Archive for December, 2010

Reason #892 why I love him: he tells me no occasionally.

I hate it. But I appreciate it, too.

Who wants to be told no? Not I. I get pouty and bummed and I wheedle. That’s right, I said it. I’m a wheedler. But seriously, if he never refused me anything, always went along, yes honey, whatever you say honey…I’d be really annoyed. Dude does SO much for me, and I appreciate the hell out of it. But sometimes he has to put his foot down and say, “NO. I don’t want to make you Cream of Wheat tonight. You don’t have a baby hanging off of you right now. Why don’t YOU make it this time?”

He has a point. But I just don’t feeeeeel like it. So I bug him and push him and please please pleeeease? And he is stalwart in his manly refusal to bend to my will.

It’s cute. And really frustrating.

Seriously? Bam. Dead on the floor. She KILLS me.

I, like many people, have been questioning and wondering about God for years. I went through a phase when I was young but old enough to consider things like this, when I wished God existed and I hoped and I “believed” in Him. I think it might have been more because that’s what you’re supposed to do, you know, just in case. Wouldn’t want to end up in H-E-double hockey sticks, now would I?

And then, around college, I no longer believed in God. How could there be such a person/spirit? How could such a thing exist that had power and knowledge of all things, forever, always? My mind just couldn’t get there. Plus, I liked the sound of my voice a lot, especially when I’d been drinking with friends and we got all philosophical and brilliant.

These days, I’m decidedly agnostic. I believe in something. My life has worked out so well, in so many ways, so many times, that I can’t NOT believe in something. A force more than a person, in my mind. I don’t picture some beardy dude sitting up in the sky giving a shit about the meager happenings of you and me. I don’t think God cares if you are gay or if you eat fish on Friday or if you get divorced or if you put a condom on because you just don’t think you should have a(nother) baby. Just be a good person.

Even though I can’t imagine how God could be involved much in the little picture, I do sometimes feel him/it/her when I need help the most. When I’ve been driving in a car with my brood and they’re all beating the crap out of each other at the top of their lungs and I’m harried, to say the least. It’s inevitably a cloudy day and suddenly, out of no where, a few brilliant rays of sun peek out from the thick clouded sky and shine down on me. Just for me. I give a little smile, a wink up at the sky and feel warmth and happiness. That’s God. To me.

I had 2 childbirth experiences that were almost identical. Both times I went into the labor with no preparation for what I was about to go through. My mentality was that I would start out natural and get an epidural if I needed it. Of course, with no coping mechanisms in place, I opted for epidurals both times. They certainly served their purpose – to take away the majority of the pain. I slept for a good long stretch while my body went through labor both those times. So much so that I entertained the hell out of onlookers with my ridiculous snoring. Ha. Ha.

The main problem I had with the epidural method is the lack of power on my part. I was relegated to a bed, on my back, hooked up to an IV and monitors and had very little control over anything after that wonderful drug was put into my back. Sure, the pain was gone, but so was my ability to participate fully in the birth of my children. When it was time to push, I had no real idea what I was doing or if I was getting anywhere. I had to hold my breath and puuuuusssssh. Sure I felt some pressure and it still hurt, but I felt so removed from the situation, so directed – kind of like a child, the doctor my parent/boss.

I decided against that scenario with my most recent birth. I even switched from my doctor to a midwife in my 34th week of pregnancy. I figured my odds of having the birth I hoped for were greatly improved with a midwife who believed my body could do this, was meant to do it. Along with my midwife, I knew I’d want the experience, support and steady calm that a doula could provide. Brian has always been a steadfast birth partner, but he also wouldn’t do anything to oppose what I said ‘in the moment’. Like, “Give me a fucking epidural, NOW!”. “Ok honey, whatever you want, we’ll do that!” Yeah, I needed someone to steer me clear of that when I was at the peak of my pain and panic, which I was sure would show up at some point.

And it did. But not nearly where I thought it would. I hadn’t given 2 seconds of thought to the pushing and delivery. Probably because I’d never felt that part before – not really. I’d FELT contractions before and they hurt. So that’s the part I feared, and that’s the part that turned out to be the easiest for me. I breathed through them, I changed positions until something helped, and I ate between them. (I ate the best peanuts of my LIFE during labor)

When transition hit, everything felt so scary, so urgent and out of my control. Which, I really hate. Tammy helped ground me, reminding me that my body could do this. But for about 10 minutes, I was terrified and time stood still. Hating the nurses around me, trying to close my legs, keep Fiona inside me. There was NO way that baby was getting out of my vagina without ripping something. I cried, announced how scared I was, felt very stared at, panicked. My children were in the room, watching the delivery, and I forgot about them entirely. I was in a very small hole, feeling so much more than anything in my entire life, ever.

And then, there was this imperceptible shift within myself. It suddenly didn’t feel so scary, because things were happening. Time started to tick by again and I felt the urge to act, to do, to push. It didn’t take long and her head was out. People were excitedly telling me what was going on while I continued to moan deeply and push her the rest of the way out. That moment when she exited my body and entered the big, bright world was probably the happiest moment of my life. I was elated, completely high on the work I just did, the accomplishment and my god, I was no longer pregnant! I had been convinced until that very moment that my baby would never arrive, instead choosing to remain in the warmth of my uterus for all eternity.

But there she was. A wriggling, purple, slippery pile of baby, and she was all mine. She had the cutest cry I’d ever heard, like a song. The nurses kept commenting on it and calling her “Feisty Fiona”. I approved and I liked that my baby had already found her voice. I couldn’t get enough of her, and now, exactly 4 months later, I still can’t.

The experience of Fiona’s birth and the months since have changed me profoundly. I’ve enjoyed every second of her life so far, and my love continues to grow not only for her, but also for Brianna and Eli. It’s like she has opened me up and expanded my capacity to feel (starting quite literally with her entrance into the world). I enjoy my kids more, try to soak in all the moments, squeeze every bit of joy out of them. I know this is cheesy and sentimental, but I don’t care. I’m incredibly happy, and that’s quite a feat for me so soon after having a baby.

Thank you, Feisty Fiona, for making me a better person. I am eternally grateful, my sweet baby girl.

In a continuing effort to appreciate my huz for the amazing man that he is, I’m working on many lists of reasons why he is awesome. This is my second.

1. He encouraged me to be honest with him – he required it, early on, when my tendency was to retreat and close down. He seems to appreciate the beast he unleashed, instead of regretting it. To quote a brilliant blonde publicity whore, “That’s hot.”
2. Fiona smiles so big when she sees him that I think she’s going to turn inside out. He smiles back, at least as big.
3. He doesn’t flinch at my sometimes sneaky, overwhelming depression.
4. He’s incredibly steady.
5. He looks really good in jeans. Yum.

I always joke that I have cat-like reflexes, which is extra especially hilarious when Brian tosses something to me and it hits me in the forehead. Which does happen from time to time. Or maybe 3 times a week. Perhaps. Anyway, I also brag (not jokingly) about my awesome mama bear instincts; how promptly and attentively I responded to Miss Fiona even in my deepest sleep.

Apparently, I was mistaken.

APPARENTLY, it can take up to 5 minutes for me to wake up when the baby is crying. Is that a lot? Nothing bad has ever happened, for crapssake, except Brian wakes up first and thus has to deal with the baby. Seems like a win-win to me…

I sleep with the baby monitor cranked up all the way, right next to my head. And I still almost never hear her when I’m asleep. I think Brian must have just become an exceptionally light sleeper over the past few weeks. I also think that I must have a built-in bullshit screening system – my body doesn’t bother to wake me from my precious slumber unless the Spidey Sense is really tingling and something is SERIOUSLY wrong.

So…on the fritz? Nah. I’m going to say I’m a just highly efficient, well-oiled machine who needs her damn sleep.

I had high hopes for cloth diapering success, really, I did. Potty training happens so much faster! Environmentally friendly! Adorable patterns! Cheaper!

However. Life? It takes time. There’s homework. And reading. And being read to. And dinner, dishes, normal laundry, vacuuming, 2 jobs, etc etc AH! And doing loads of diapers every other day just wasn’t working out.

Plus the diaper pail smelled awful. And Fiona was miserable in them far too quickly. I don’t really want to have to change diapers every hour, on the hour.

Plus? She can’t wear them at daycare, so we’d still be spending plenty on disposables.

So my next mission, when I can find some time and willpower, is to try to sell the damn things. I did invest some money in them, and I’d like to see some of it come back. Believe it or not, people do buy used diapers! Go figure. Here’s hoping for a buyer…

I fell into a nasty, but unavoidable habit while pregnant and hormonal. I could only see the negative in my husband. I appreciated his help and all that, but 9 times out of 10, he annoyed the holy bejeebs out of me and I didn’t hesitate to tell him. He’s an amazing man and he stuck by me, laughed through it when he could, and ignored me when he couldn’t. Love that man.

So now that the hazy veil of hormonal, pregnant angst has lifted a bit, I’m starting to recognize more and more wonderful things about him. I’d like to make this a weekly thing, listing 5 things I love about him, but c’mon. I have trouble remembering to brush my teeth most mornings. Let’s call it a “goal”. Ish.

1. Instead of getting super annoyed at my lazy tendencies (setting the new roll of toilet paper on top of the old cardboard tube instead of reloading, for example), he just takes it as evidence of his wife being there and moves on.
2. He makes dinner for the family every night. And then makes me Cream of Wheat later if I’m hungry again. (Breastfeeding mother here! Constant hunger!)
3. He tries really hard to be patient with the kids when playing video games, even though it drives him nuts to die repeatedly because they are trying to jump on each other’s head.
4. He has an awesome rear view.
5. He reallly loves my rear view. Even though it’s gotten markedly larger since giving birth 4 months ago. Maybe because of that, actually.

So that’s Week 1 of my mission to appreciate the hell out of my dear, loving, supportive husband.

Thanks for being amazing, sweetie!

Do you suppose it’s possible for someone who is adept at leading a chaotic, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants life to transform into a pillar of organizational aptitude who exudes a Zen-like calm? I wonder…

I feel like I’m always 3 steps behind, constantly running to keep up with my own life. Now, logically, I know there are steps that I can take to make mornings easier, for example. I can get everything ready the night before! I can wash my coffee cup and set it neatly beside the coffee pot. I can pack my lunch. I can lay out the kids’ clothes. I can lay out MY clothes. As it stands, I’m more likely to be throwing clothes in the dryer to get out the wrinkles ten minutes before I need to be out the door. Or just rinsing out my coffee cup and refilling. Throwing all my lunch items into a bag as I run out the door. Chaos, I say.

Oh, and day planners. My nemesis and one of the greatest wastes of money in my life. I couldn’t fathom a guess at how many of these beautiful little notebooks I’ve purchased in my life, but there have been MANY. Problem 1: I forget to use the fucking things. Problem 2: I manage to write down a few tasks/appointments for a week, and then I forget to LOOK in it to see what I have coming up. Dust collectors.

The thing is…sometimes it seems like at least as much work to prepare ahead of time. I suppose it removes that last minute stress, but I think I thrive on that stress. I seem to perform my best under tight deadlines and intense situations. Maybe it’s the adrenaline rush? I don’t know. The knowledge that I perform well under pressure and that this is just who I am doesn’t stop me from comparing myself to others and finding myself lacking. My kids’ daycare provider, for example. She’s a domestic goddess. Makes her living taking care of many young children, in her immaculate home, all day, 5 days a week. And she does it seemingly effortlessly. She frequently has to remind me about things like sending a sweatshirt for my son so when he plays outside in the below freezing temps, he has an extra layer. Or whatever. Sigh. And then I feel small. And silly. And what-the-hell-were-you-thinking-you-crazy-woman-of-course-he-needs-more-layers. But, he lived. And he had a BLAST making snow forts with the other boy. And he refused to come in until he was so cold he was crying. I’m not sure an extra sweatshirt under his coat and snow suit would have made that much more difference. So I think…I’m actually doing ok.

Tonight, before I got in bed to write this post, I washed my dishes, including my coffee cup. I threw some clothes in the wash AND remembered to transfer them to the dryer, so I’d have clothes for tomorrow. I set out my lunch bag, filled up a water bottle, and washed my breast pump supplies. I felt like Suzy Homemaker. It was awesome. So, I played at being organized for one night. I’m thinking tomorrow night I’m more likely to collapse into bed. And I guess that’ll be awesome, too.

**I reserve the right to be wrong on any or all details. While I felt immense clarity, I’m sure some things actually occurred in a different way than illustrated here. Nonetheless, this is a work of non-fiction…

I had every intention of working right up until I went into labor. I just couldn’t spare time off before Fi arrived. With 3 kids, I need every second of sick time, vacation time, etc. But on Thursday morning, August 19 (5 days past my due date), I’d had enough. I was sick with a head full of snot and pressure, and I couldn’t behave through one more “You’re STILL here?” asked by another well-meaning but highly annoying co-worker. So I wrapped up a couple of things and high-tailed it out of work that Thursday morning.

As soon as I left my building, headed for my car, I felt the most immense sense of relief wash over me. Apparently, the constant threat of gushing amniotic fluid, gushing urine (due to coughing, sneezing, laughing, or just, you know, breathing), and all the other worries that were floating around in my over-taxed brain were just too much to handle. Once I left work behind me and decided to relax, it was brilliant and amazing. So amazing, that the next night around 6 I started having contractions. Nothing that made me stop in my tracks, but there were there, noticeable, and consistent. They started on the way home from getting the kids and Brian insisted that I start timing them.

I busted out my trusty app and started timing them. They weren’t super strong, but they were coming every 7-9 minutes or so and lasting for 30 seconds to a minute. I gave Tammy (my amazing doula – hit her up if you’re in need of some awesome birth support) a call to let her know the status. She told me she’d be on standby and to call her if anything changed. Around 8, things got a bit stronger, but still manageable. I gave my mom a call but wanted to leave it up to her when she’d come. She had agreed to be there for Bri and Eli so they could attend Fiona’s birth. They were prepared for it and so excited, and I really wanted them to be a part of it. I told my mom that even if Fiona wasn’t born that night, she would be that weekend. I just knew this was it. She hopped in the car and headed down. (Thank God!)

I called Tammy again and told her my mom was heading down and she thought it best to head over “just in case”. Again, Thank God! She got there around 10 and we all kind of sat in different corners of the room, staring at each other in the silliest way. My uterus seemed to feel a spotlight on her and got a case of stage fright. Things seemed to stop the instant everyone was there. To my distinct horror. Tammy suggested we all hit the hay and just see what happened.

About 10 minutes later, after settling into bed, the hardest contraction of the night hit me. It was several degrees stronger than all previous contractions and holy shit on a stick, I had to sit up for that one. Got on all fours and had to hee hee hee hooooooooo through it and everything. Tammy must have some serious 6th sense going on, because she was by my side moments later (she had been camping in the living room until I needed her).

I proceeded notably into active labor. The contractions just kept coming harder and faster. I remember wondering aloud when we would be going to the hospital. Tammy said, “When something happens.” It became very clear what that something would be at 12:30 am when my water gushed out all over the blanket I was kneeling on. What an odd, uncontrollable feeling of pressure and then holy SHIT more pressure. Fiona’s head was suddenly VERY apparent and bam, I was in transition. I was yelling and moaning and hee hee hooooooooAHHHHHHing as Brian called our midwife, Sharon. She apparently asked how I was, and was answered by my wailing, to which she replied simply, “I’m on my way.”

It was time to go. Like, IMMEDIATELY. I was freaking out a bit, with all the pressure down down DOWN. The relief between contractions was 90 seconds at the absolute most, and when they hit, I’d go down on all fours until it passed. In the brief moments between contractions, I was hurriedly throwing items into bags and rushing out the door. Tammy got in the backseat with me. I was on all fours still, in the small backseat of our VW Rabbit, with Brian manning the controls. I was doing everything I could to keep Fiona INSIDE my body on that 15 minute infinitely long drive to the hospital.

When we finally arrived, Tammy expertly gave instructions to Brian, who ran in the ER doors and shouted what was going on. Some harried nurse met us at the doors with a wheelchair, mumbling about how “ER nurses really hate this….”. I couldn’t help thinking, “OH YOU hate this, huh?”…I would find out later than in Brian’s haste to get his on-the-verge-of-childbirth wife into the hospital, he left our car running with the doors wide open in front of the ER. Definitely a highlight of the night.

We got to the delivery room and I got up onto the table. They wanted to put a monitor on my stomach to check the baby. Fine, whatever, I hate you all! They asked if I wanted to put on a hospital gown. No, do I have to? Thank jesus, because I couldn’t do it. No, leave me alone, oh my god, OUUUUUUCCCCHHHHHH. In no time at all, they had removed the monitor and I was laying back letting Sharon check me. I was dilated to oh, 9.5 cm I think? I had fully dilated in like 3 hours. Pretty awesome. Sharon told me I could start pushing whenever I had the urge. The problem was, I was suddenly terrified. Terrified of what I was feeling, which was EVERYTHING. I could feel absolutely everything and I wasn’t at all sure that my body could do this. Forget the fact that it HAD done it, TWICE before. But holy hell, never had my body felt this much. I had a brief moment of utter terror and I tried to jam my legs closed, stubbornly insisting on keeping that baby inside. She, of course, had other plans and kept inching her way down down down.

Soon enough, the panic faded and she was much closer to the opening. By that point, I felt that there was more than I could DO, that her birth was imminent, and clearly, my crazy self wasn’t going to be stopping a thing from happening. I put all my focus down through my body to help that sweet baby out. I yelled a LOT and was told later that Eli covered his ears and said “IT’S TOO LOUD” and Bri just sat there a bit shaken and speechless.

And then she was out. I think I really pushed hard about 4 times. And she was there. I was no longer pregnant. She was really seriously THERE, on my stomach, in all her slimy, beautiful glory. And the laughing, oh I was so happy and so immediately in love, and I couldn’t stop laughing and loving her delicious purple self.

I heard cries of amazement from the kids, laughter from them too, relief to see and know that their mommy was ok and that their baby sister was finally here. I was just beside myself. I had done it! No epidural. No narcotics. I was barely even in the hospital for 15 minutes and she was born!

I still sit and daydream about the experience. I never thought I’d be able to do that about childbirth, of all things, but I do. I get tears in my eyes at the wonder of the whole experience and how amazing it was. And I could not have done it without all the support I had, from my absolutely wonderful husband, my mom who was there to support my children (who will never EVER forget the experience), Tammy, my doula and now life long friend, and my midwife, Sharon, who let me and my body and my baby do what they are meant to do. I can’t thank any of these people enough – I’m just so grateful. And this is what we have to show for all our hard work!

Now, this is what my band of hooligans looks like. God, I love them to pieces.