Fighting Back

(A note: I had fogotten that I started drafting this until I came on to do the 06/20/2020 update.  I'm going ahead and posting it because I still like it, but keep in mind, when you get to the next entry and I make reference to my "eight month silence", this was nor originally here.) (because I have so many readers that care so much about my blog consistency...  >_<)

My maternity leave is rapidly dwindling down to nothing, which means that I'll soon need to get back into Working Clothes.  Since tomorrow is Cyber Monday, I decided today would be a good day to put on my big girl pants (as it were) and try on my old work wardrobe to see what needs to be supplemented (and then buy it on discount tomorrow).

It was... not a fun experience.

I'd been feeling pretty good about my body, overall.  Strong and healthy and feeding a baby, and all that, looking pretty good in the clothes I've been wearing (a mix of leggings and the pair of wide-leg Goodwill jeans I picked up a month or so ago paired with a variety of larger-than-my-"normal"-size shirts, and the occasional sweater.)

But, uh, my professional work wardrobe isn't really... "forgiving".

First I tried on the blazers, and was pleasantly surprised that I can definitely keep wearing them, so long as I don't try to close them (nursing boobs are nursing boobs- what are you going to do?)  Then I pulled on one pair of pants after another, none of which are going to work, but I'd expected that (to be honest, the fact that I could even fasten any of them was an unexpected victory, unsightly bulges aside).  Most of the shirts are right out, too (see above re: blazers), but again- expected.  I didn't try any of my sheath dresses, because I am not that great a fool.  But what I did try was a wrap-dress that normally looks quite respectable on me- closer to the business casual end of the spectrum, but pretty sharp.  It fit, but... I looked in the mirror and felt lumpy, frumpy, and the furthest thing from professional you could imagine.  Jerk Brain had a few nasty things to say about my image, I tell you what.

I felt defeated.  And I wanted to cry- not just over how I looked, but over how I felt about how I looked; I talk a good talk about the importance of strength and health over being svelte, yet there I was, being shallow AF about my appearance.

But then I took a deep breath, told Jerk Brain where it could go, and said,

"Self, you're going to have to put in some effort, that's all."

So I took the traitorous dress off (what happened to universally flattering, wrap dress?), and took the time to take down my slept-in-it hair, comb it out, and dress it attractively.  Then I washed my face, put on lotion, and brushed my brows.  I'd planned on putting on mascara, but decided I didn't really need it, so instead on went the glasses, my favorite armor-leggings, and a SERE hoodie that my brother gave me.  And then I added lighting-bolt earrings, just to give myself that extra little ornamentation.

I looked back in the mirror and felt better.  Still not professional, obviously, but definitely not frumpy.  And tomorrow I'll order two new pairs pants based on my new measurements (or maybe I'll order some more maternity pants- you're not the boss of me, society!) and I'll keep rocking my sweaters for as long as the cold weather will let me get away with it.

Leisurely Thunderbolt: Another Birthing Story

August 18th, 2019

It's 0330, and I'm awake.

Not because of contractions, or anything like that- it's nearly two weeks to my due date, and I haven't had much in the way of Braxton-Hicks this time around.  No, no, I'm awake for your standard old middle-of-the-night-pregnancy-pee-break.

I've gotten to the point where I can more or less take care of things in a sort of half-slumber (it's great practice for when the Spawn actually comes along and needs feeding and such), but when I get back into bed I pause- does that feel... wet?  The question wakes me all the way up, and I pop back into the bathroom.

Oh.  Well would you look at that- I've lost my mucus plug!  Huh.  Didn't have that experience with TLG.  Well, no worries- mucus plugs can come out weeks before the baby.  I mean, I saw my doctor on Friday, and he seemed pretty sure there wouldn't be any action this weekend, so I clean things up and head back to bed (for real this time) worry-free.

It's Sunday, but Nathan is only playing one service this week, so I get to sleep in a bit, which means I don't get up until closer to 0800 than 0700.  Heavenly!  But then, around 0830, I spring a leak.

Huh, I think.  I... I think my water's broken?  But it's hard to tell, because it's not a gush- it's just a trickle.  And really even that trickle is hard to pin down, since I'm wearing a liner.  But eventually I do confirm it for my Self (by walking around sans pants for a while, whee!), and so I let Nathan in on The Situation.  "It's possible I'm going to need you to stay home from church," I say mildly.  Mildly, because I still haven't had even a twinge of a hint of a contraction.

Nathan looks a touch skeptical, and I can't blame him.  "Yeah?" he asks

"Well..." I hedge, "The internet says I ought to call my doctor and see what they want me to do, so we'll go with that.  You can probably head to the service- if they want me to come in I'm perfectly capable of driving myself since, you know... no pain."

"Cool," says Nathan.  "Keep me posted."

I call the doctor's office, and they tell me that they'd really like me to come in within 3-6 hours of my water breaking, regardless of whether or not I have any contractions.  The doc explains that studies have shown once you go past a certain amount of time with ruptured membranes but no contractions, the chance for C-section starts to go up, and they'd rather I not have to have a C-section.  Turns out I'd rather not that, myself, so although I grumble about induction, I tell Nathan that we'll be heading to the Birthing Center sometime after noon.

Then I call my Mom to tell her what's happening, and she just starts laughing.  See today, August 18th, is my Oma's birthday, and my Opa has been saying for nearly eight months that this baby will be born on the 18th.  I kept telling him, "No, no, that's like two weeks early... maybe the 22nd but certainly not before!"

"You tell him this is all his fault!" I growl.  But it's a loving growl.

It's a little before 1pm when we pack TLG into the car and head to BurgerVille to grab some on-the-go lunch (this isn't my first rodeo; I know they won't let me eat once things Get Started, and I also know it takes a hell of a lot of energy to birth a baby, so I'm Fueling Up, damn it).  We waltz into the Birthing Center around 1:30pm, and I am still 100% Contraction Free.

Well, it turns out that when you show up to the BC not in the throes of Hard Labor there's a lot of  testing and paperwork do be done before they'll take you to your birthing room.  I get it completed while Nathan manages to keep TLG from braining himself on hospital equipment more than, like, twice...

Eventually we make our way down to my room (I get to walk without assistance!  So novel!) where I change into a gown and they start my pitocin drip at the lowest possible setting.  It's about 3:20pm, and things are very boring, especially for a three-year-old, so I soon take pity on Nathan and TLG, and send them home.  As for me?  I work on some embroidery.  Yes, embroidery.  That's how not-having-contractions I am.

My contractions finally show up around 4:20 (after they've upped the pitocin a smidge), and for all that Common Knowledge is that "oh pitocin contractions are so much worse than natural contractions!" I am here to tell you that statement, in my personal experience, is some grade A bullshit.  They feel exactly the same level of excruciating, so I guess I'm glad I'm not one-upping the worst pain in my life?

Mom shows up not long thereafter.  This is a bit of a coup for her, having completely missed the entirety of my labor with TLG, despite flying in over a week early (her plane was literally landing as he was being born).  She and the nurse sit with me through a couple contractions, and then the nurse asks if I'm ready for my epidural.  At first I'm ready to refuse, to wait a bit longer, but then I think, "...but why tho?"  For real.  Why in heaven's name should I continue to be in pain like this?  I think back to them trying to give me an epidural through my continuous contractions.  Nope.  Far better to get it now, while there are still breaks.

It's about 6:20 when the anesthesiologist comes in to give me my epidural, and immediately I can tell he has a much better bedside manner than The Other Guy.  As a result (and possibly because I'm not forced to hold still through contractions) the process is smooth and as painless as possible (although we still have to do the roll-to-the-the-side trick).  It takes effect and the doc checks on me- I'm 100% effaced, but only 4cm dilated, so she decides I'm still a ways out, and I send Mom home to relieve Nathan on TLG duty.

As I lay there alone, calmly watching my contractions on a monitor, and listening to Little Brother's heartbeat, I muse to myself what a different experience this is from the last time, when I was pushing as soon as the epidural took effect.  The chance to just sort of... chill during labor is... a bit surreal.  But nice!

The doc checks on me again around 8:40, and declares me 7cm and fully effaced, but the baby is still stubbornly at a -1 station, which leads to her saying, "I'll come check on you in about two hours if there's been no action."

The nurses keep telling me that I should let them know if I feel an increase in pressure, and a while later I don't feel an increase, per se, but I feel a definite shifting, away from my rectum and towards my bladder.  When I mention this they hook up a catheter to empty my bladder, and that's that.  Nothing to see here, move along.  They ask me again about any increase in pressure, and I say, "I mean, I feel moderate pressure, but nothing like what I'm feeling during the actual contractions."  

And then... the quality of the pressure changes again (still not increasing, just feeling different) and I'm getting awful heartburn before each contraction, which strikes me as super weird, but I do the sensible thing and call in a nurse so I can request some heart burn relief.  And then for some reason I cannot quit understand, I reach down under the covers to feel around, and it seems to me that my labia are, like, unusually distended, and in fact it sure does feel a hell of a lot like what it felt like when they asked if I wanted to feel TLG's crowning head.

I say tentatively to the nurse, "Um, I think maybe the pressure is increasing?" even tho' it isn't- I just want her to check me, and don't want to look like an idiot if I'm wrong in my suspicions.  She glances at the monitor and sees that the baby's heartbeat has disappeared, so she goes to move the monitor- and can't find him at all.  Then she lifts up the blankets at the foot of the bed, lets out a shocked gasp along the lines of, "His head is out!", and slams a button on the wall.

Suddenly there are four or five very serious, fast-moving, efficient people in the room, swarming around me, and one of them says, "This is happening right now!" and by the time Nathan has made it the eight feet from the couch to my bed, the baby has been born!

And then the doctor walks in, looking very shocked at the situation at hand.* 

But my eyes are all for my new son, who is a dramatically darker purple than his brother was, and then they're toweling him off and putting him on my chest and he's red as a red, red rose, and softer than a moth's wing, and I coo and call him my Sweet Velvety Thing.  Later I will take note of his lovely dark hair, so like his father's, and his adorably cleft chin, so like mine, but for now all I can do is love him unreservedly.

*(Nathan later jokes that we should get a discount since we didn't have an MD do the delivery.)

Baby Chewed

I have to admit, I'm pretty happy to have my body back.

Now, when I say "back", I don't mean it in the glossy-mag, "Get Your Pre-Baby Body Back!" way.  That, as I have covered before, is more or less impossible, because bones.  I just mean I'm happy to be able to take a full breath, eat a full meal, fully empty my bladder, and not be constantly running my belly into objects.

Also it's nice to see my ankles again.

Which is not to say I'm not eyeing by body with a mind towards getting it back into "fighting-trim", once I'm cleared for/feel up to exercise beyond gentle yoga and slowly meandering around the block.  I've definitely been taking stock of New Changes, and working to restructure my mental image of myself to encompass said changes.

One of the New Changes is a fine display of new stretchmarks (or "tiger stripes", as I like to call them).  I already had a decent collection on my breasts and hips from making it through Puberty (and carrying excess poundage through my early twenties), but (much to my surprise) the TLG pregnancy didn't really result in any new ones.  This time around, however, I carried lower than I did with TLG, and as such I've acquired some new, raspberry-colored tiger stripes on my (still quite rounded) lower belly.

So I was staring at those in the mirror the other day, and at my not-perky-but-heavy-with-milk breasts, and the silver on display in the roots of my hair, and the phrase, "baby-chewed" kept going through my mind.

And I felt inordinately pleased.

You see, "baby-chewed" is not my phrase.  It's a phrase used multiple times by Robert Heinlein when describing older mothers (including grandmothers and great-grandmothers).  His characters describe them admiringly, as beautiful with their soft stomachs and pendulous breasts, as being very attractive and desirable, because their bodies have been lived in.  These women are also very intelligent and accomplished, of course, because that's how Heinlein characters roll, and it's clearly stated that these inner qualities are a large part of their beauty.

(Heinlein also had a thing for redheads, which, uh, might also have had in influence on the more shallow end of my Personal Beauty Standards...)

This attitude regarding the beauty of a lived-in body (in spite of other, somewhat problematic aspects of his writings) was a very healthy one for a prepubescent girl to be exposed to, because it embedded itself into my psyche at an impressionable age, and left me feeling a lot more comfortable with/looking forward to Signs of Aging than our culture deems Appropriate for Women.  For example, I remember being thrilled when I finally started getting crows' feet, a reaction which puzzled more than one person of my acquaintance.  But I like having evidence of much I smile!  And now I'm feeling pleased with my new tiger stripes silently proclaiming that this shell of mine has carried life multiple times.

Love the skin you're in, people- the more lived-in, the better.

Nesting With My (Big) Baby Bird

This weekend was devoted to capital-N Nesting.  Like, I even wrote it on the calendar, you guys- that's how serious about it I was; no work appointments today, by golly- I have a car seat to clean and install!

I made a whole To Do List, which is not in and of itself particularly surprising (To Do Lists are How I Roll), but I did have some doubts about my ability to get all the way through it, given my Extremely Pregnant and Slightly Anemic State.  But I did get through it, Gentle Readers- I did!  Everything on the list got checked off!  And what's more, I didn't do it alone- Nathan helped quite a bit, but (more importantly to this particular blog entry) TLG helped, too.

One of my main tasks was to wash all of the newborn-to-three-month-old-clothes that I'd saved from TLG's infancy (/since received in anticipation of Little Brother's arrival), and TLG stood right there with me, happily transferring all the tiny little outfits from the hamper into the washing machine, one after the other.  And then he later transferred them into the dryer, and finally back into the clean-clothes hamper  He is delighting in his impending role of Big Brother, and it makes me so, so happy to see him so happy.  I can only hope the delight will survive Little Brother's actual arrival...

We are now 100% ready for Little Brother to arrive, at least from a purely pragmatic point of view: car seat installed, bassinet set up, clothes washed, diapers and wipes ready and waiting.  Really, when it comes right down to it, everything else is gravy, and since TLG got himself born at just shy of 39 weeks, I felt getting The Essentials set up before the end of week 37 was just good sense (please no one laugh too hard if Little Brother decides not to make an appearance until after his official due date...).  There are other things I'd like to get done before D-Day (that's D for Delivery, you know) but I'm not going to sweat it if I don't get around to them.  (#parentingveteran, amiright?)

Now, in terms of emotional preparedness... that's another topic, entirely.  I find it interesting that I seem to have greater affection for this unborn child than I did for TLG at the same stage, a feeling which I can only credit to TLG already expressing his pure and uncomplicated love for Little Brother.  He hugs my belly, kisses it, giggles delightedly when he feels kicks or sees movement, and talks excitedly about how Little Brother will be born this month!  I see his love, and of course I love what my child loves (hence my re-found ability to discuss dinosaurs at great length), so therefore I love this newest uterine pirate in a way I was incapable of fathoming during my pregnancy with TLG.  Plus, you know... after two miscarriages I believe I was holding myself at a Bit of a Protective Reserve, whereas now I know it's entirely possible this baby will make it!  Woo!

But even as I'm feeling all this warmth and affection for Little Brother, at the same time I also have very real concerns about my ability to love him as much as I love TLG, once Little Brother becomes a reality rather than an idea.  Intellectually I understand that hormones will eventually kick in and I'll love him unreservedly, just as I did TLG, but my heart worries I'll only ever see him as a threat to TLG's resources, and never be able to bond properly.

I'm told this is a common (and entirely unfounded) concern.

Here's hoping.

Counting Down 65 Days

or: Yes!  I'm Pregnant Again!

All swanky at a Work Event.

Hey, remember how last time I was all, "turns out I'm really terrible about not mentioning the pregnancy while I blog,"?  Well that remains a true statement, hence the extremely extended silence.  But I let the fetal cat out of the social media bag this past Sunday, so here I am doing a write-up on the blog.  And it's important to me that I start blogging with regularity again, since it's so fun to look back at TLG's first year of life through my in-the-moment lens.  I'm trying not to shortchange this new one, whom we are calling Little Brother amongst our little family, but whom I'll call LBB (aka Little Baby Boy) on the blog (for now- the TLG -formerly-known-as-Neeps taught me the folly of expecting pre-birth nicknames to stick).

Now with that out of the way, let's hit the other Typical Questions

-My due date is August 30th (aka 65 days from now) but based on past experience, I'm laying money on August 24th or sooner.
-As you may have surmised, it's another boy!  We are freaking stoked, because (as I exclaimed during the anatomy scan) this means we don't have to learn a new set of genitals!  Winning.  Actually I have a funny story about this- TLG was dead set on having a little sister (he wanted to name her Rosie, of all things) so when we broke the news that Little Brother was, in fact, a little brother, he wailed, "Nooooo!"  I got it all on video- priceless.  But we talked him around by pointing out that I have a little brother (Uncle David, whom he adores) and Daddy is not just a little brother but the littlest brother, so now he's on board with the idea that little brothers can be cool, and more importantly, little brothers look up to big brothers, who get to teach them All The Things.  We'll see how long this enthusiasm lasts once the squirming larva is actually here, but for now I'll take it!
-Just like with TLG, we have no clue what LBB's Real Life name will be.  We have a list of names that we'll choose from once we actually meet him, but for now... LBB it is.
-Yes, this is the Last One.  Steps Will Be Taken to ensure it, I assure you.

There, that ought to cover it, for now.  Here's to our future adventures as a Family of Four!

Dead Baby Roses

In fine form this year.  I think they like the forget-me-not we planted around their base.

and then I put them in a tiny vase to adorn the table

The Wise Fox

I was going back through some of my unpublished drafts, and came across one that I started almost exactly a year ago, on 02/16/15.  I thought I would go ahead and share it today, along with some commentary.

***

Sometimes I wonder if my lessening desire for a child is just the natural reaction of having been denied one for so long- coming up on five fruitless years now.  Or rather, five years with nothing but fruit-fallen-too-early-from-the-vine.  But then I think back to how long I wanted Nathan- and that desire never diminished, never- not even when I knew I couldn't have him.

And it comforts me, because I realize that I can trust this lessening desire.  I am not a fox walking away from a cluster of grapes.  I'm just a woman who has changed with time, as we all do.

Nathan and I had a really good talk yesterday, about that change.

***

The conversation that we had (one year ago today) as we drove out to the coast for a day of spontaneous freedom, was about how long he needed me to feel like I no longer wanted children, before we took permanent steps of prevention.  At the time I'd been feeling that way for about two months, and he wanted me to feel it consistently for a year.  I though that was a reasonable request, since I had definitely, in the past, gone through cycles of wanting kids less, and of wanting them more.  We came to that agreement, and I felt an incredible lightness, a sort of freeing, as I said, "Okay, so by our birthdays next year." We spent the rest of the day driving and playing and splashing and photographing and running around with Isis, and generally enjoying our life together without a child.

Of course, as we now realize, Neeps had managed to squeeze in just before the wire.  I technically shouldn't even have been able to conceive when I did- but obviously the Universe knew what was up, and rearranged my internal rhythms accordingly.  The irony was not lost on us, three weeks later, when I found myself staring at a little plus sign that was absolutely unexpected.

But not, in the end, unwelcome.

Birthing Story Pt II

November 4th, 2015

Turns out I'm dilated to 3.5cm, when it was only 1.5cm yesterday afternoon.  I'm glad to hear it- but I'm also having contractions so strong that I've ripped off all my clothes and am clawing my way up the side of the hospital bed they're examining me on.

"Are you planning on a natural birth?" one of the nurses asks me, and when I'm capable of speaking again I say, "Well, that was the idea, but right now I'm feeling pretty good about drugs.  I'm feeling even better about them in the middle of the contractions."  No one laughs.  Tough crowd.

They strap monitors to me, and never in my life have I hated anything as much as I hate these damn monitors.  I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain- and the stupids things do nothing but touch me.  I ask plaintively if we can take them off- but no, not until they've gotten 20 minutes of baby-monitoring out of them.

It does not seem likely that I can hold still for 20 minutes.

There is no way in hell I can walk by this point, so they begin the laborious process of wheeling the bed out the door and down the hallway to my private birthing room.  By the time we get there I've progressed to 6.5cm, and I'm pretty adamant about getting into the bath I was promised I could labor in.

"Okay honey, but if you feel the baby drop, or like you have to poop, you have to get out: you can't give birth in the tub."

I snarl something unintelligible- anything to shut them up and get me into the water.

And then they begin the first attempt at inserting an I.V. port.  I say "first" because it is not successful.  Nor is the second.  Nor the third.  I have three holes in my arms, and finally they call for someone else to come and try.

But then I feel the baby drop.

I shoot up out of the tub like a rocket, shrieking, "I can't give birth in the tub!" because the pain has driven out any other coherent thoughts.  The nurses catch me and Nathan says something along the lines of, "Okay but maybe let's not break your neck on wet tiles," and then they're helping me back over to the bed.

A new nurse comes and gets the port placed, so they can give me fentanyl to "take the edge of".  It does not.  Or if it does, I've got such a wide swath of pain that the edge makes no difference.  Nathan will later tell me I clung to the bed crying out, "Why? Why? Why?", in addition to making low animal noises he'd never heard before.

They check my progress again as the epidural guy wheels his equipment in, and I'm at 8cm.  He is telling me to hunch my back, but when I do he snaps, "No, not like that, like this!" and attempts to demonstrate.  But he is in loose scrubs, and I am in labor, and who the hell knows what his spine is doing over there.  At last a nurse touches me lightly on my mid-back.  "We need you to make this part flat," she says gently.  That I can do.

For approximately ten seconds.

But that's not long enough, so Nathan is gripping my hands and I'm drawing on willpower I didn't even know I had to hold perfectly still through not one but two contractions as they put a needle next to my spine, and it is literally the worst part of this entire experience, not being able to thrash and scream obscenities like I have been.

Oh but then it starts to take effect!

Except... only halfway.  My right side is pain-free and relaxed, but my left side is still actively laboring.  It's one of the oddest sensations of my life.  But having the pain cut in half lets me speak coherently again, and I let them know what's going on.

They roll me on my side and up the dosage a bit, until at last I'm properly numbed- and just in time, as now it's time to push.  The doctor moves to get the stirrups out, but I explain that I actually would like human touch, and is it okay if we don't use stirrups?

"Of course!" she says, and directs Nathan and a nurse to help hold my legs.

The epidural, by the way, is amazeballs.  I am relaxed and cracking jokes.  I think to myself, Oh good, now they'll know that I'm a fun person, and not just a screaming bitch, and to tell the truth I'm actually enjoying myself now, as insane as that sounds.  Don't get me wrong- pushing is work- even with no sensation below the waist I can tell that, and I think, I'm so grateful for my strong body!- but it's satisfying that it's going so quickly.  The doctor asks if I'd like to feel his head, and I pause.  If you'd asked me a week ago if I'd thought I'd like to feel my son's head emerging from my vaginal canal, the answer would have been an adamant, "No thank you."  But now?  Hell, this is literally my one and only chance to feel him from the inside and the outside at the same time.

"Okay!"  I reach down and she guides my fingers to his head- it's softer than velvet, and covered in downy fine hair.  Looks like the old wive's tale about heartburn is right this time!

The final push isn't actually a push; I'm laughing at something, and the force of my laughter pops him out.  I feel him slide free of my abdominal cavity, and my lungs fully inflate for the first time in months.  It's miraculous on more than one level.

It's 6:15pm.  Less than four hours after walking through the door, they are placing my son on my chest.  He is the violet color of the sky at dawn, and I think he is beautiful.  I stare at him as he screams his strong lungs into life, and I'm filled with joy, such pride, such-

"Did he... pee on me?" I ask.  "No, wait, I think it's poop..." Nathan lifts the blanket they laid over us and sure enough- my son has used his first few moments in life to defecate on my stomach.  I will be cleaning meconium from my navel for days.

I burst into laughter, into tears, and kiss him over and over.  We'll do just fine.

Birthing Story Pt I

November 4th, 2015

It's 0100 and I am awake.

I'm awake because I'm being gripped by another damn Braxton Hicks contraction.  Awesome.  I am super excited to be having another round of False Labor at o'dark-thirty.

(I'm not.  I'm annoyed as hell, actually.  False labor is, as I wrote in my journal the other day, "an enormous waste of time, energy, and back pain.")

I drift back off to sleep, only to be awoken ten minutes later by another one.  This repeats for hours: semi-sleep, wake long enough to groan with discomfort for thirty seconds, repeat.  It is not restful.

Fortunately the contractions peter out around 0600, just in time for me to wake up for real, and get ready for work.  Oh the joy of a workday on extremely-interrupted sleep.

The contractions reappear once I'm at work, causing me to waddle up and down the hallway, grunting, and my boss to eye me skeptically as he packs his briefcase for his out-of-office appointments.

"It's just more false labor," I say, waving him away.  "Like Monday afternoon.  I'll just be stopping to swear every once in a while, but it's fine."

"Okay," he says doubtfully, then adds, "Text if you need anything," before taking off.  So now I'm alone in the office, a fact I take full advantage of by leaning over my desk and breathing heavy (and yes, swearing) as needed.  In between the contractions I'm fine, but come noon they've increased enough in both intensity and frequency that I've decided I don't want to suffer at the office any longer.  I want to strip naked and get into my own tub and feel sorry for myself until they go away.

...but I don't want to leave before the stock market closes at one, just in case a client needs something.  I'm trying to be responsible with my playing-hooky.

I text Nathan and let him know to come get me, which he does.  By this point the contractions are coming about every 6-7 minutes apart, and I'm starting to think maybe this isn't false labor, after all.  I text my boss to let him know that I'm leaving, and that I'll keep him updated on whether it's real or not.

By the time I'm home and stripped the contractions are 5 minutes apart.

"Um, should we maybe go to the birthing center?" Nathan asks as I lower myself into blessedly hot and scented water.

"Nah," I wave him off as I did my boss earlier.  "The doctor said not until they've been five minutes apart for an hour."  I text my mother (who is flying cross-country to be with me for the birth next week) from the bath to let her know what's going on, and she instructs me to cross my legs until she gets there.  I laugh and text her back: "Mom, even if this is real labor I have at least eight hours before anything happens!"

Except that when I get out of the tub, fifteen minutes later, the contractions are coming 3 minutes apart.

"Maybe we'd better go to the birthing center, after all," I say through gritted teeth as I clutch the counter top.  Nathan agrees before I can finish my statement.

It's during the four-mile drive to the hospital that the pain starts to get... intense.  I bite the leather of my seat's headrest in protest.  Nathan jokingly attempts to coach my breathing; "Hee hee haaaah..." to which I growl "I... will... fucking... kill you."  He wisely stops.

But in between contractions everything is fine!  I feel great, actually, and cheerful that this might actually Be It.  We get to the birthing center and Nathan pulls into the patient drop-off, then helps me inside.  I hobble up to the reception desk and announce cheerfully, "We're here to see if I need to be here yet!" and then a contraction hits (they're 1 minute apart now).  The nurses eye me doubling over and say, "Yep, pretty sure you need to be here now," and escort Nathan and I to the intake room.  It's 2:20pm.

Prelude to a Neeps

I'm going to share with you what I wrote in my journal less than 24 hours before giving birth to my son.  The context is that I was still just over a week from my official due date, had experienced false labor the day before, and was feeling... well, pretty crotchety.  So that's what I was processing as I sat in bed that night.

***

According to the doctor I'm now 1.5 centimeters dilated, which just seems like bullshit after yesterday's adventures.

Oh well.  The truth is, I need to work on letting go of my impatience and frustration, and finding my way to a state of calm acceptance/readiness.  I made some progress during acupuncture today, but for real I need to bring meditation back into my life on a regular basis.

See, the thing is, Neeps will come, and moreover he will come when it's time.  When waiting has filled, as Valentine Michael Smith would say.  Right now he's getting bigger and fatter, and his brain is getting more wrinkly and his lungs able to function easier.  All very good things.  So I just need to chill out and let him take the time he needs.  I can consider it my first exercise in treating him as his own person rather than just an extension of my Self.

It's still so hard to accept that he's really real.  Even as he jabs his little heels into my rib cage.

***

I'm sharing this today because I plan on writing up The Birthing Story very soon (perhaps even tomorrow) and I thought this would be a lovely little lead-in to it.  I know it makes me laugh when I look back at how hard I was struggling to Be Serene, Damn It!  But I do like to believe that Neeps feeling me make that attempt to let him be his own separate being kick-started his desire to fulfill that destiny.

Cultivating Artificial Desire

Let's talk about the Insanity that is creating A Registry.

Wish Lists have never been easy for my adult self.  The question, "What do you want for Christmas?" tends to wipe my brain clean so fast it's a wonder I remember what Christmas is.  This probably springs from the use of the word "want".  My mother was very purposeful about instilling in us the difference between the words "need" and "want", along with the corresponding lesson that wants are at all times secondary to needs, and your resources (including time, money, and brain power) should be allocated accordingly.  And, of course, for a long time during my twenties I only had enough resources for one of those categories.  So why bother thinking about the other?  Basically what I'm saying is that I got out of the habit of thinking in terms of wants.

Thus when it came time to register for our wedding I found myself nearly paralyzed with anxiety.

What should we ask for?  We don't really need anything!  But we have to make this thing, everyone says so... okay, what do people normally ask for?  I can ask for some of that.  No, wait- am I being greedy and asking for too much?  Or am I being difficult and not giving people enough options?  Is there enough variety in price??  Oh gods this is stressful...

I hated the whole process- hated it.  Loved getting the gifts, mind you- just hated asking for them.  It was a relief to put the entire process behind me.

And then the time came for me to create The Baby Registry, arguably even more of a Big Deal than the Wedding Registry, since unlike Nathan and myself, Neeps will not enter this union with 28 years of accumulated stuff.  And he actually will have needs.  Like, keeping-him-alive-needs.

So I started researching for the best stuff for my impending dependent, which lead to headache-ing, and anxiety-ing, and then as a way to distract myself from all of that unpleasantness I started to really examine why creating registries is so damn stressful for me.

I came up with a couple of thoughts, but in the end I think what it comes down to is this: making a wish list creates an artificial desire.  See, I'm generally a pretty happy person, content with what I have.  A large part of that contentment springs from not desiring things I don't have (thanks, Mom and the Buddha).  So when you ask me to start thinking about things I want/need, I tend to look around go, "I have my family, my health, a roof over my head and plenty to eat- I'm actually really good, thanks."  But if I have to make a list, due to societal expectations or making it easier of friends/family, or whatever- I will.  I'll do all the eye-crossing research and read the billions of reviews to find the best Thises and Thats for our situation, and I'll compile the Ultimate Wish List, which will include things like a Very Specific Waterproof Stroller Blanket.

Now, let's rewind about a month.  You say, "Jenny O, you do not have a Very Specific Waterproof Stroller Blanket in your life.  Is this in any way having a negative effect on your state of mind?" to which I reply, "What?"  And then when I figure out what we're talking about I say something along the lines of, "Well honestly I've never even considered the existence of waterproof stroller blankets (although now that you mention it, it sounds like a very practical thing to have for a baby born in the pacific northwest at the tail end of autumn) let alone a Very Specific One.  But no- it doesn't bother me that I don't have one, and I don't expect it will bother me if I never receive one.  We'll make due."

Now, however, it's On the List.  I've put time and energy into thinking about a Very Specific Waterproof Stroller Blanket, and now I do want it- which means I am quite likely to be (somewhat understandably) disappointed if I don't get it, because I've managed to convince myself that I need it for my baby.  After all, why would I ask someone to spend resources on something I didn't need?  I wouldn't!

And so you see, I have created in myself an artificial desire, and that way, my friends, lies a lessening of contentment.

However!

Having brought an awareness to the situation- an awareness of why creating a list of "I Want These Things" bothers me so much- has helped to lessen my stress.  Because now I can be very mindful in not thinking about it.  And the less I dwell on my brand new "wants", the less disappointment I will suffer if they don't appear- and the more genuine enjoyment I will have if they do.  Because again- I love getting gifts!  Going to be suuuuuper appreciative of  any-and-everything people give us, whether it's on the registry or not!  Because every single one of those things is an expression of love and a gesture of support for me, for Nathan, and most especially for Neeps.  And that, Gentle Readers, is something I enjoy dwelling on.



(Bonus: if I manage to put the Registry out of my brain it will be like people are miraculous mind-readers who just plucked The Perfect Thing from the aether.  Win-win!)

Counting Down One Hundred Days

or: Yes, I'm Pregnant!

and more than just a little bit, at that.  This was taken at about 25 weeks.

First things first: sorry about the long silence!  But it turns out that I'm really terrible about not mentioning the pregnancy while I blog, and since we wanted to keep it under wraps for a good long while, the easiest thing for me to do was... not blog.  But I'm glad to be back!

Second things second: let's answer the Most Popular Questions!

-My due date is November 12th, one hundred days from now, although I have a hunch it will be sooner.
-Yes, we know the sex: we're having a boy!
-No, we don't have a name picked out yet.  We have a list of names, and we'll choose once we meet our son.  That's going to be irrelevant on here, however, as we've been calling him Neeps and I shall continue to do so in all public forums, just as I do with all my underage associates.
-"Neeps" came about during our trip to Scotland this past May*, where you can order "Tatties and Neeps" aka potatoes and turnips.  Neeps was the size of a turnip at the time, we found the word pretty hilarious, and it just stuck.

Nathan and I have been Nesting-with-a-capital-N, by which I mean we've been making runs to the dump and Goodwill, rearranging furniture, cleaning out and remodeling the garage, installing a new fridge, and getting serious about putting in the built-in-bookshelves we've been talking about for the past three years- amongst other projects.  I've also been Nesting via Art, so expect to see some blog entries on those in the near future.  All in all we're pretty excited: freaked out, but excited.

And now?  Back to Nesting!





*Yes, I will be blogging about that trip now that the fetal cat is out of the bag.

Let's Go

Sometimes things just work out.

vroom vroom

The first time I got pregnant, back in the summer of 2013, Nathan and I realized that we were probably going to have to do something about the Car Situation.  Namely the fact that we were a single-(small)car family with a large and boisterous pit bull, plus a baby on the way- and a propensity for driving out to to the wild to go adventuring, often with quite a bit of gear.  This realization, over 18 months ago, kick-started us into researching just what sort of vehicle we'd want, if we were to get a second one.  And by "us" I mean "Nathan", because in this marriage he is in charge of research, and I am in charge of making sure we can afford whatever it is he's researched.  Partnership, see?  We lost that pregnancy, obviously, but we kept right on looking at cars in the hopes that it might once again become relevant.

We didn't feel any real pressure, which is sort of the ideal circumstances under which to look for a new car- until, that is, I got pregnant again, and then the ante was summarily upped once more.  But again, that didn't pan out... but our desire for a new vehicle stayed piqued because, quite frankly, we realized we were ready for a grown-up car.  That is to say, a car that wouldn't send me into fits of sciatica on long trips, and that we could accelerate onto the freeway with, without sending up a fervent prayer to St. Christopher.  And also butt warmers, because damn technology is amazing, ya'll.

So we looked and we looked, and we agreed that what we'd really want, if only we had the money, was a 2015 Subaru Forester Limited.  Ha ha ha hah.  But we are (occasionally) patient people, and we knew that in a year or two we could probably get said vehicle for the price we were willing to pay.

As all of this was going on, we were also waiting on the outcome of my grandmother's estate, which has been puttering along since 2012.  We weren't depending on the money by any stretch of the imagination, but we did acknowledge that, should it come through, it would certainly make things easier.

And then, last week, it did come through- and literally the next day Nathan found an advertisement for a certified pre-owned 2015 Forester that had every last thing- right down to the color- we had daydreamed about, with only 55 miles on it.  And the asking price?  Almost exactly the amount of the check we'd received.  That's right: a new car for the price of a used car, for the amount my generous grandmother left me.

We took the hint.

Where You Should Have Been

another ghost pregnancy come to term

Stranger to the Bone

This is a post about my body.

No, this is a post about how my body looks.

No, this is a post about how I feel about how my body looks.

And it's a topic which has been weighing heavily on my mind, lately.  So this post is about exploring how I feel, and if I accidentally offend anyone with my stumbling words, I beg you to understand that I don't mean to be insensitive or hurtful with any of this.  I'm just in a strange place right now.

lemme take a selfie

I haven't always been in the best shape.  I did pretty well throughout childhood and most of adolescence: I was a swimmer and active and it showed.  But then came senior year, and knee surgery, and enforced idleness followed by a lingering terror of re-injuring myself, followed by yet another knee surgery barely a year later... long story short, I was overweight for quite some time- like six years quite some time.  It took a devastating breakup and completely losing and re-finding myself (and surfing) to give me the tools I needed to take my own physical fitness in hand.  And I did.  And I still do.  Because it's important to me to be healthy and fit and strong, but beyond all those noble things, it's important that I look good naked and be physically desirable to myself.  That's right, myself.  Sure it's nice to get compliments from other individuals, and I know my husband thinks I'm sexy no matter how much additional jiggle I have, but the person whose head I'm really trying to turn is my own*.

(Hey, we've all got our own fitness motivations, eh?)

And to be honest, for the past five years or so, one of the reasons I've felt like I need to not just be fit but look fit is because I'm not a mother.  Because in my head it's okay for mothers to be soft.  Their bodies have gone through this amazing wringer, and they came out on the other side with a brand new human, and a body that reflects that rite of passage.  Moms earn their bodies and they have every right to have less-than-perky boobs, and less-than-taut tummies, and they are beautiful and amazing and who the hell has time to work out for two hours every day when you're feeding something every four hours!  But me?  I didn't have a kid, so I didn't have any outside (inside?) influences on my shape.  The only thing changing my body was me.

Except... that's not true anymore.

Pregnancy changed my body.  Both times.  And the first time around it was only a few weeks worth of change, and things went back to normal fairly quickly.  This time, however?  Some of the changes seem a little more permanent.  Here it is, two months after the miscarriage, and my breasts remain larger than they were pre-pregnancy.  My belly remains rounded.  My hips remain widened.  That last one is not something I can "work back into shape".  It is a new shape, a strange shape.  A strange new shape that doesn't come with a strange new human.  And I'm... not really sure how I feel about it.

Oh, I know how I ought to feel about it.  Love and support for this body that has carried me through so much.  But knowing how you ought to feel very rarely has anything to do with how you do feel.  Sure, I can fake it until I make it, and I will, but sometimes you just want to take a moment and acknowledge how fucked up a situation is before you go back to ripping the silver linings out of it.

The breasts are annoying.  The belly is depressing.  The hips are... weird.  I spent 33 years with only the barest hint of hips, and now suddenly I have to pay attention to how I pull a dress on, lest I get stuck.  It's just strange.  I know I will get used to the breasts, and I will get rid of the belly, and as for the hips... well I suppose I'll get used to them eventually, too.  Of course, one of my girlfriends (who made it all the way through pregnancy into motherhood) told me it took a full year for her hips to go back.  So maybe there's hope for that, too, in the long run.

But is that even what I want?  For my bones to creep back to what they were?  Or do I want them to stay, the last lingering evidence of something that might have been?

I don't know.






*(I recognize that I'm a bit of a hypocrite with this, in that I cut others a lot more slack with their bodies than I do with my own in terms of what I find sufficiently attractive to get down with.  I think that's because the more I like someone, the more attractive I find them physically, regardless of how insulated their six pack is.  But I'm way too familiar with myself and my own bullshit to fall for any of my own personality-based charm: thus I must rely solely on the physical charms, which of course sets the standards higher.)  (Does that even begin to make sense?)

The Facts

I miscarried two weeks ago.  Hopefully this post will answer most of the common questions people might have about the whole experience.

I was 14 weeks, three days into my pregnancy (that's a little over three months, for those of you confused by the whole pregnancy-in-weeks thing) which means I was in the second trimester, which means what happened is termed a "late miscarriage".  It is not common.  We had a 2% chance of it happening.

We'd nick-named the fetus "the Koopa" due to its striking resemblance to such in an early ultrasound.

I had what is referred to as a "natural miscarriage", which means I essentially gave birth.  I did it at home. This was by far a better choice for me personally than going to the ER.  Your mileage may vary.

We were not expecting it.  We'd last seen the Koopa's heartbeat on an ultrasound that Friday morning.  I miscarried in the first dark hours of Sunday.  I didn't even fully understand/accept that it was happening until I was actively "giving birth", because I'd gone through similar contractions that Thursday night and again- everything appeared fine.  From start to finish the whole thing took perhaps three hours.

We went to the doctor the following Monday, and I gave the Koopa and parts of my placenta to pathology.  I appeared to be perfectly healthy, with no obvious reason for me to have miscarried.

As it turned out, unfortunately, I was not "perfectly healthy".  Less than a week later, on a Thursday night, I began hemorrhaging.  This resulted in a trip to the ER, an approximate 30% blood loss, and an emergency D&C, which revealed that I had a rather large portion of placenta still in my uterus.  Thanks to modern medicine, I came out the other side of things, and spent an additional five days recovering at home.

Since that nerve-wracking Thursday night we have gotten the pathology report back: the Koopa was in perfect physical condition, and there was no sign of infection, so again- no obvious reason to have miscarried.  Chromosomal results will take longer, and they may or may not have more answers for us.  I have a follow-up appointment with my doctor this week, which I expect will lead to further tests to try and discover "Why did this happen?"  But I am fully aware that sometimes the only answer is, "It just did."

We did not choose to bury Koopa.  In my imagination, after pathology was done with her she went on to help new doctors learn about miscarriage.  If you happen to know differently, I'd appreciate you letting me keep my illusions.  They're pretty and they give me comfort.

This was my second miscarriage, which increases my chances for miscarriage in the future to 18%.  Of course, we haven't decided yet if we're going to try again.  Only time will tell.

Nathan and I are doing reasonably well, all things considered.  We have been surrounded with love and support by our family and friends, and we know we will be okay in the long run.

If you would like to read about my first miscarriage, you can go here and follow the rabbit hole.

If you'd like to read a more visceral description of what happened two weeks ago, that's here.  But I totally get it if you don't.

Breaking

This is a narrative about an unexpected, natural miscarriage in the second trimester.

It's graphic.

Only you can decide if you're comfortable reading it.  If you'd rather have just the cold facts, go here.  If you don't want to know anything about it at all, that's okay, too.

***

The contractions start about half an hour before midnight.

I'm not pleased, obviously.  There shouldn't be any contractions at all, and I'm not in the mood for another sleepless night.  But it's not like there's anything I can do about it.

Well, there are a few things.  I take some acetaminophen, and I let myself express my displeasure (and pain) verbally, something I didn't do the other night while Nathan was sleeping.  Deep breaths, grunting out "Okay, okay, okay, okay," as the pain rises up to a peak, then slowly subsides.  Waves, waves... so much of a woman's life is tied to the ocean...

After about an hour of this I decide to get into the shower.  The pain isn't so bad as it was the other night- at their peak these contractions are hitting a 6 rather than an 8- but it's plenty bad enough that I know I have no chance of sleeping through them.  It's shower time.  Hot water helped last time, I'm sure it will help this time.  Another one hits me as I'm getting under the water, and I make unhappy noises with no real words involved- Nathan hears me from downstairs, and comes rushing in.

I don't want him to see me like this, to see me in pain and be unable to do anything, but at the same time it's a relief not to keep silent like I was before, to be able to yell "Fuck!" and hit the wall with my hand whenever I feel the need.  Which I do often.  The contractions are getting worse, and coming more frequently.  Whatever helps me through one is not guaranteed to help me through the next- in fact it's pretty much guaranteed not to.

I ask Nathan to look up how to breathe through contractions- he finds me a few tips, but they're written in such smug, calm voices that I cannot help but feel highly annoyed by them, and certain that the people who wrote those instructions have never actually experienced a contraction.

There's no thinking during contractions, not really.  There's no talking, beyond perhaps the word, "Fuck," or "Ow".  Plenty of inarticulate growls and grunts.  But in between contractions I can think, and what I keep thinking, as if on a loop, is,

"This is fucking bullshit.  Unfair, god damn bullshit."

At one point I say to Nathan, "Know what?  One baby is good.  One perfect baby.  No need to go through this again."

For real.  This is not what pregnancy is supposed to be like.

Another contractions hits, and I twist and howl and wish desperately to escape my body.  Maybe this would be easier, if I knew I would get a live baby at the end of it.  But I don't know that.  The best I can hope for is for it to just stop, to fade away like it did the other night.  But it doesn't stop.

I've told Nathan over and over that I don't want to go to the hospital- we went for the first miscarriage, and it was sheer misery.  They can't do anything to stop a miscarriage, all they can do is charge you a couple thousand bucks to ignore you for six hours.

"If I miscarry again," I've said, "I want to do it in the comfort and dignity of my own home."

But now Nathan is looking at me and he saying, "Baby I'm worried about you.  I'm afraid if we don't go then something will go wrong with you,"

"Pain can't... hurt me," I say, fully aware of the irony.  "Pain won't kill me.  The only danger I'm in is of bleeding out, and we'll keep an eye on it and I promise I'll let you take me to the hospital if it comes to that."

Shortly thereafter a contraction hits that blows right through my anger, and instead makes me whimper like an injured animal, and cry.  I am literally crying, tears leaking from my eyes, and that's when I know shit is real, because I have no choice about it.  Normally I can choose whether or not to "let" myself cry, but this?  This is happening because it is the only possible response to the pain that I'm in.  Even when the contraction passes I'm still curled in a ball in the tub, crying, bewildered, broken.

This is wrong.

Normally I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain, but for this I've let Nathan put his hand on me.  Suddenly, I have to go to the bathroom.

"Let me  up," I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice.  He does, and I scramble to the toilet.  A very small, distant part of my brain knows what this is.

The desire to push feels exactly like the desire to poop,

More than one woman has told me that, but it's one thing to know something intellectually, and another thing to actually believe it.


The pain comes to a crescendo and thank the gods Nathan is still holding me because I'm not just crying, it's like the sobs are being ripped from my body in great gasping sorrowful shrieks because I do push, and I feel my body passing something, and I know what that something is.  And I'm afraid of it, afraid afraid afraid...

The pain subsides almost immediately.

"It's okay," I say to Nathan, strangely calm through my tears.  "It's over now.  It's over."

And then he understands, and we cry together, his rage boiling up and over and serving to make me calmer and calmer.  Now I have to pass the placenta.  I have to collect the samples.  I have to be very cold, and logical about this.  I don't have time to break down.  I can do that later.

I send Nathan away so I can collect the fetus.  At first I don't want to.  I'd give anything not to look and see the premature horror I've birthed.  But more than that, I don't want Nathan to have to see.  So I send him away, because I know that I have seen worse things in my life, and I will probably see things worse still in the future.

I send up a silent prayer that I never have to see anything worse.

But then I look and... it's not terrible.  It's not terrible at all.  There she is, perfectly formed, so perfect perfect perfect in her unbroken sack.  Fourteen weeks, three days.  I saw her heartbeat less than 48 hours ago.  I scoop her up, and I don't feel disgust, or horror- just sorrow.  And relief.  She is not a monster.  She just... is.

They Bloom Where You Could Not

in spite of me

Giving Up Ghosts

My due date was this week.

I think I expected to be sadder than I was, more depressed- which is not to say I wasn't sad or depressed, but, to quote myself, "You can tell I'm sad because I'm so angry."

(Yes, anger.  My default emotion.)

The entire experience was complicated by the fact that I really, truly believed I'd gotten pregnant this month.  I'd been nauseated for almost two weeks, my period was late by almost a full week... The writer in me couldn't help but rapturize to herself,

Oh perfection, oh synchronicity!  To discover I'm harboring new life just when the-baby-that-wasn't would have arrived.

Except not, of course.

So much for my perfect narrative.

So that's it, then.  My ghost pregnancy has run it's course, and I will no longer be plagued by "I should be this many months pregnant by now!" realizations stabbing me in the uterus with grief.  My little ghost embryo grew into a ghost fetus, and got itself ghost born back into the ghostly aether.  Perhaps now "my baby would be this old," thoughts will start showing up instead, but somehow I doubt that.  I never knew a baby- just a pregnancy, which should have lasted nine months.  Those months have fallen off the calendar, and I'm both sad and glad to see the last of them.

The experience of being so sure this month (coupled, obviously, with being so wrong) has brought me to a place I wasn't sure I'd ever get to.  Nathan and I have been trying to breed for four years now, with only the one failed-success.  We've talked, in the past, about how far down the Infertility Treatment Rabbit Hole we'd be willing to go, but I'd never actually felt like the time was right to pursue anything beyond clinging to the belief that "It will happen if it's meant to."

Well today I got to that place.  I don't know what, exactly, makes this time different, but it is.  So there's another ghost I'm letting go of- the idea that I could have a baby naturally.

I'm not really sure yet how I feel about that- writing this is part of how I'm processing things.  Maybe I'll change my mind tomorrow, maybe I won't.  But either way, I think I'm done with ghosts for a while.

Nervous Laughter

"Are you using any birth control?"
"Just my own natural resistance to pregnancy!"