The New Girl

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.

So, It Turns Out That, YES, There IS Something More Mundane Than Complaining About The Weather.

And that would be Complaining About [My] Your Pregnancy.  I have been living in the land of [feeling like a hot, angry, rhino] Uncomfortably Pregnant and all I have is a LITANY of complaints/gripes about it.  And who really wants to read all that shit from me?  Anyone?

Anyone want to hear about the trying to roll over in bed (HA. HA. HAAA.)? Or the Posterior Pelvic Pain that feels like my legs are going CRUMPLE beneath me as I stand up? Or the HEAT WAVE that is threatening my sanity? Or the slowness? Shortness of breath-slash-energy-slash-motivation-slash-uh-HAPPINESS that's settled over me? Or about the [complete denial that an effing BABY is coming to live here SOON] lack of overall readiness? Or about parenting a soon-to-be big sister who has taken to crying at the gym kid's club (again) and who wants only me (again) and who is fighting sleep and not napping well, (again threatening my sanity)?

Trust me that I know if you WANT to be pregnant or you WISH you were pregnant or you're TRYING to be pregnant or you LOVE TO REMEMBER being pregnant that this could, and probably does, sound like ten kinds of awful. I KNOW that. I EMPATHIZE and I'm sorry.  But the way I feel now, it's like how 'eating everything on your plate' won't take care of the kid's starving in China. Or Africa. Or whatever the fuck that saying is.  I mean, I want for you to be pregnant, too.  But that doesn't make it any less of a subjective/relative pain in my ass, if you know what I'm saying.

The first time around, I lamented and grieved the difficult pregnancy.  I felt like it was a loss, in a way and I felt envious of those who had wonderful, awesome pregnancies.  At the same time, I had some guilt(ish) feelings about hating mine so bad.  This time around, I feel no guilt or shame declaring what is my basic loathing of this state.  I know, now, how very little pregnancy has to do with mothering the being that you convey into the world. 

There are some consolations, though.  It was a little cooler today.  I like to feel the baby move in there.  And I finally figured out a posture (a description of which I will kindly spare you) in which I can pee fully enough, so as not to feel done, only to continue (without my knowledge or consent) upon standing.

We also went and bought two gallons of blue paint for the [office] baby's room.

She's going to have a baby brother, yo.

Is There ANYTHING More Mundane Than Complaining About The Weather?

Because, oh my BOILING HELL, that is all I want to do.  It is hot, hot, hot and I am feeling like a hippo (and not all sexy like the one in Madagascar 2.) (And by the way, could YOU follow what the fuck was going on in that movie? Because I COULDN'T. Was it the same bunch of characters?  Their kids?  I was less confused trying to figure out 12 Monkeys.  And Memento.  For crizzakes. )

Anyway.

The trip I took to the shore was short but WAY MORE successful than I'd hoped/dreamed/anticipated.  Turns out that a few months can make a HUGE difference in a kid's ability to listen to [what the fuck I'm saying] reason.  A little preparation and [bribery] incentive setting and she got into the pack 'n' play without ANY SCREAMING.  *Ahhh.*

She also has so much language to describe her experiences that it was a trip listening to her talk about going to the Beeeeeeach! and the Ooooocean! and narrating what was happening around her.  This time, like last time, she initially avoided the sand [due to some almost-certain sensory issues], having a mild freak-out that it was 'stuck on' her.  But after a bit, she got into a Sand-Playing ZONE, yo, and wouldn't even look up to smile at the camera.  Which, btw, is her newest favorite activity. Besides singing.  She's SINGING, you guys.  I could DIE.

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#1:

Note The Brushing Off. 

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#2:

And the hover-squat.

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#3:

Srsly.  LOOK at that little heiney, INCHES off the ground.

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#4:

Burying her own feetseses.

And also, P.S. When the hell did she get so big?  She's almost like a Big Kid now.

 

Man.

It's A Beautiful Day

The day started out as whiny and nerve-wracking as any other over the last few weeks.  I hurried us out to the car for a last-minute trip to the grocery store to get some fresh basil for the MIL dinner.  When we pulled in, I promised TLNG that we'd go to the PetStore to look at the animals and to get The Dog some 'Special Cookies' (The little ones in the bulk aisle that look like people-cookies. He loves them, she loves to pick them out and four little cookies costs me like, .59. A win! win! win!)

At the grocery store, TLNG was charming in the extreme, smiling, talking and waving 'HIIIIII!' to strangers everywhere.  After that, as promised, we looked at the 'feesh,' the 'birrrdies,' the 'turrels' and we got some 'tookies' for the dog.  During that trip, she was pleasant as punch (besides her strange objection to paying anywhere we go 'NO paaaay!' WTF?) and when we were done, she was excited to give the dog his treats.

When we left the store, it was so beautiful out, it was sunny and warm.  I didn't want to go home to have lunch and nap.  I wanted to stay out and so did my girl.

'Nother tore, Mommy.'
'You want to go to another store?'
'Yeah.'

So we went to return some items at TJ Maxx.  Rainbows and Unicorns the whole way, friends.  She was charming the pants off everyone by making running commentary about 'The men fixin' things and the 'ladies' that were everywhere. 'Hiiiiii!!'

When we left, I asked her if she wanted to go home for lunch or go to a restaurant.  She chose a restaurant.  We went in and although she was tired and clearly in need of her nap, she was pleasant and lovely.

I think about the snap-shots people get of our kids, you know?  Today, the grocery store clerk saw a tiny kid, with great articulation, who gave her an unprompted 'Thank you,' in exchange for a sticker.  The old guy behind us saw a well-behaved 'beauty,' who charmed him by showing off her baby doll and her 'big-smile' (indistinguishable from a grimace, really, except for the context.)  The people lunching next to us, beamed at her as she repeatedly said, 'Hi Mommy! Hi Mommy!'

Last week? I don't even want to THINK about what people saw.  I'm sure that you can guess.  To the people who saw her today, she IS that cute, charming, loving, well-mannered beauty.  And they are right.  To the people last week, she probably IS that red-faced, yelling, [bratty] willful, crazy-kid.  And, uh, they are right, too.

We see our children in the continuous, unending cycling of their moods and stages.  Their progress and their regressions.  Their ups and their downs.

Which is why a beautiful day, where everything goes well, is just, you know. 

So very beautiful.

Relapse.

I've been clean a little over two years.

And now?

I'm not.

Geezuz, pregnancy is WEIRD.

Lots To Talk About But Nothing To Say.

Do you ever feel this way? 

I feel it on the reg, whenever I'm stressed or the general level of anxiety is up a notch (or twenty.)  I have ideas, things I want to talk about but when I sit down to write (a post or even an email to a friend), I've got nothing.  If you've been reading here for any length of time, you already KNOW this about me, which makes even [the whining] the description irrelevant.

The list of things that are currently stressing me out is short.  There are two items:

1) Going to Blogher

2) Having another baby

I am beyond excited to go to BlogHer.  I really am.  The reason it's stressing me out is because I'm always a little stressed as a travel date approaches (I have a case of a self-identified disorder called Travel Anxiety) and also because I've never, ever been away from my girl for that long. (You can roll your eyes, really, it's okay.  I KNOW.)

I know (KNOW!) she's going to be fine.  She will be with The Man (who I am SURE is, heh, going to enlist the help of [even homeless people off the streets if he has to] family and our sitter).  My kid going to live/survive/go on/get fed/semi-bathed (let's be for real) and although her clothes won't match and her hair will be a knotty mess when I see her, she's going to be OKAY.  Really, I am aware.

It's just, you know, my first time away and it stings a little.  I'm keeping my mind focused on the things I'm excited about (Going through airport security ALONE! Reading on the plane! Meeting people! Trying to stay up past 8pm!) and also on things that I'm NOT going to miss, like planning [every fucking morsel that passes between her lips] meals and [wet, naked, lubed up, alligator wrangling] bath time/bed routine.  When I'm able to do that, I want to leave a day early and stay a day longer.

The other thing, you know, having another baby--we'll leave that [elephant in the room] for another post. 

I've forgotten everything I wanted to say about that, anyway.

When I Stop Crying, It Might Actually Be Funny, A Little.

In the time it took for me to put the video tape back onto the shelf, she had sprinted out of the room and around the corner, toward the doors.  I dropped my bag on the floor and raced after her, catching the first automatically controlled door just as it was closing.  I saw her, across the vestibule, press the button for the second door, the door to the outside. 

And just like that, my two year old daughter was running away from me, down a ramp and toward the library parking lot.

My heart racing, I caught her mid-way down the ramp.  I picked her up, pointed my finger and yelled into her face.  My fear flipped to instant-anger and the smile that she often sports when being scolded froze and then faded.  The two little kids in the vestibule scurried to the side as I went back into the library to get my bag.

My heart was still pounding and my breathing was a little ragged, as I picked up my things and walked back out, toward our car, neither of us talking.  About halfway there, my anger flipped back to fear.  She put her head on my shoulder and said, 'Sorry Mommy.'

I repeated my admonition about running away from me or going outside without me (in a calmer, friendlier voice.)

And then I cried my eyes out.

I don't know exactly what it was about the situation that had me so rattled.  I've been extra weepy anyway but it was crazy how fast she was, how absolutely quiet the whole thing was (until I caught her, I mean.)  It was sobering to think about how easily and thoroughly she could have disappeared when I had turned my back for a second. The knowledge that the moments that I would have spent looking for her inside would have been measured in distance covered outside, toward moving cars and who knows what else, leaves me cold even now.

I spend a little time these days wondering how in the hell I'm going to do it with two.  Forget the pangs of longing and sadness that I feel because my little Houdini is used to having BOTH parents for a bedtime routine and pretty soon, her world is going to be rocked HARD by the demands of an infant.  Forget the wondering how I'm ever going to be on time for anything ever again or how I'm going to handle sleep issues when I have more than one.  I know that these are normal anxieties and that they will work themselves out.

But today scared me.  You can't drop a newborn on the floor while you chase your toddler out of the building.

Today?  Scared the shit out of me.

Big.

During my last pregnancy, I was literally too sick to register the multitude of typical but 'lesser' pregnancy aches and pains as annoyances.  I remember the nausea, the barfing, the reflux and the no-eating with a small side of posterior pelvic pain, which I think I only registered because it felt like someone was impaling me through the ass with every step I took.  Due to the lack of nutrition and severe anemia, I was tired, slow weight-gaining and miserable.  I was also pregnant through fall/winter/spring, giving birth in early summer.

This time around, things are quite different.  I still have consistent digestive *issues* but NOTHING like last time.  I am slowly but steadily gaining weight this pregnancy and I will be pregnant (in my last trimester, gah help me) throughout the summer.  As a result, I am more *tuned in* to the kind of physical discomfort that oft heard tale of the first time around.

Plus, there's this: 

I feel Big.

I feel so big now that, as I enter my third trimester (already!) I am wondering how it's possible that the Biggest three months are still ahead of me.  I have to scoot sideways in bed before I roll myself over and get up.  I have to make room for my belly when I lean forward.  I stand so far away from the sink when washing dishes, that I bend from the waist and rest on my elbows. I lumber upstairs, slowly, and sit down to catch my breath when I get there.  It is wearing on me.

And lest you think that I am [complaining about this] writing this out of concern for my current (or post-partum) waist line, fear not.  I am relatively unconcerned with the actual numbers on the scale or the way I look.  (At least so far.)  The sensation of being Big and the labored, physical maneuvering that I employ to move around conjure for me an all-together different type of discomfort.  It is a re-enactment, very familiar.  For years and years I awkwardly watched that kind of maneuvering, adjusting and compensating from the sidelines. 

It is how my mother lived her everyday life.

My mother was a Big person, in every sense of the word but it was her physical bigness that drew strangers' attention.  As I imagine that it is with obesity in general, I watched as my mother grew out of her individuality and into 'The Fat Lady' in the eyes of strangers.  She became invisible to them.  And then, as she kept gaining into the territory of morbid obesity, there came a (very sharp) point in time when she became visible again.  I can't adequately describe the painfulness of the experience of standing across a crowded restaurant lobby, watching one adult nudge her companion and then nod in the direction of your mother, making a face that should be reserved for the occasion of realizing that you just stepped into a pile of dog shit with your bare foot.  It is one of a hundred painful memories that I don't like to think about.

Watching her struggle with her weight, not just emotionally but also physically took up such an enormous part of my core being that when she died and that died along with her, it left me feeling lighter.  Like I could breathe deeply for the first time in a long time.  Gone was the (unrealized but perseverative) worry that she would be incapacitated and that we wouldn't be able to care for her at home.  Gone were the restrictions, the inconveniences, the awkward situations.  The pain, the awful, chronic, throbbing pain that I felt for her, for us, when we were together.  And although it was and still is desperately hard to let go of my mother, letting go of all of that other stuff proved a much easier task.

*Poof*

Gone.

I believe that my mother's issues and struggles with her weight (which were a portion of the sum of her issues and struggles in general) affected me and my attitudes and ideas from the earliest possible time.  I could probably write a memoir.  If I actually liked to remember this shit.  Maybe one day.  But not now.  I've worked through a lot and like I said, letting it go wasn't all that hard.

Until now.

Now, I have these unbidden and uninvited images flashing from wherever it is that I stuffed them, right on into my consciousness.  An unforeseen side effect of pregnancy.

Like the posterior pelvic pain isn't enough.

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Guys, I'm turning off the comments because it's all too...I don't know.  Full of awk and ick.  If you are so inclined, you are welcome to email me...I don't mind hearing what you have to say or having a discussion about it, I just don't want you to feel obligated to say something here, in the comments.

In Sickness And In Health.

Do you know why they put that shit in the VOWS that you say when you're getting hitched to someone for life?

They put that shit in the vows because it TOTALLY SUCKS when someone you love is sick, that's why.  It sucks so bad that they actually have to make you PROMISE not to haul ass.  And, you know, even though it's bad, The Man Cold isn't enough to make [me] you actually haul-ass.  It's the bigger, scarier stuff that they're talking about, I'd imagine.

When you have kids, though, you don't make any vows that promise that your ass will stay put when they get sick.  I think that the universe knows that most mothers are, uh, bonded to their kids in a way that makes taking vows to clean up the puke and whatnot a little redundant.  But I have to tell you, it's one of the things that I hate about being a mother, the nagging worry that my kid is going to get sick.

And I'm not even talking about the big and scary.

On that kind of craziness, I have a reasonably well-tightened lid.

And although MY brand of craziness may be even crazier, I'll out myself.  What I'm talking about, is the regular, run-of-the-mill, middle of the night, fever-spike-accompanied-by-copious-puke that is the standard signal that all is not well with The Littlest New Girl's immune system.  If she's got no appetite at dinner, if she's laying down while watching tv, if she's sniffling or coughing or otherwise not tip-top health-wise, I start to spin some serious dread.  Capital D dread.  And I hate it.

HATE.

Anyway, I have a friend who has three kids who are substantially older than mine.  She told me once, a long time ago, that every time they plan their yearly vacation that she starts to worry that one of her kids is going to get sick.  I responded, 'What do you mean?  That they'll get sick and you won't be able to go?' and she said, 'No. That they'll get sick while we're there.'  As a childless woman, I admit that I just didn't get that.  I didn't get it at all.

But now?  Oh, ho ho!

I have a DOCTORATE in that shit.

That, along with my conspicuous lack of patience are the two Dark Spots on the Sun of My Motherhood, yo, and I'm NOT being dramatic.  Well, all right, that's a little dramatic but it's fucking 2:58 in the AM and I'm starting to smell a little puke on my hand from the insta-regurge of the meds that I [tried to] put into my kid to help her to stop coughing and get back to sleep. 

So, I feel I'm ENTITLED to a little drama.  Sue me.

Just wait until I'm better rested.

Like, sometime in 2022.