on a SUNDAY) so I'm all alone to entertain myself and/or accomplish things.  I wouldn't be so worried about the accomplish-things part, except that this tiny human is coming in, like, three months and oh my god there is so much to do.

We went to Ikea last night to purchase some I-need-this-or-I-will-be-a-bad-mother items, including: some shelves, some picture frames, and a stupid little white end table to sit next to the rocking chair so that I have a place to set my wine bottle while I'm breastfeeding.  

As I'm sure you can imagine, Ikea usually means Hubby has some work to do.

But Hubby's not here.  He has basically abandoned me to raise this poor child all on my own.

Or he's away for a few hours.  Whichever.

In any case, at 10:00 this morning I decided I could probably put the little table together myself.  This is how it went:

10:00
This doesn't look so bad.  Just one little box.

10:01
DAMMIT BOX OPEN.  OOOPPPEEENNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnn

10:02
Oh, much easier with scissors.

10:03
Only a table top, three legs, a few screws?  I can do this.

10:04
Oh my god these legs are all wonky.  Which way is up?  Why does the picture show TWO screw holes.  There is only ONE.  Oh.  There's the other one.

10:05
Ok Tuxedo, not a toy.  Also, not even safe.  Like, you're seriously gonna get hurt.  These big metal poles are flailing around like nobody's business.

10:10
Fuck this.  FUCK YOU THREE WONKY LEGS AND A MILLION GODDAM SCREWS.

10:11
Oh.  It goes like that.

10:22
My hands smell like metal.

10:23
DAMMIT TUXEDO.

10:31
This doesn't fit.  This.  Doesn't.  Fit.  THISDOESN'TFIT.

10:32
OUCH MY HAND.

10:34
*Starts crying*

10:40
Perfect! Those screws don't have to be tight.  Hubby'll fix it.

10:44
Nap time!

 

Thank you Pregnant Chicken, I finally know what to say

Anybody heard of the Pregnant Chicken?  If not, you are most certainly MISSING OUT.  This blog is right up my alley (and almost as cynical about pregnancy as I am...)

My friend sent me a link to the Pregnant Chicken's list of Clever Pregnancy Comebacks - for all those stupid comments people make when a woman is growing a tiny human. 

There are 3 installments on the Pregnant Chicken blog, plus a multiples edition.  I've pasted my favourites below, because, well, study up people.

"Are you sure you're not having twins?! You're so big!"

Shhh, it's actually a litter of puppies but don't tell anyone yet.

Did you say "twins" or "violins"? Oh, okay I guess both sounded kind of stupid.

"Is the nursery ready?"

No, the baby isn't going to be staying with us.

Yep, the sock drawer is all ready to go!

Sort of, we're just waiting for the electric fencing to be installed.

"You're just hormonal."

Shall I tell your family that those were your final words?

"I was simply hormonal, your Honor. I didn't mean to stab him in the neck with a pencil."

"How are you going to handle this?!"

We're just gonna sell her on eBay.

Oh, it’ll be fine. I drink a little.

I just won't pick her up when she cries. I figure that will free up a lot of my time

“How ya feeling?” (with a head tilt).

I don't know, I'm still a little drunk.

Strangely violent today.

It's funny that you should ask that... *abruptly walks away*

"You should NOT be drinking caffeine."

(or doing, eating, touching, etc. something else that's none of their damn business).

Oh my gosh, Th...ank YOU! Are you SURE? I had NO idea. My doctor said it was fine, thank god you are here to save me from...what is it exactly the caffeine will do?

The Voices say I can have caffeine. I don't fuck with the Voices.

Decaf make PREGNANT HULK SMASH!!!!!!!!

You shouldn't be wearing those jeans, but I didn't bring that to your attention.

This is the best I can do since kicking the meth habit.

"Feeling fat yet?"

Whoa, I was just going to ask you the same thing. How weird is that?!

You feelin' lucky, Punk?

“You still haven’t had that baby yet?”

I'm trying to hold it in so I can finish a novel I'm working on.

Oh, I had it, I just left it in the car today.

Don’t worry; you will know when your husband starts paying child support.

I had it yesterday but I'm trying to shoplift this basketball so could you bugger off?

"You'd better sleep now because once that baby gets here..."

Why!? Don't they sleep?! Next you'll tell me they poop too.

Sleep is for pussies and ugly people.

"You're so small!"

A really heavy person said that to me yesterday too. I guess it's all relative.

I had my internal organs removed so I wouldn't have to buy bigger pants.

"You're huge!"

I know!! It's like I'm growing a whole baby or something!

Holy shit, you too

I don't know why either, all I consume these days is cocaine and Diet Sprite. Weird, eh?

"How many babies are you going to have?"

It depends on how many we can sell.

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

It wouldn't matter anyway because we're naming it Thermos the Third whether it's a boy OR a girl.

I'm kind of hoping it's neither and it's just gas.

Marianna’s own personal additions:

"Pregnancy Braaaiiinnn!"

Well, at least it's better than yours on a good day.

You mean the heightened sense of awareness?

I have TWO brains in my body right now, how many do you have?

"Feeling sick this morning?”

Nope. Constipated as hell though.

Only when I smell that perfume you’re wearing.

*pukes on them*

"Does she move a lot?”

Well, she’s winning the gold medal for the Cervix Trampoline Olympics right now

Only when I snort coke.

"Oh really? I loved being pregnant.”

Huh. Mother Nature really duped you, eh?

Well, you know what they say, good pregnancy, ugly child.

You would.

Phase three of growing a tiny human

Hello dear friends.  Amazingly, I've managed to keep up with my iPhone pregnancy journal.  I know.  Incredible right?  So, picking up where I last left off...

December 26

[Telling the fam…]

Whoa THAT was a lot to take in. Glad everyone is excited but holy, overwhelming is an understatement.  

December 27

What do you mean the baby might not be ok?  Oh.  So that's the panic and fear everyone is talking about that will last for the next 50 years.  I was not AT ALL prepared for that.  The only thing keeping me sane right now? Tuxedo Cat is in a bag.

December 29

Much more emotionally stable today.  For now anyway.

December 31

I'm gonna be the dancin mom. All 90s all the time. I'm gonna learn all the backstreet boys dance moves. Mmmm Bop baby.

January 4

Dr appointment today. I love my doctor. I trust no one else. Everyone's a HACK. [And yes the baby was ok.  This is a reference to the fact that emergency room doctors are apparently not at all qualified to deal with such an array of medical concerns. My own doctor is never allowed to leave me.]

January 6

My doctor got me thinking about a midwife. Never considered it before. Don't know why. I guess I thought a 19 year old hippie named Willow wearing a hemp skirt would come to my house and whisper at me while I pushed a human out of my vagina “naturally” in a plastic kiddie pool. Turns out? Not exactly.

January 7

Hubby just came home from work with the RANKEST odor.  And proceeded to blame MY heightened sense of smell... uh, no. Do something about that.  Immediately.  

January 8

Wow. So, going to sleep at 7:30 every night is a real thing, eh.

January 9

I can't decide if dinner in bed is good for the soul or a very bad sign.  

January 10

Hey pants. You're too small. Fuck off.

January 11

Hubby was reading about baby proofing. "You're supposed to go around on your knees to see stuff from the baby's perspective. Luckily, Honey, I guess you won't have to do that."   Nice. Throw a short joke at the grumpy pregnant lady.

January 15

THERE ARE WINE SAMPLES IN THIS GROCERY STORE.  FUCK YOU, WORLD.  

January 30

Yay Hubby building the crib! I helped.  Mostly by sitting in the rocking chair.  But when asked to hold up one side, I totally did it.  I held that sucker up for at least 10 minutes.  ("held" = put my hand on it until I realized my hand was no longer needed because it was all done anyway)

My handywork

February 4

I was TOTALLY just advised by my doctor that my extra 300 calories per day can be junk food if good food is unappetizing.  Even better, Hubby needs to back off giving me a hard time about it. Bring on the Crispers.

February 8

So sleeping on my stomach is uncomfortable, and sleeping on my back will apparently result in the apocalypse. So, sides only? MY HIPS HURT.

February 9

February 10

I've had the most bizarre change of heart in the last couple of days. No more baby. Ha just kidding. I actually just think a boy would be good. Girls are assholes. I vote boy.

February 11

First day with elastic pants. I've put it off as long as humanly possible. One benefit: peeing is way easier when all you do is slide down your waistband.

February 19

Ultrasound day. Sitting in the waiting room.  No, Hubby, I don't have any games in my purse.  And to the lady filing her nails: STOP IT.

What do you MEAN it's a girl? What does that mean? 

February 20

Remember when I wanted to be kicked? So masochistic. Now? Stop kicking me you little brat! Ok don't,  But still.

February 28

Worst. Sleeping. Ever. Ouch my back. Ouch my hips. OUCH.

March 1

I'm beginning to think this baby is like Hubby. Can't sit still! My whole insides are flailing.  Either that or she's like me - a total asshole.  

March 3

My new nemesis? Indigestion. Which is particularly terrible for someone who physically does not know HOW to burp. (Swallow my air, I know I know. DOESN'T WORK YOU GUYS.)

March 4

We bought a stroller yesterday! And now I wish I had a baby to put into it. So far, all I have is a Tuxedo Cat.  But he likes riding around, that's for sure.  

March 5

My mood today equates to this: 

March 6

Bought our bassinet! And the cats love that too it.

March 7

Pregnant women resemble toddlers?  Um, yes.

March 9

Whatever you do, do NOT google "placenta images"

March 10

Ok. Who gave this little thing a bongo to play inside my uterus?  She could also probably stop jumping trampoline on my cervix.  

The best "you're preggers" response of all time

This week, for pretty much the first time, I actually got a reaction to my pregnancy that felt good.  Other than Hubby (who indulged with me with bug-eyed panic faces for the first couple weeks), most people have the same responses:

Congratulations! That’s so exciting!

Followed by the inevitable:

How are you feeling? Do you feel pregnant?

And then the intermittent:

HOW’S THE BABY?

Although I am getting used to the constant questions (and dealing with the extra attention in a classic Marianna way - with bold and honest answers), I have yet to hear something that truly made me happy.  ME.  Not everyone else. 

This week my guy friend and former colleague was late to the party and finally heard I’m preggers. And this is the email I got…

Congrats on creating human life. Seriously. That’s complicated stuff. Just look at your index finger, like, really closely. I mean, hold it up 1 inch from your face and check it out. It’s pretty spectacular. You’re creating 8 of them right now, with a set of matching thumbs, from scratch. Plus, you’re doing it in your sleep. Come on. How crazy is that? You’re creating human life in your sleep. Who can do that!? You can. Props.

This makes me (granted, in my heightened emotional state) want to cry. In a good way. Because as I’m sure you’ve heard from me before, GROWING A HUMAN IS FUCKING HARD, yo. A message like this from a friend simply acknowledging that fact without making me feel like a weird mutant freak show is, well, fucking priceless.

Not only that, but he gave me some great tips too. For example:

I won’t give you any advice because frankly I was terrified the whole time. Enjoy what you can and be amazed by yourself. YOU’RE CREATING HUMAN LIFE!!!

For the remaining months, you should create scenarios that give you the occasion to tell people that you’re creating human life from scratch. “Hey Dude. That looks like a good salad. Did you make it? Wow, all I made was a whole human being. But hey, your salad is pretty good too, right?” “How was your weekend? Do anything fun? I developed a central nervous system for this human being that I’m creating inside me… while blogging.”

Just go with it and find what works for you. My one piece of advice: don’t apologize for anything. Feel how you feel and establish boundaries.

You are creating human life. It’s hard. You have full license to complain.

I love this email exchange and I’ve blogged it here so I can continue referring back to it and reminding myself how awesome I am. And how awesome my friend is. And how awesome this whole experience is, despite the fact that most days it kinda sucks.

Seriously, best of luck to you both. You’re going to be great.

  ***Dear friend: I hope you don’t mind that I pasted this on the interwebs. I know you’ll tell me if it bothers you, in which case I will edit and/or delete at your request - I promise. In any case, thank you for helping me feel less crazy.

Phase two of growing a tiny human

Remember when I promised to blog my eggo preggo journal?  Well I suppose if I'm going to be a mother I had better learn how to keep my promises.  So this picks up where the last one left off, pasted from my iPhone notepad... 

November 11 
Cliche: tearing up at a credit card commercial. Dude went to visit his uncle in Italy, you guys. I mean, c'mon. 

November 12 
I just spent 2 minutes looking at tampon prices in the toiletries aisle at the grocery store before I figured it out. [This remains one of the major highlights to this whole thing.] 

November 13 
And the weak stomach has started. Just ever so slightly. And now I'm terrified.

November 14 
Ugh. Yep nausea is real. I'm definitely nauseous. Or "nauseated" as Sheldon Cooper would say.   

November 15

November 20
I'm also feeling especially whiny. I expect that will remain for the next 20 years or so. 

November 21 
Pretty sure if Hubby's gonna be a father that he should keep up on his laundry and stop "recycling" his dirty underwear. Maybe. 

November 23 
Pregnancy fatigue. Who would have guessed. Beyond exhausted by the end of the day. But it isn't just physical. It's mental too. So much worrying. So much stress. A some damn legitimate resentment too. Ugh. Tired.

November 24 I
 wanted Hubby to come home so I considered texting him to say I think I'm in labour. Then I realized that was a terrible idea. 

November 28
Wow this pregnancy stuff is some really grown up shit. Big decisions. Luckily, I have Hubby to talk to. And we pretty much always see eye to eye on the big stuff. Best. Hubby. Ever. 

November 29
3am: I WANT TO SLEEP ON MY STOMACH. But I may puke.

November 30

December 1 
Hubby and I can't picture ourselves s parents of real actual children. Babies, yes. Toddlers, sure. But real children? Nope. I mean, children, like, do homework and stuff. That's too hard. Hubby says he'll put our kids up for adoption around age 5. Makes sense.   

December 3 
I find it odd that people had, like, a year and a half's advance notice before our wedding. They could mark their calendars, plan around it, buy us a modest gift... But growing a tiny human? 6 months. That's all they get. And that might be too much.  Any way I can keep this a secret any longer? 

December 6 
My boobs are bigger and they're getting in the fucking way. MOVE, boobs.    

December 8 
It's like having the threat of the nausea pills prescription in my purse was all I needed. Nausea gone. I WIN.   [In hindsight, this entry grossly under-states the absurdity of constant nausea 24/7 for several weeks on end.] 

December 11 
Holiday lunch at work today. I wanted to cry because everyone was passing around bottles of wine and I couldn't have any. I could even SMELL it. I could have tasted some, I guess, but who wants to torment themselves like that? ! I didn't want a damn sip, I wanted three fucking glasses. I didn't even care red or white. I woulda mixed them together. Pink wine would have been perfect.   

December 12 Just when I thought the nausea had passed I nearly died last night. Well, not exactly, but I basically puked in my mouth at least 20 times. So upsetting.

December 17 
My boss made the mistake of asking me if I wanted anything from the grocery store.  Um, sure, how about a block of cheddar cheese.  And then he had to watch me eat nearly the whole thing, chunk by chunk, just with my hands and a knife.  Classy.   

December 20, 7:30 am 
Hubby and I driving to the hospital for THE ULTRASOUND and blood testing. Did you remember to bring your cup of pee? Yes? Ok good. 

December 20, 8:30 am 
Pardon me?  What's that?  I don't need a pee sample? The whole "full bladder" remark was for the ultrasound? Oh. So what should I do with the cup of pee in my purse then? 

December 20, 9:30 am 
So that wasn't too bad. The baby viewing was pretty cool. But if it meant I could avoid a hospital, I may never do it again... But how did Hubby do?  Oh he was thrilled of course.  Nobody was pushing on *his* naked pelvis.   Me: "Yeah. There's a baby in there. What else is new?" Hubby: "Whoa! There's a BABY in there? 

December 21 
I used to use my period to tell me when to switch to a new set of contacts. I fear my contacts are 3 months old...