The New Girl

Turn And Face The Strange.

A Little over two years ago, my [Hazing Type Initiation] foray into First Time Motherhood was, er, [like a 7 month-long Hell Week] trying to say the least.  It was a steep-ass learning curve with an infant who [was like a Monster From Somewhere Evil] most likely had colic AND untreated reflux and who was [constantly level 10 wailing] uncomfortable and fussy.  Ahem.

To be totally serious for one split second, it was Traumatizing.  For reals.  If I might review for a moment, there wasn't a new experience that didn't make TLNG scream uncontrollably and inconsolably.  The car seat, the swing, any trip in a moving vehicle, the crib, the co-sleeper, the sling, the bed, the bathtub, a family party, people touching her, people LOOKING at her (so not kidding, my sister used to look at her on a 45 degree angle, for fuck's sake,) the doctor, the grocery store, the library, EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE.  It left me feeling helpless and depressed, because SERIOUSLY, having an inconsolable infant is incredibly difficult--if you've ever been there, you KNOW what I'm saying.  That shit is HARD, yo.

Part of my ambivalence about having another was the 'What If That Shit Happens Again?' type thought process, which came along with an Unbidden Mental Image of me flinging myself off The Ben Franklin Bridge, leaving two kids and a clueless spouse behind.  Not nice.  The other alternative, which was almost as unpleasant, believe it or not, was that the second baby would be EASY (because no WAY could I get TWO like the first).  In that scenario, I felt possibly-slash-retroactively bad for TLNG, knowing that everyone would be remembering her hell-days (long, LONG gone now) and comparing her to a potentially *nicer* sibling.  Strange, I know, but true.

As it turns out, The Boy is who he is.  And who he is does seem Easier.  He eats [the geysers that are mah boobies] without difficulty.  He sleeps in 3-4 hour chunks.  He cries when he's hungry or when he's not eating or sleeping.  When you pick him up, he does this weird thing...he like, stops crying.  He sleeps in the car seat in his crib.  And in the car.  And in the sling, when I'm out and about.  He had his first family party last night and he..er...SLEPT THROUGH IT.  It is utterly foreign to me. 

And I am completely suspect.

I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the screamies to start.  I keep thinking that he's so new still and this maaaaay just be the very early newborn phase.  That soon, we'll have to deal with the inconsolable craziness.

And then there's this: Whenever he cries for more than 15.4 seconds, I start to have a flashback, no shit.  I get INSTANTLY frustrated and depressed and it's BIZARRE.  I know that some of it is hormones and reliving the only other experience of Mothering an Infant that I have.

We ARE comparing, though, and remembering.  Last night, on our way home from the Family Dinner, The Man and I had a moment of, 'Holy Shit, do you remember what this trip sounded like two years ago? WHAAAAAAA!! WHAAHAAAAAAHAAAAAAA!!'  For whatever reason, it does make me feel kind of bad but it's hard not to do.  And I'm sure as The Boy gets a little older and [grows out of the Eating Machine phase] starts to grow a personality, it will be easier to appreciate him for who he is.

Besides, when I look at my girl now, I realize how fast those Crazy Infant Days go.  And let's be honest, that's more than FINE with me.

I DO prefer a baby with a little more time under his or her belt.

 

I'm Still Waiting For My Award. I Hope It's A Trophy.

A little over two years ago, I had a meds-free delivery.  It was a conscious choice that I made for a number of reasons, all of them personal, none of them having to do with feeling superior to others, liking pain or being a martyr or being irrational or crazy.  It wasn't even a decision I made hard and fast before I delivered.  Not knowing what to expect, I kept my mind open to the possibility of the option for medication.  It's not something that I ever really talk about or even mention, unless someone asks me the direct question (not unlike my practice with regard to not eating meat, which I tend to leave out of conversation, unless doing so would have some practical effect--[leave me with absolutely nothing to eat at a meat lovah's bbq] cause embarrassment and/or inconvenience to a host, say.) 

When I was pregnant, the question would inevitably come (which, why's that again?) about whether or not I was going to get an epidural.  Initially, I would phrase my thoughts thusly, 'Well, I am hoping to go without it, but I'll see what it's like.'  The range of responses that I received from other women ranged from 'Doubtful Wonder' straight through 'Condescension' and right up to 'Ridicule-slash-Mockery.'  Although I'm not easily insulted or offended, I took to rephrasing, to avoid the general discomfort of the sitch, there.  I became completely non-committal (I LOVE to not-commit!) and so, while I still got the occasional, 'Yeaaaah, when you're in there, you'll be SCREAMING for that needle!' there just wasn't enough for most people to grip onto when commenting on my *non-plan-plan.*

In the circle of Women I Know Who Have Birthed Children, even those included in the Many-Degrees-of-Separation-Game, I personally know five mothers who have made the choice to deliver without meds.  A very small minority.  Of course, there could be more, those who, like me, don't really talk about it in passing or enough that I would be aware of their choices.  Of course, it stands to reason, then, that I have met loads of women who have chosen to avail themselves of medication.  I don't know the actual percentages, but I can't imagine that the two numbers are even close.

What's my point, you ask?

Fair question, you.

And I'm sure you're glad that I'll be getting to one.

Anyway.

I am aware, from the many posts I've read on the topic that there are some people who *advocate* for a natural childbirth, who are *judgy* and *scary* and *evangelizing* this choice as if it were religion.    I've seen the crazy websites and heard about the 70's natural birthing videos, complete with mad amounts of pubic hair and orange juice. I haven't ever met one of these people, personally, though. 

What *I have* encountered is some weirdly intense resentment-like against people who Don't Opt for Medication.  Posts or comments in threads where I read about how people who Don't Opt for Medication are Judgers who think that they are better mothers than others, or who are just crazy, going through the equivalent of major surgery without an anesthesia, or (this one makes me chuckle) who are unaware that you don't go home from the hospital with an award for not taking meds.  None of these things were aimed directly at me, mind, and I haven't commented my views on posts like this.  (I wouldn't necessarily tell a person spouting this to me in the flesh, either, unless it would seriously come back to embarrass them if I didn't...I'm not really into embarrassing people, if you hadn't gathered that already.)

I just wonder how much of that rhetoric is a result of an actual, offensive conversation with a Natural Childbirth Zealot and how much of it is just easy to tap into for the sake of conversation or viewpoint comparison or whatever?  How many people actually bump into crazy women, spouting the EVILS of medication to them?  I'm not saying that it doesn't happen.  I'm not saying that I haven't seen the [Crazy Person] Naturovangelist who is spouting ridiculous statistics regarding the DAAAANGEROUS (completely safe) MEDICAL INTERVENTION (commonly/routinely used medication) in the comment section of a balanced post on the topic.  They always seem to me WAY in the minority, though, and mostly like any other kind of [radical weirdo] Dissenter whose comments aren't based on Logic and Reason. Or even Common Sense.

And, perhaps, if I WOULD speak up, if I would put forth my own ideas which have nothing to do with [illogical craziness] telling others what they should be doing, it might go toward re-framing their ideas about 'What kind of crazy woman would want that kind of paaaaain?' 

Like I said, I'm not easily offended or insulted and so I read the Natural Childbirth Option-Bashing with a grain of salt.  But soooometimes, (in any situation, really) I feel like the people crying the loudest about how they are Being Judged by Others? Sooooooometimes? Are also the Judgiest.

Of course, it could just be me.

I'm WICKED CRAZY.

Why This Pregnancy Is Making Me Insane. Or, How You Know I'm So Totally Effing Hormonal.

* I get completely worn out from such strenuous activities as, er, walking up the steps with a basket of laundry.  Doing one (1) load, requires a lie-down.

* I cried while watching E.T.  As in, REAL TEARS, yo.  I haven't cried while watching E.T. since that fucker came out, when I was, like, [twelve] EIGHT.

* I, you know, actually watched E.T. During nap-time.

* My daughter has taken to asking me, 'You really tired, Mommy?'

* I've started nesting in earnest.  Doing really important things like moving toys from one location to another and trying to sort out and box all of TLNG's clothes.  Also washing/organizing clothes that probably won't fit her until next summer.

* I took the diaper changing pad out of my diaper bag because TLNG is potty trained.  And then I remembered that in two weeks or so, I'm going to have AN INFANT.  Who WEARS DIAPERS that need to be changed.

* 4:00 (AM) is the new 6:00 (AM).

* Catching sight of my own profile in a mirror makes me want to laugh. Or cry. Or both.  Maybe at the same time.

* There have been Extended Marathon TV Viewing Sessions for TLNG at my house.

* I forget the rest of the list.

* All of the above (plus the ones I forgot) cause me ANGST.

I Was A Cow When I Was Pregnant. You Look So Good, Where Is Your Belly?**

Hey! Thanks so much for the compliment but being that I began to get sick 2.5 minutes after I became pregnant with various sicknesses that knocked me on my ass, both figuratively and literally and extended until, um NOW (as I'm still on medicine for GESTATIONAL hypertension FOUR weeks post partum) and which precluded me from eating and/or keeping down, uh, ANYTHING AT ALL besides air, which I still sometimes vomited, and which made me sob uncontrollably at least once a day (my favorite was when I was l-a-y-i-n-g across the toilet bowl while sobbing), I'd have to hazard a tiny guess that I may have preferred to have gained some weight.  Just sayin.

**I have to say that this was only annoying coming from those who were aware that I was super-sick and unable to eat and were still obsessed with my never-increasing size.  Incredibly, I also have to say that there were more of those people than you'd imagine.

--

This post is part of the Parent Blogger Network's Blog Blast about the most annoying preggo question that you recieved along with the what-you-wish-you-could've-said in response.  It's all in preparation for PBN's campaign for the bestest (only) baby book that I would read.  Click here for more info and join us!!  Good fun and PRIZES!

Meanwhile, Back At The Lab...

Since you've all been so [insanely curious] [fervently wondering] mildly pondering whatever happened to our star-crossed lovers, I've decided to do a little investigation and give you the update.  I don't want to scare you, but this story is not necessarily suitable for young children or for those who love Hallmark Channel Movies. 

I think this story is definitely more of a Lifetime Channel Movie, if you get my drift.

All right. Here we go.

After our cameras were turned off, Big Jug of Whiz was swept out of the kitchen and off to the lab.  There, of all places, she met her 'One. True. Love.'

Take a look:

BJOW: [thinking.] 'Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.  Now THAT'S a hat.'

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

Unfortunately, our boy, O.J. didn't nearly fare so well.  He was distraught.  He fell in with a bad crowd.  A very bad crowd of losers and users.

They used him all up.  And then abandoned him.  Just like that.

He hit rock bottom.  He was out on the streets, with nowhere to go, living with vermin.

And then, a miracle occurred.  A vision of plum colored loveliness appeared.  At first, O.J. thought he was dreaming but as his eyes came into focus, he saw her.

The most beautiful Pomegranate Blend imaginable, looking down at him.  With deep concern.

She saw the potential in him and nursed him back to health.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Fin.

What You Missed While You Were Sleeping (Or, Why There Is A Big Orange Jug Of Pee In My Fridge)

...Or, how I keep ending up on the Labor & Delivery Unit even though I am neither in Labor nor Delivering.

...Or, "Who's up for (yet another) ride to the hospital at 9:30pm??"

That's right, my friends.  I didn't call to order dinner, as I had you believe in my last post.  I dutifully called the midwife and while she didn't induce me, she did make me go back to the hospital for monitoring and more blood work.

The Man was a sport about dropping the shit-load of things that he was doing, despite the enormous pain in the ass that this is for both of us and he said supportive and great things that made me feel better about driving to the hospital in what amounts to the middle of the night (for me).

I came out of there with good news (no changes in the blood work, so we're holding steady) and a little not-so-bad-but-really-annoying-news (higher degree of bed rest and twice-weekly antenatal testing).

Oh, and these:

For the 24 hour urine test that I have to take.

During the nurse's explanation of the complex collection process, she said, ''You have to keep it on ice.'

And all I could think of (for those of you old enough to remember) was 'Riunite, so nice.'

And as we're driving home and laughing about the giant jug of whiz that was going to be in our refrigerator, The Man looks away from the road for a second, turns his gaze to me and says this:

'You better not put it next to my O.J., motherfucker.' 

Allow me an aside here to say this: I find great humor in the above sentence and lest you think that The Man was saying 'the words that hurt,' I can assure you that in our house, words like this are pretty much terms of endearment.  (I know, I know.  Not for long--blah blah, I'll get a curse jar.')

All right, so back to the thing. 

Here's what I said in response:  'As if...'

And here's what I thought inside my head (but didn't say because I was thinking about this blog post and your enjoyment is always at the front of my mind no matter what current tragedy is unfolding in my personal life.)  '[As if] my Big Jug of Whiz would want anything to do with your stupid O.J.'

And here's the scene that played out in my mind.

O.J. 'Well, hello, there.  You are so tall and lovely.'

BJOW: 'Hmm.  Nice hat.' [mutters], 'bozo.'

And in his mind, O.J. thinks of things like this:

and this.

And in his fit of fantasies of love, he pleads, hat in hand, with Big Jug of Whiz...

O.J.:  'Baby, baby, won't you come away with me?  We have so much in common.  Aren't we both vessels? Aren't we both orange?  Don't we both need to stay refrigerated after opening?'

BJOW: 'Uh. No.  No thanks.  Your pour spout.  It's too...small.'

Oh, the pain of unrequited love...

And you are probably thinking that Big Jug of Whiz is a total bitch but she's not really...she's just a little, you know.

Pissy.

                                                   

Because It's Harder Than It Looks To Type While You're Laying On Your Left Side All Damn Day

I have had a change of heart about being on The Bedrest. 

Why is that, you wonder?  Well, let me tell you.

My change of heart came, mainly because in the comment section of this post, in which I was bitching about being on The Bedrest, she made a very good point about it not being the worst thing in the history of the world by wistfully wishing for these doctor's orders.  The reality of my current situation and the impending massive change to come clicked together in my head like Legos and I realized that in about a month, I'm going to be so sleep deprived and busy that I'm going to look back on this time fondly.  Ouch.

And since I know that you've all been dying to know what I'm up to, I'm going to show you.  (Who just said 'tedious??)

Despite my absolute willingness to humiliate myself for your viewing pleasure, the photos of the literal tumbleweeds of pet hair don't come out well, no matter how you photograph them.  But you'll have to trust me.  It's one way to pass the time, watching those suckers roll on by.

Here's another:

                              

Using this device you can take your blood pressure ten times a day and thus, can scare the absolute shit out of yourself and then seconds later, you can use this very same device to re-take that blood pressure and convince yourself that you're completely fine.

Also, these?  These are very, very important when on The Bedrest:

                              

I'm not going to front and act like I don't watch TV but when you're on The Bedrest, you have the kind of time to watch things that you would not have considered before.  Like Over the Hedge, or the City Confidential Marathon, or (ahem) HBO's Cathouse, Season Two.

And the phone?  Of course you need it to call the midwife when your BP skyrockets.  You also need it to call and order your husband dinner, because you're on The Bedrest.  (I have no idea how I managed to miss seven calls, since I'm here all. frigging. day.)

You can pass some of the time writing these out:

                                 

(I have never been so timely with the thank you cards, for real.)

Finally, you can just look around you and ponder your current situation and what lies ahead:

                               

                               

                               

                               

                               

And then you scare the shit out of yourself and you take your blood pressure and find that it has spiked so you quick lay down on your left side and call to order dinner because you're scared if you call the midwife, she's going to make you go to the hospital to be induced when there is still way too much to do and so right away you re-take your blood pressure and what do you know?

You're completely fiiiine.

And Then Again, Sometimes The Planets Don't Line Up And Shit Just Sucks

Like, when you go to your midwife appointment feeling just fine and then she takes your blood pressure.

And it's a little high.

And so she measures everything else, which is fine.  And then she repeats the blood pressure and it's a little higher.

And so she says this:

"You know what this means, right?"

And you, in all your innocent, first-time-pregnant naivete say, "No.  What does it mean?"

And she, in all her kind, sage, wiseness says:

"It means a trip to the hospital."

Which, if you're me and you're keeping track, would count as your THIRD visit to an emergency room/labor & delivery in the last two months. (I didn't even tell you all about the last one--on Mother's Day, the day after the wedding, when I thought I was leaking fluid but I wasn't and so I just was like, whatever, they don't really need to hear all the boring minutiae of my life but now, here we are and there you have it.)

So, back to the thing with me whining.

Everything is fine.  I'm basically fine and the baby is totally fine.  I don't have preeclampsia but they are trying to avoid it, as this 'blah blah gestational hypertension' can easily 'flip.'  I am grateful that we're okay and I t-o-t-a-l-l-y understand and appreciate the 'erring on the safe side' that sends me to the ER on a semi-regular basis these days.  Really.  And don't think that I don't feel guilty for whining about this shit when there are people in the world, and on the blogosphere who are experiencing real tragedy.  Those who don't get to go home from the hospital at the end of the day with a fistful of paper telling them what to do.  Without a healthy baby in or out of the belly.  I'll get all the way back to my normal, grateful self, I will. 

But I also know, that feelings are feelings and it's all relative and right now, I'm feeling a little broken down.  I'm feeling a little emotionally wiped out.  Plus, I felt fine.  I really did.  I had a little ankle swelling but who doesn't?  So I am also feeling a little betrayed by my body.  The sneak.

It's like after all the recommendations to increase fluids, calcium, protein, iron, to take my own blood pressure a couple times of day and to be on 'modified bedrest,' I'm left feeling kinda like an old guy.

An old, busted-up, crotchety, shuffler.

Who tries to bump into young people with his walker while he takes his sweet-ass time hogging the whole supermarket aisle.

Who has a big, round, beer gut that hangs over his pants.

That is all the time kicking him, real hard, in the ribs.

So, pardon me as I go and take my first nap of the day.

Blogging can wear an old guy right out.

Supernanny, Nanny 911 & My Father: Which One Of These Doesn't Belong?

Or...Why My Father won't be babysitting for anyone soon.

Although you miss out considerably by not being able to see or hear My Father in action (he is an adorable and hilarious little Italian man with a great accent and a ton of love in his heart for his children and grandson, The Nephew) I am nevertheless going to try to paint you a picture of the q-u-a-l-i-t-y childcare that he provides.  Keep in mind, he was being supervised at all times, but you know how it is...you look away for juuuuust a second...

Vignette #1: 

My Father, playing with The Nephew (8 mos. old) by 'sliding him' down his legs (head first):

MF: [Gently placing The Nephew onto the floor, at the bottom of the 'slide'.  Directly onto his face.]

TN: Criiiiiieeeessss.

The Little Sister & Me:  ??!!???  WTF?

MF:  'He was supposed to put his arms out to catch himself.'

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

Vignette #2:

I walk into the family room to find My Father on his chair, holding The Nephew who has mysterious black smudges all about the face.  I look from The Nephew to My Father and here's what he says:

MF:  'He eats newspaper, you know.'

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

Vignette #3:

We are all standing in the kitchen and My Father is holding The Nephew on the counter.  I look over, just in time to spot the tip of the mechanical pencil that The Nephew is holding go right into his little mouth.  The BIL takes the pencil away.

The Little Sister and Me:  'Daaaaad! You have to be more careful.  He can't have that kind of stuff.'

MF:  'OOhh, I just let him do whatever he wants.'

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

Hmm.  I don't recall that he held that philosophy when The Little Sister and I were children. 

Although, I suppose it could be that I just don't recall eating all that newspaper.

 

Bizarre Fact Learned About Myself During Pregnancy #115

I have a freckle on the inside of my belly button.

My whole life I've been sticking moistened Q-tips in there, trying to get that little piece of whatever crud accumulates in one's belly button.

But as my belly button performs like it's in Cirque du Soleil, I see clearly that there freckle.

So, in other words, all that Q-tipping was for naught.

I'm crud-free and feelin' fine, ladies and gents.

Feelin' fine.