I am currently having one of those incredibly rare moments when there is nothing pressing for me to do - the baby is asleep (finally - and only because my wonderful mother is holding him), the laundry is only at a small hill- not the usual mountainous level, and I have dinner marinating in the fridge (wow, you think, she is truly amazing - but its pre-made kabobs that I threw some Italian dressing on. Don't be too jealous)
I thought to myself I should go in there and order baby announcements. But then I figured that the kid is half grown now, and if you don't already know he is here, then I can't be too worried about you. Better luck at Christmas maybe - or perhaps you will get a graduation or wedding invitation. If you want to look at him, come for a visit, or even better just check on Facebook. Its the 2011 version of a birth announcement, and I try to announce like three times a week.
Then I thought, maybe I should finally write in his baby book and put some pictures in there so he will know that we did document some parts of his life. But then I thought, geez, that sounds miserable. So here I am, in front of the ol' blog because this is way more fun to update. And because it has been over a month since my last update, I thought I would give you a quick rundown of our greatest milestones and my gravest realizations....
1. I can't stop buying clothes. When you haven't owned a pair of pants with a zipper and can finally shop in the "normal" people clothes, it is like that ah-ha moment, that moment where you realize that you are not the one person in the world who will stay pregnant forever, who's stomach will forever pouch out like maybe they missed a kid in there during the delivery, and perhaps I can return to a completely normal existence even after my body was ravaged by a nine month long D-Day style attack.
2. Despite the fact that I am again wearing normal people clothing, I have also come to realize that some things will never be the same. Most depressing is that even though I am *almost* back to my pre-pregnancy weight, I have the battle scars that will never disappear. For instance, I caught a glimpse of myself bending over the other day and realized that my boobs almost touch my belly button. Seriously, they look like two gym socks with bowling balls dropped into them. I went to look for a post-pregnancy bra, something with like an anti-gravitational pull mechanism but the only thing I found was a padded bra which just flopped the old girls into this weird, cupcake looking configuration and then they plopped out of the bra, laughed at my effort, and hung down to my belly button again. (Okay, maybe they didn't laugh, but I felt then at least smirking at me for trying to make them the youthful ta-tas of yester-year)
3. I start work on Thursday. This means I have successfully survived maternity leave and actually had a wonderful time. I mean, I begged the dear husband to let me stay home and he could just take a second job to make up the difference. But that was about four weeks ago. And now, I am ready. I cried for days thinking about taking Wyatt to daycare. But when the day came for our first "practice drop off" I was freaking giddy that these people's only job was to take care of my child and I had to leave and go do something that did not involve changing diapers, washing burp cloths, cleaning out bottles, or singing the only lullaby I know for the seven millionth time. As I drove away waiting for the tears to come, (they never did) I thought am I bad mother for not being devastated? I didn't come up with an answer, but really quit looking for one when I went into Target and realized I fit into a pair of jeans that had a zipper and button (see #1) and then realized that Ross Dress for Less carried BCBG and Nine West shoes. Horrible I know, but what can you do?
4. And finally, I realized a few weeks ago, that I was done looking for answers. I mean I will admit I still google things like "how much should my baby be eating" and "my baby hasn't pooped in three days" etc and etc on a regular basis but I have quit trying to subscribe to one school of thought or the other on raising children. I read the Baby Wise book when I was pregnant, then I read all the La Leche League stuff they gave me when I had him (which are in direct conflict with one another by the way) and I was really struggling with wondering if I am doing something that is going to royally screw him up forever (holding him too much, not him holding enough, making him sleep through the night without a bottle, not letting him cry himself to sleep, letting him swing in the swing for hours on end, I could go on and on). And then one day, I realized that I don't remember anything before I was like five years old in my own life and although I know I have a child genius on my hands, I am pretty sure he isn't going to remember the first year or two of his life. So anything I do for the next year or so - as long as we are both happy most of the time - I am just going to do whatever works that day. And if that means holding and cuddling, and giving him a pacifier, and letting him swing all night, or have a bottle after only three hours instead of four, then really who cares? The chances are that if he is some kind of crazed psychopath in twenty or thirty years, it will have nothing to do with the fact that I didn't let him "cry it out" for the requisite twenty minutes when he was eight weeks old.
And now I think I will go play on Facebook for a minute, because I am just too lazy to scrapbook.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Down Stream
I was sitting here thinking how my sweet little baby is one month old today! One month old - I swear it was yesterday that I was muttering obscenities at how long the anesthesiologist was taking to stick that needle in my back. I use the term muttering a little loosely - I am pretty sure he and the entire floor heard me, but hey, what can you do?
Anywho, one month has passed and was I getting a little sad about this - I mean, everyone says they grow up so fast but you have got to be kidding me! I haven't come to terms with the fact that he is here, and that I am a mother, and he is already a month old. I haven't had enough time to document this very important first month. I had big plans of quiet afternoons writing in his baby book, sending baby announcements, and taking sweet pictures of every gas induced smile and itty bitty stretch. But instead, we have done four thousand loads of laundry, changed ten thousand diapers, fixed and fed one thousand bottles (and that's just in the last week), and well, taken more than a few cuddle naps on the couch but who's counting those?
But as I started to freak out about the lack of documentation of my child's life, I glanced down at my still present baby bump (not sure you can still call it that but it sounds better than my very jiggly and large gut) and realized there was baby crap all over me. How do you not notice that you have yellow baby poop all over the front of your shirt?
I'll tell you how - its because this seven some odd pound little tyke has more bodily movements than an entire daycare with the stomach bug. And more often than not, they seem to end up all over me. Take last Friday for example:
I woke up and began the morning as usual - with a warm bottle for Wyatt and a hot coffee for me. This was soon interrupted by Wyatt's usual freight train noises which signaled yet another diaper change was imminent. I then felt a warm sensation spreading through my stomach - not like that warm and fuzzy feeling you get when you see a puppy. It was a more of a warm, wet, sick feeling that I soon confirmed was baby poop. It was seeping up Wyatt's back and down into my lap. As I tried not to gag I took the bottle out of his mouth thinking, "crap - literally - now I have to change him and his outfit and myself. And before I even have a sip of coffee." Well let me tell you what - my fat, fatty Mcfatterson would rather wallow in his own excrement than stop eating. The screams that ensued were absolutely enough to break your heart. So what is a mother to do? Let him cry it out, clean him up, and then resume breakfast? Probably. But, not me, oh no. It was just easier to let hm finish the bottle so I put it back in his mouth and sat there, both of us covered in crap and thought, "really is this what my life has come to?" The answer is clearly yes.
You are probably thinking that this is disgusting - but it gets even better. That afternoon, with the car loaded up, ready to go, I went to change his diaper yet again. I had him butt naked, scrounging around for a diaper, when I notice he had quit screaming. I stood up to check that he was still breathing, he looked at me with this evil baby smile and then BAM - the kid starts peeing EVERYWHERE. The wall, the changing table, the carpet, the side table that is basically across the room: EVERYTHING is soaked in pee. I mean it was waiving around like he was aiming at the various piece of furniture in the room. Kind of reminded me of that game at the fair with the water guns where you aim at all the different objects. Except his water gun is filled with urine, and its aimed at my face. And all I can do with my killer motherly instincts is stand there screaming.
Thank God the kid wasn't touching a hot stove because my reaction time was terrible. Absolutely awful. But I eventually thought to put the diaper I was holding in my hand over his little wee wee. And after a moment, just like in that commercial, I went to move the diaper to change him and BAM BAM - he starts up again. I swear he looked at me and winked. And laughed under his breath. By this time I had yelled enough that Robby had come to help because I am obviously incompetent in the diaper changing category. Now we are both standing in the middle of the nursery, soaked in baby pee, and all we can do is laugh. Because at this point, what else can you do?
And then, as I put diaper number three on Wyatt, I notice he is now peeing out the back of the diaper. Not really sure how this is possible but, seriously folks, there is pee in his hair, pee in my hair, pee all over the changing table, and we are using diaper number FOUR. In less than ten minutes.
And suddenly, a month doesn't seem like such a short period of time after all. I mean a short month ago, if you had asked me had I ever just hung out covered in someone else's pee or poop, or vomit for that matter, I would have gagged a little and said absolutely not. And now, I have done all of the above - multiple times.. And while I would prefer to not make a habit of it, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Of course, if it does become a daily occurrence, I may start changing diapers in a poncho.
Anywho, one month has passed and was I getting a little sad about this - I mean, everyone says they grow up so fast but you have got to be kidding me! I haven't come to terms with the fact that he is here, and that I am a mother, and he is already a month old. I haven't had enough time to document this very important first month. I had big plans of quiet afternoons writing in his baby book, sending baby announcements, and taking sweet pictures of every gas induced smile and itty bitty stretch. But instead, we have done four thousand loads of laundry, changed ten thousand diapers, fixed and fed one thousand bottles (and that's just in the last week), and well, taken more than a few cuddle naps on the couch but who's counting those?
But as I started to freak out about the lack of documentation of my child's life, I glanced down at my still present baby bump (not sure you can still call it that but it sounds better than my very jiggly and large gut) and realized there was baby crap all over me. How do you not notice that you have yellow baby poop all over the front of your shirt?
I'll tell you how - its because this seven some odd pound little tyke has more bodily movements than an entire daycare with the stomach bug. And more often than not, they seem to end up all over me. Take last Friday for example:
I woke up and began the morning as usual - with a warm bottle for Wyatt and a hot coffee for me. This was soon interrupted by Wyatt's usual freight train noises which signaled yet another diaper change was imminent. I then felt a warm sensation spreading through my stomach - not like that warm and fuzzy feeling you get when you see a puppy. It was a more of a warm, wet, sick feeling that I soon confirmed was baby poop. It was seeping up Wyatt's back and down into my lap. As I tried not to gag I took the bottle out of his mouth thinking, "crap - literally - now I have to change him and his outfit and myself. And before I even have a sip of coffee." Well let me tell you what - my fat, fatty Mcfatterson would rather wallow in his own excrement than stop eating. The screams that ensued were absolutely enough to break your heart. So what is a mother to do? Let him cry it out, clean him up, and then resume breakfast? Probably. But, not me, oh no. It was just easier to let hm finish the bottle so I put it back in his mouth and sat there, both of us covered in crap and thought, "really is this what my life has come to?" The answer is clearly yes.
You are probably thinking that this is disgusting - but it gets even better. That afternoon, with the car loaded up, ready to go, I went to change his diaper yet again. I had him butt naked, scrounging around for a diaper, when I notice he had quit screaming. I stood up to check that he was still breathing, he looked at me with this evil baby smile and then BAM - the kid starts peeing EVERYWHERE. The wall, the changing table, the carpet, the side table that is basically across the room: EVERYTHING is soaked in pee. I mean it was waiving around like he was aiming at the various piece of furniture in the room. Kind of reminded me of that game at the fair with the water guns where you aim at all the different objects. Except his water gun is filled with urine, and its aimed at my face. And all I can do with my killer motherly instincts is stand there screaming.
Thank God the kid wasn't touching a hot stove because my reaction time was terrible. Absolutely awful. But I eventually thought to put the diaper I was holding in my hand over his little wee wee. And after a moment, just like in that commercial, I went to move the diaper to change him and BAM BAM - he starts up again. I swear he looked at me and winked. And laughed under his breath. By this time I had yelled enough that Robby had come to help because I am obviously incompetent in the diaper changing category. Now we are both standing in the middle of the nursery, soaked in baby pee, and all we can do is laugh. Because at this point, what else can you do?
And then, as I put diaper number three on Wyatt, I notice he is now peeing out the back of the diaper. Not really sure how this is possible but, seriously folks, there is pee in his hair, pee in my hair, pee all over the changing table, and we are using diaper number FOUR. In less than ten minutes.
And suddenly, a month doesn't seem like such a short period of time after all. I mean a short month ago, if you had asked me had I ever just hung out covered in someone else's pee or poop, or vomit for that matter, I would have gagged a little and said absolutely not. And now, I have done all of the above - multiple times.. And while I would prefer to not make a habit of it, I wouldn't trade it for the world. Of course, if it does become a daily occurrence, I may start changing diapers in a poncho.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Breast is Best?
I am writing to you from the depths of new parenthood. I have been trying to update the ol' blog because there are so many great things to tell you. I could write to you about how my sweet, very laid back husband was up, dressed, and practically shoving me into the car within three minutes of me saying, "uh Robby..."
Or I could explain to you how awesome my little baby boy is and how for the first few days I cried every evening because he was about to be a day older. Or I could even narrate the excitement and milestones we have achieved in baby boy's first three weeks of life. But instead, I am going to tell you about my biggest accomplishment in life to date: Breastfeeding, or more specifically my utter failure at it.
*Per my usual caution with offending others, I want to make the following disclaimer: I completely agree that Breast is Best, that for some it is this awesome bonding experience, and that it just works for some really great people. But, this is my blog, my story, and my opinion so if I offend you or you think I may offend you, please quit reading.
Okay, now, back to my first beautiful failure as a mother. Lets start at the beginning - how as soon as you push this little person out of you, all parts of your body are up for open discussion with the outside world. Suddenly the state of my nipples, my milk, my boobs, even my hoohah were the topic of dinner time conversation. And if you weren't lucky enough to get one of my sweet husbands daily updates on the state of my nips, well let me break it down for you - they were miserable. As were my boobs. As was my child.
We just weren't clicking - I had infections in both breasts which hurt like someone was literally shoving hot irons into my soul. Better yet, my child alternated between screaming what I was pretty sure was the "someone save me from this idiot shoving her boob in my face over and over" scream and sucking the ever loving life out of me - which felt like he was attempting to extract those hot irons out of my soul.
So fast forward through a lactation consultant, a doctor who is a breastfeeding specialist, hours and hours on end attached to a breast pump that also was attempting to suck out my soul, and one really, really bad morning in my kitchen.
Robby walks in the door from going to the gym, and I am sitting in our kitchen crying, (more like sobbing) "I-I-I can't do this anymore! Waaaahh" By this point I think he is starting to get used to my sudden, unprovoked emotional breakdowns which are on a daily basis it seems, so I can tell he is proceeding with caution. I see his moment of hesitation and pounce, "I-I-I want to switch to formula but I-I-I don't want to be a bad mother. Waaaaah."
It hurts everytime I feed, I dread everytime my child wakes up because I know what comes next, I feel like I am trapped in this house stuck on an endless two hour cycle, my boobs are so big they are literally toppling me over, and by God, I am just tired of being a dairy cow, needing to be milked.
But, the thoughts of my child in a therapists chair years from now complaining of how I didn't love him enough to pump through the pain flash through my head. Then, because I am glutton for punishment, I had to google formula feeding and read all the comments from the breast is best Nazis who basically solidified my thoughts that my child would be scarred emotionally, physically, and mentally if I switched to formula.
And then it hit me, I am an idiot. Millions of babies grow up on formula and if all of them were detrimentally stunted from their lack of breast milk the Earth would be full of bumbling Neanderthals - which is not a huge stretch of the imagination - but I mean hell, I was a formula baby, and so was my husband, and so far we have managed to spend minimal time in the therapist chair.
So, with a glimmer of hope, I shut down the endless google searches, hopped in the car with a new found purpose, and drove as fast as I could to buy the biggest head of cabbage I could find. And here I sit, three days later, with a bra full of cabbage leaves that is actually cooking on me, and smelling the house up of stewed cabbage, cautiously optimistic that the fun bags may not actually explode, and saying:
I am a formula feeding momma who is not sorry. I raise my white flag proudly and say: I gave up. I failed at breastfeeding and me, my husband, and my baby, are much happier for it. So, boil the water, pour up the bottle, and, for me, I think I will have a nice, cold glass of pinot grigio to celebrate.
Or I could explain to you how awesome my little baby boy is and how for the first few days I cried every evening because he was about to be a day older. Or I could even narrate the excitement and milestones we have achieved in baby boy's first three weeks of life. But instead, I am going to tell you about my biggest accomplishment in life to date: Breastfeeding, or more specifically my utter failure at it.
*Per my usual caution with offending others, I want to make the following disclaimer: I completely agree that Breast is Best, that for some it is this awesome bonding experience, and that it just works for some really great people. But, this is my blog, my story, and my opinion so if I offend you or you think I may offend you, please quit reading.
Okay, now, back to my first beautiful failure as a mother. Lets start at the beginning - how as soon as you push this little person out of you, all parts of your body are up for open discussion with the outside world. Suddenly the state of my nipples, my milk, my boobs, even my hoohah were the topic of dinner time conversation. And if you weren't lucky enough to get one of my sweet husbands daily updates on the state of my nips, well let me break it down for you - they were miserable. As were my boobs. As was my child.
We just weren't clicking - I had infections in both breasts which hurt like someone was literally shoving hot irons into my soul. Better yet, my child alternated between screaming what I was pretty sure was the "someone save me from this idiot shoving her boob in my face over and over" scream and sucking the ever loving life out of me - which felt like he was attempting to extract those hot irons out of my soul.
So fast forward through a lactation consultant, a doctor who is a breastfeeding specialist, hours and hours on end attached to a breast pump that also was attempting to suck out my soul, and one really, really bad morning in my kitchen.
Robby walks in the door from going to the gym, and I am sitting in our kitchen crying, (more like sobbing) "I-I-I can't do this anymore! Waaaahh" By this point I think he is starting to get used to my sudden, unprovoked emotional breakdowns which are on a daily basis it seems, so I can tell he is proceeding with caution. I see his moment of hesitation and pounce, "I-I-I want to switch to formula but I-I-I don't want to be a bad mother. Waaaaah."
It hurts everytime I feed, I dread everytime my child wakes up because I know what comes next, I feel like I am trapped in this house stuck on an endless two hour cycle, my boobs are so big they are literally toppling me over, and by God, I am just tired of being a dairy cow, needing to be milked.
But, the thoughts of my child in a therapists chair years from now complaining of how I didn't love him enough to pump through the pain flash through my head. Then, because I am glutton for punishment, I had to google formula feeding and read all the comments from the breast is best Nazis who basically solidified my thoughts that my child would be scarred emotionally, physically, and mentally if I switched to formula.
And then it hit me, I am an idiot. Millions of babies grow up on formula and if all of them were detrimentally stunted from their lack of breast milk the Earth would be full of bumbling Neanderthals - which is not a huge stretch of the imagination - but I mean hell, I was a formula baby, and so was my husband, and so far we have managed to spend minimal time in the therapist chair.
So, with a glimmer of hope, I shut down the endless google searches, hopped in the car with a new found purpose, and drove as fast as I could to buy the biggest head of cabbage I could find. And here I sit, three days later, with a bra full of cabbage leaves that is actually cooking on me, and smelling the house up of stewed cabbage, cautiously optimistic that the fun bags may not actually explode, and saying:
I am a formula feeding momma who is not sorry. I raise my white flag proudly and say: I gave up. I failed at breastfeeding and me, my husband, and my baby, are much happier for it. So, boil the water, pour up the bottle, and, for me, I think I will have a nice, cold glass of pinot grigio to celebrate.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Just A-waitin' on the Dilatin'
Every Thursday for the last thirty something odd weeks I have excitedly woken up, rolled over (with varying degrees of difficulty) and read the latest weekly update in my pregnancy book. One more week down, one more week of updates, one more week I can mark off that imaginary calendar I have been watching since late October.
This morning though I rolled over (with an incredible amount of difficulty), grunted as I lifted the incredibly heavy book, and read the paragraph under Week 38. And you know what it said? I am paraphrasing of course, but basically it said, your kid is just hanging out making you miserable and there is very little of interest for us to tell you. Great. Thanks for the mind blowing update.
This got me thinking about the last few weeks of pregnancy. They are a real mixed bag of emotions. I mean on the one hand, I thank God every day that my little baby is healthy and happy in his little home and that he is continuing to develop normally and is set for a 40-week delivery date. But there is this selfish part of me that wishes his little home didn't happen to be wedged between my rib cage and my bladder. And an even worse part of me that rears its ugly head more and more that wishes his little home would become so inhospitable that he would decide to move out a little early - like yesterday preferably. And with every baby you see on Facebook that came a week or two early, its hard not to grumble and think, look at that overachiever, getting out and ahead of the game three weeks early. My kid's too lazy to even cause an efficient dilation.
And perhaps this is the root of the problem. For those of you who really know me, you know that I am your stereotypical, Type A, oldest child, control freak, overachiever. I make schedules and lists and itineraries for everything, including my spouse - which drives him crazy but I just can't help myself. Seriously, I can tell you what time I plan on waking up on Saturday three weeks from now. I finished college in three years. I finished law school in two and half. I got married seven days after I graduated from law school. Why do I tell you this? Not to brag, oh heavens now, this is nothing to be proud of. This is to show you how neurotic I really am. If there is a deadline, I will have it done before most people even read the directions.
And for that reason, it really, really pisses me off that there isn't a dang thing I can do to get this show on the road. I know June 30 is the due date, not the deadline. But for me, it seems like if the chicken's done sitting, -lets get this egg a-crackin'. (Whoa Farmer Jones reference, not sure where that came from). And there is also nothing I can do to know for sure that he won't come before (or after) June 30. It irks me that I can't schedule this thing for everyone who wants to be there and for all the things I want to have done juuuuust before he gets here. I mean I spent ten minutes the other day on the phone with the dog groomer debating when I should get my dogs groomed so that they would be nice and clipped with the baby got here but I wanted to make sure I didn't get them in too late and interfere with the baby's delivery if he came a little earlier. In case you were wondering, Angie at PetSmart does not know when my baby will be born. She is only a dog groomer not a psychic and would I please quit calling and rescheduling - just pick a day and go with it.
All of this aggravation is compounded by the fact that all those little "indicators" that your about to go into labor are a bunch of crap. Last week, I went in with no expectation that I would be dilated at all - but cheered when Doc said oh, you are one centimeter! I thought, heck yeah this kid is coming out early. Then for the past two days, I have the most uncomfortable contractions in an on-again, off-again fashion but still they have been there. I go into my appointment yesterday so proud of myself; I have been walking and walking and walking, I have been having what I would call contractions and pressure and all the things they tell you to look for. I called all the relatives and told them that this baby was coming soon; I made my husband delay a business trip; I even went and had a pedicure so I would like nice for the hospital staff because I was SURE, just sure I was about to go into labor any second. So I bebop into the doctor's office yesterday. I think to myself, she is going to be so proud at how much I have dilated. I am probably going to have to go straight to the ER I am going to be so far along. And guess what?!
I WAS THE EXACT FREAKING SAME AS I WAS LAST WEEK. All that for NOTHING?! I wanted to scream and cry and basically went into a little funk for the rest of the day. I was devastated when they gave me that appointment card for next Thursday and really irritated when my doctor so sweetly reminded me that I have two more weeks and one day until my due date. Oh, and those "contractions" I am having? Yeah, those are called peri-contractions (or something like that) and they can last for weeks, yes I said weeks, before the real thing starts up. Double Awesome on that boat load of fun. It only feels as if my insides are wrapping around a corkscrew.
But this morning, after eating an entire batch of slice and bake cookies and sleeping for a solid twelve hours last night I realized something. As much as I want it to be, this is the one thing in my life that I can't schedule when convenient, I can't make better or faster or more efficient because I worked at it a little harder, studied a little longer, or just made a better game plan. The thing with this kid is, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this will continue for the rest of his existence, he doesn't necessarily fit squarely into my color coded calendar. He doesn't care if his arrival date isn't convenient or that his mother is quite uncomfortable and hot. No. He is going to force me to relax my rigid routine, sit back, and enjoy the ride - wherever that ride may go and whenever it may begin are completely out of my hands now.
So until that day that Wyatt decides he is ready to join the world (and COMPLETELY screw up my Type A lifestyle - forever) I'll just be sitting here a-waitin' on the dilatin.' But if it did happen to happen to today, I wouldn't be upset. Just saying.
This morning though I rolled over (with an incredible amount of difficulty), grunted as I lifted the incredibly heavy book, and read the paragraph under Week 38. And you know what it said? I am paraphrasing of course, but basically it said, your kid is just hanging out making you miserable and there is very little of interest for us to tell you. Great. Thanks for the mind blowing update.
This got me thinking about the last few weeks of pregnancy. They are a real mixed bag of emotions. I mean on the one hand, I thank God every day that my little baby is healthy and happy in his little home and that he is continuing to develop normally and is set for a 40-week delivery date. But there is this selfish part of me that wishes his little home didn't happen to be wedged between my rib cage and my bladder. And an even worse part of me that rears its ugly head more and more that wishes his little home would become so inhospitable that he would decide to move out a little early - like yesterday preferably. And with every baby you see on Facebook that came a week or two early, its hard not to grumble and think, look at that overachiever, getting out and ahead of the game three weeks early. My kid's too lazy to even cause an efficient dilation.
And perhaps this is the root of the problem. For those of you who really know me, you know that I am your stereotypical, Type A, oldest child, control freak, overachiever. I make schedules and lists and itineraries for everything, including my spouse - which drives him crazy but I just can't help myself. Seriously, I can tell you what time I plan on waking up on Saturday three weeks from now. I finished college in three years. I finished law school in two and half. I got married seven days after I graduated from law school. Why do I tell you this? Not to brag, oh heavens now, this is nothing to be proud of. This is to show you how neurotic I really am. If there is a deadline, I will have it done before most people even read the directions.
And for that reason, it really, really pisses me off that there isn't a dang thing I can do to get this show on the road. I know June 30 is the due date, not the deadline. But for me, it seems like if the chicken's done sitting, -lets get this egg a-crackin'. (Whoa Farmer Jones reference, not sure where that came from). And there is also nothing I can do to know for sure that he won't come before (or after) June 30. It irks me that I can't schedule this thing for everyone who wants to be there and for all the things I want to have done juuuuust before he gets here. I mean I spent ten minutes the other day on the phone with the dog groomer debating when I should get my dogs groomed so that they would be nice and clipped with the baby got here but I wanted to make sure I didn't get them in too late and interfere with the baby's delivery if he came a little earlier. In case you were wondering, Angie at PetSmart does not know when my baby will be born. She is only a dog groomer not a psychic and would I please quit calling and rescheduling - just pick a day and go with it.
All of this aggravation is compounded by the fact that all those little "indicators" that your about to go into labor are a bunch of crap. Last week, I went in with no expectation that I would be dilated at all - but cheered when Doc said oh, you are one centimeter! I thought, heck yeah this kid is coming out early. Then for the past two days, I have the most uncomfortable contractions in an on-again, off-again fashion but still they have been there. I go into my appointment yesterday so proud of myself; I have been walking and walking and walking, I have been having what I would call contractions and pressure and all the things they tell you to look for. I called all the relatives and told them that this baby was coming soon; I made my husband delay a business trip; I even went and had a pedicure so I would like nice for the hospital staff because I was SURE, just sure I was about to go into labor any second. So I bebop into the doctor's office yesterday. I think to myself, she is going to be so proud at how much I have dilated. I am probably going to have to go straight to the ER I am going to be so far along. And guess what?!
I WAS THE EXACT FREAKING SAME AS I WAS LAST WEEK. All that for NOTHING?! I wanted to scream and cry and basically went into a little funk for the rest of the day. I was devastated when they gave me that appointment card for next Thursday and really irritated when my doctor so sweetly reminded me that I have two more weeks and one day until my due date. Oh, and those "contractions" I am having? Yeah, those are called peri-contractions (or something like that) and they can last for weeks, yes I said weeks, before the real thing starts up. Double Awesome on that boat load of fun. It only feels as if my insides are wrapping around a corkscrew.
But this morning, after eating an entire batch of slice and bake cookies and sleeping for a solid twelve hours last night I realized something. As much as I want it to be, this is the one thing in my life that I can't schedule when convenient, I can't make better or faster or more efficient because I worked at it a little harder, studied a little longer, or just made a better game plan. The thing with this kid is, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this will continue for the rest of his existence, he doesn't necessarily fit squarely into my color coded calendar. He doesn't care if his arrival date isn't convenient or that his mother is quite uncomfortable and hot. No. He is going to force me to relax my rigid routine, sit back, and enjoy the ride - wherever that ride may go and whenever it may begin are completely out of my hands now.
So until that day that Wyatt decides he is ready to join the world (and COMPLETELY screw up my Type A lifestyle - forever) I'll just be sitting here a-waitin' on the dilatin.' But if it did happen to happen to today, I wouldn't be upset. Just saying.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Poetry in Motion
I went to the doctor today for my first weekly appointment. Let me give you a brief run down:
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Widespread Panic
This morning, in that hazy place between wake and sleep, I had this horrible dream. I dreamed that I was almost nine months pregnant, had put on almost forty pounds in thirty five weeks, and had just started to realize that I had not a clue what to do with a baby - a baby I was almost certain the hospital was going to send home with me. Then I attempted to roll over, received a ninja chop to my liver, and sat up straight in bed (or sat up as straight as possible which is actually more of a reverse limbo move wherein a lot of straining and groaning takes place) and realized that Holy Crap that's not a dream - that's my life, and my thighs rubbing together.
This thought was quickly followed by a wave of widespread panic. (Which now makes me smile in a very ironic way seeing as just a few short ten years ago I followed a band by that name through various cities and ate grilled cheese sandwiches while rocking out in my hippie clothes. Now, I am using the term to describe the size of my butt and the extent of my realization that I am about to the at least partially responsible for another human being's continued existence.) But, back to the wave of panic which was even more quickly thwarted by the now constant need to pee so I rolled out of bed - literally, I roll out of bed now, like start with a rock to the left, then a rock to the right, then back to the left, then hurl myself off the side of the bed with as much momentum as possible and hope to land on my feet - and waddled into the bathroom hoping my aching back would get me to the pot before I peed on myself.
And because I was already in an obviously reflective mood, my mind drifted back to a fateful night some eight months ago (October 24 to be exact) when another seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom sent me into a tearful panic that my sweet, sweet husband did not seem to understand. I remember looking at him as he smiled with all the pride of a new daddy and I half choked/half sobbed/half screamed (I know that this is too many halves, but work with me) at him that this was NOT okay under any means and I was freaking out because I was going to have to push a baby out of my hoo-hah and I did not so much want to do that.
Ooooh, naive child of so little faith, I told my eight months ago self this morning. Delivery. HA. Like that's what you should have been worried about so many nights ago. How about this for an updated list of things you should have been wigging out about: bottles, breastfeeding, breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, circumcision care, umbilical care, colic, acid reflux in baby, acid reflux in you, never sleeping again, sitz baths, birth weight, my weight, the fear of peeing on yourself, the fact that you will not be able to breathe, walk, sleep, sit, stand or even eat properly in just a few short months, the fear that this child may never, ever actually get here, and did I mention breastfeeding every 2-3 hours leading to never sleeping again and possibly losing your mind?
Whew. And I was worried about what it would be like to have a baby in the sense of delivering one. Now I am kind of majorly concerned about what it will be like to have a baby in the sense of have as in ownership, like he is all yours, yes ma'am you do have to take him home from the hospital, and by the way, when exactly are you planning on installing that car seat, putting together that crib, or buying that rectal thermometer you keep hearing about. BUT at the same time, there is coinciding fear, however irrational, that what if he never comes out of me??? What if he just keeps getting bigger and I keep bigger, and the weeks keep going by slower and he just never actually gets here and ......
I am actually losing my mind. As I type this, I can feel the hysteria creeping out of my fingertips and onto the computer screen. But, I am going to take solace in the fact, although I do not know this for sure, that these feelings are normal - however crazy they may seem when you see them in black in white. I am going to go back to my happy place of being in denial that this is all about to go down in a very real kind of way, and instead heave my now very large rear end out of this very hard chair and waddle to a very greasy lunch counter and eat something fried followed by something covered in icing for lunch. And when the next person asks me, oooh, you look like you are about to bust, how much longer? I am just going to give them a blank stare, shake my head slowly, and say, I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about, how much longer until what?
This thought was quickly followed by a wave of widespread panic. (Which now makes me smile in a very ironic way seeing as just a few short ten years ago I followed a band by that name through various cities and ate grilled cheese sandwiches while rocking out in my hippie clothes. Now, I am using the term to describe the size of my butt and the extent of my realization that I am about to the at least partially responsible for another human being's continued existence.) But, back to the wave of panic which was even more quickly thwarted by the now constant need to pee so I rolled out of bed - literally, I roll out of bed now, like start with a rock to the left, then a rock to the right, then back to the left, then hurl myself off the side of the bed with as much momentum as possible and hope to land on my feet - and waddled into the bathroom hoping my aching back would get me to the pot before I peed on myself.
And because I was already in an obviously reflective mood, my mind drifted back to a fateful night some eight months ago (October 24 to be exact) when another seemingly innocent trip to the bathroom sent me into a tearful panic that my sweet, sweet husband did not seem to understand. I remember looking at him as he smiled with all the pride of a new daddy and I half choked/half sobbed/half screamed (I know that this is too many halves, but work with me) at him that this was NOT okay under any means and I was freaking out because I was going to have to push a baby out of my hoo-hah and I did not so much want to do that.
Ooooh, naive child of so little faith, I told my eight months ago self this morning. Delivery. HA. Like that's what you should have been worried about so many nights ago. How about this for an updated list of things you should have been wigging out about: bottles, breastfeeding, breastfeeding every 2-3 hours, circumcision care, umbilical care, colic, acid reflux in baby, acid reflux in you, never sleeping again, sitz baths, birth weight, my weight, the fear of peeing on yourself, the fact that you will not be able to breathe, walk, sleep, sit, stand or even eat properly in just a few short months, the fear that this child may never, ever actually get here, and did I mention breastfeeding every 2-3 hours leading to never sleeping again and possibly losing your mind?
Whew. And I was worried about what it would be like to have a baby in the sense of delivering one. Now I am kind of majorly concerned about what it will be like to have a baby in the sense of have as in ownership, like he is all yours, yes ma'am you do have to take him home from the hospital, and by the way, when exactly are you planning on installing that car seat, putting together that crib, or buying that rectal thermometer you keep hearing about. BUT at the same time, there is coinciding fear, however irrational, that what if he never comes out of me??? What if he just keeps getting bigger and I keep bigger, and the weeks keep going by slower and he just never actually gets here and ......
I am actually losing my mind. As I type this, I can feel the hysteria creeping out of my fingertips and onto the computer screen. But, I am going to take solace in the fact, although I do not know this for sure, that these feelings are normal - however crazy they may seem when you see them in black in white. I am going to go back to my happy place of being in denial that this is all about to go down in a very real kind of way, and instead heave my now very large rear end out of this very hard chair and waddle to a very greasy lunch counter and eat something fried followed by something covered in icing for lunch. And when the next person asks me, oooh, you look like you are about to bust, how much longer? I am just going to give them a blank stare, shake my head slowly, and say, I haven't the foggiest idea what you are talking about, how much longer until what?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Things I Didn't Know Before I Got Knocked Up
1. In a single week, my daily pregnancy calender dropped these two delightful bombs on me:
a) You may notice leaking colostrum. (By the way, this is breast milk)
b) You may be experiencing leaking urine or stress incontinence.
Wow, REALLY? You have forty weeks to discuss the possibility that I am going to be walking around while still pregnant leaking breast milk and peeing on myself and you do it within two days of one another. Awesome. Oh, and Honey, no need to set the sprinklers up in the backyard this week. I am just going to go lay out in the yard and leak all over it. Thats disgusting. And unnecessary. And I am not sorry I shared it with you. But, in case you are wondering, I have not as of today peed my pants or sprouted breast milk onto myself. Trust me, I will let you know when either of the above events occurs. BUT on a related note, something else I learned the hard way in this pregnancy is that your nose bleeds. Just randomly starts leaking blood even if you have never had a nose bleed before. I am really rooting for the leakage trifecta - the perfect storm if you will. Hopefully somewhere good and public, like the cookie aisle at Kroger. I hope I leak blood from my nose, milk from my boobs, and urine, well from you know where, all at the same time and completely freak some little kid out. That'll teach her abstinence.
2. You can gain thirty some odd pounds while pregnant. The scale does go that high. Your doctor will tell you to lay off the bonbons. You will hate her when she tells you this. And laugh to yourself as you leave the doctor's office and proceed to immediately go eat a bacon cheeseburger. With fries. This is what you look like:
And for a close up:
And yes, we were just kidding with the whole kiss her belly shot. We are not actually that dorky. I, however, am that huge.
3. It is possible to fall in love with someone you have never met, and when you see his perfect little face you just know that he is yours and while you have no idea what you are going to do with him when he gets here, you can't freaking wait to introduce yourself.
a) You may notice leaking colostrum. (By the way, this is breast milk)
b) You may be experiencing leaking urine or stress incontinence.
Wow, REALLY? You have forty weeks to discuss the possibility that I am going to be walking around while still pregnant leaking breast milk and peeing on myself and you do it within two days of one another. Awesome. Oh, and Honey, no need to set the sprinklers up in the backyard this week. I am just going to go lay out in the yard and leak all over it. Thats disgusting. And unnecessary. And I am not sorry I shared it with you. But, in case you are wondering, I have not as of today peed my pants or sprouted breast milk onto myself. Trust me, I will let you know when either of the above events occurs. BUT on a related note, something else I learned the hard way in this pregnancy is that your nose bleeds. Just randomly starts leaking blood even if you have never had a nose bleed before. I am really rooting for the leakage trifecta - the perfect storm if you will. Hopefully somewhere good and public, like the cookie aisle at Kroger. I hope I leak blood from my nose, milk from my boobs, and urine, well from you know where, all at the same time and completely freak some little kid out. That'll teach her abstinence.
2. You can gain thirty some odd pounds while pregnant. The scale does go that high. Your doctor will tell you to lay off the bonbons. You will hate her when she tells you this. And laugh to yourself as you leave the doctor's office and proceed to immediately go eat a bacon cheeseburger. With fries. This is what you look like:
And yes, we were just kidding with the whole kiss her belly shot. We are not actually that dorky. I, however, am that huge.
3. It is possible to fall in love with someone you have never met, and when you see his perfect little face you just know that he is yours and while you have no idea what you are going to do with him when he gets here, you can't freaking wait to introduce yourself.
Remind me how excited I was for him to get here in about ten weeks when I haven't slept, eaten, or showered in days and own no article of clothing that has not been peed, pooped, or spit up on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)