Your Bits & Pieces

I’ve long known that people have all sorts of names for their private parts.  But as more and more of my friends have children, and we then commiserate on the damage done to our respective bits, it has become increasingly humorous to learn the lingo women toss around. 

Here’s the thing:  Women have a lot of nicknames for their cha cha.  Sure, there are a plethora of names floating around out there for the penis, too, but given our culture’s obsession with men’s junk (albeit their obsession, not ours), well, I’ll admit to being pleasantly surprised that females have not been left out of this cultural conversation.

You’ll notice the nicknames women use are generally much less crude than anything men toss around (I’m sure you could think of two or three crude nicknames men use.  If not, someone with too much time on their hands compiled a list here – gross!).

Why bring this up? 

Well, for one, I need to laugh.  Five months in and Sophie is still a poor nighttime sleeper.  Hence, I am sleep deprived beyond anything I have ever known.  The result?  Everything is funny.  Or makes me cry.  I aim for the former.

Second, my mind has been swirling in dark waters, contemplating serious topics, and this is a welcome respite from all of that. 

Third, I know not all women are open about these things and I am here to let you know: it’s okay, talk about your snacko, use whatever name you like, we’re all friends here. 

There are so many things women are hesitant to share with one another, and when it comes to pregnancy, labor and delivery, and motherhood, well, I’d rather know the ugly side of things than be unenlightened.  Yes, tell me what could happen to my lady bits, tell me what will happen to other areas of my body, tell me how to get through those days where I want to crawl under my bed and never come out, tell me that you have had tough days, too. 

After all that, tell me about how much you love being a mother, how it’s the coolest thing that’s ever happened to you, how you wouldn’t trade any of it for a second, even if it meant having your box back to original form.

P.S. Thanks to all my friends for being so open and honest with me (and making me giggle with your lingo).  I couldn’t imagine getting through this adventure without all of you…

Until There Are Answers…

Milk Machine Mom, where have you been?

Well, readers, let me just say this: Don’t move across the country seven-ish weeks postpartum.  Not that any of you would.  But me?  Well, I may just be certifiable…

As you might imagine, packing, moving, unpacking, all the while caring for two small children, has eaten up more minutes than there are in a day.  Sleep?  It teases me occasionally, although Sophie is starting to put together some longer stretches at night.  Now if I could only get my butt in bed earlier…

On top of all this fun (and it is fun moving into our first home, despite the overwhelming nature of moving itself), my body is struggling to heal.

WARNING: If reading about blood and/or my lady bits is going to traumatize/offend/sicken you, I suggest you stop reading.  Now.

Okay, for those hanging in, here it is:  I haven’t stopped bleeding since Sophie was born.  The “norm” for this lovely after effect of pregnancy is a few days to eight weeks.  Sophie will be ten weeks old on Wednesday.  So yes, it’s like I’ve had my period for nearly TEN weeks.  Please, weep with me now. 

I’m reminded again that when it comes to anything pregnancy related there truly is no “normal.”  With Eli, this particular fun lasted four weeks.  At my six-week check-up, my OB in L.A. reminded me that this labor and delivery was especially long and taxing, and healing will be slow.  He told me that if I was still bleeding after eight weeks I should come in and have an ultrasound.

I laughed and said, “Yes, but I’ll be moving across the country at that point.”  This was if-I-don’t-laugh-I’ll-cry laughter, mind you.

When you are occupied with something as all-encompassing as moving, it’s easy to push something worrisome to the back of your mind.  Okay, maybe not easy, but at least you don’t have the time to sit and dwell over it.  There are boxes to pack (and unpack), dammit!

But now, as all the essentials have been located and unpacked (though we still sit in a maze of disarray), my mind has had more opportunity to linger over the “what-ifs.”  This is always dangerous territory and a source of so much unnecessary worry.

The pattern goes like this:  What if something is really wrong?  What if I have to have some kind of “procedure” done?  What if I have to have surgery?  Will I be able to pump enough breastmilk for Sophie beforehand?  Will it affect my breastfeeding long-term?  What if…?  Will I…?  Can I…?

The questions pile up, with no answers.

I go in tomorrow to see my new OB here in Michigan.  She comes highly recommended from a friend, and if nothing else, I am looking for some peace of mind, however that is delivered.

Sometimes the answers, whether they are what we want to hear or not, at least give us a point from which to move forward. 

Most days I tell myself, “You’re still healing, it’s just taking a really, really long time.”  Or, “You packed and moved and are now unpacking … you need to REST, lady.”  Or, “If there is something wrong, it will be fixed.”

The body is an amazing apparatus.  Despite whatever is going on (or not), my body has continued to allow me to function every day, do what absolutely must be done, and most importantly, has continued to allow me to feed Sophie.  That baby fat is piling up as the days pass, so clearly she is not suffering any ill-effects of whatever my body is continuing to do.  And when I see her smiling at me, it’s easy to push the worries to the back of my mind, for a few more minutes.     

To Doula or Not To Doula?

If you’re like most people, your first thought is probably: what is a doula?  A doula (pronounced doo-luh) is, in the most basic sense, a labor assistant (read more here).  I had never heard the term until a friend of mine used a doula nearly six years ago for her first labor and delivery.  I thought it a strange word at a time, and the concept itself seemed rather foreign as well.

When I was pregnant with Eli it didn’t occur to me to hire a doula.  A couple friends recommended it, but I figured, “well, my body is going to do this the way it’s going to do this, how would having someone I barely know there with me be of any help?”  Again, a naïve sentiment, but only in hindsight.  And only because my labor and delivery with Eli didn’t go well.  Had it gone well I probably wouldn’t have considered the idea this time around, either.

But here we are.

Initially I had an interest in hiring a doula because I knew I was going to be delivering at a hospital that is: 1) not very labor friendly in general, and 2) was not going to be supportive in the least of my attempt at having a VBAC.  I felt like having a doula on my side, helping to coach me along, would help to offset some of the anxiety I was feeling about my less-than-ideal birth location.

Why didn’t I just switch care providers/hospitals?  Long story short my husband, son and I had temporarily re-located to Michigan for seven months as my husband had work there.  I knew we’d be returning late in my pregnancy (34 weeks) and I love my OB in L.A., who had said from the get-go he would be supportive of my VBAC attempt.

Well, we’d barely been back in L.A. two weeks when our well-laid plans began to crumble.  My OB started telling me that I couldn’t say VBAC at the hospital and that we were at least going to have to schedule my c-section to make it look like we were “playing by the rules” (the hospital, for reasons I do not understand, had deemed me a mandatory repeat c-section). 

Then the avalanche of negative feedback kicked in.  How reviled is this hospital?  The first doula we interviewed refuses to attend births there because they are so labor unfriendly, but was willing to make an exception as a favor to a good friend of mine.  Then, three days later, at my first chiropractic appointment here in L.A., the chiropractor asked me why I decided to deliver at that hospital. 

“I really like my OB, and it’s where our insurance covers us,” was my reply.

“Well, your insurance also covers you delivering at X, Y, and Z hospitals,” he responded.  “How badly do you want a VBAC?”

I didn’t have to think long.  “Very badly.”

“I hate to tell you this, but you’re at the worst hospital in L.A. for what you’re trying to do.”

I couldn’t ignore the growing pit of anxiety in my stomach.  It felt so late in the game to make a switch this major.

Two days later I switched OBs and hospitals.  The following day I learned that my original OB threw out his hip and was going to require surgery and would be out for 6-8 weeks, minimum.  In other words, I would have had to switch OBs anyways.

The decision felt right.

The hospital I am now delivering at has midwives on staff 24-hours a day.  I decided this would suffice as support, that I would simply call a midwife in if I was struggling, or if this baby happened to be asynclitic as well. 

The reassurance that the hospital was now behind my decision to attempt a VBAC meant my anxiety levels came down, a lot.

I decided I didn’t need a doula anymore.

Well, for about a week.  Then I began to realize that while yes, my anxiety levels had dropped and I felt better about the environment I would be delivering in, I still was having some serious self-doubt about my ability to deliver this baby without medication (not an absolute requirement, but strongly recommended when attempting a VBAC). 

I wanted someone there with me that had been through this before, that could suggest techniques, reassure me in my moments of waning confidence, and generally offer guidance.

Doulas are a varied bunch.  There is a wide range of experience.  Some doulas specialize in massage or hypnobirthing or acupressure or… 

After speaking with a couple doulas, I found one close to my age, Gracie Davis.  She isn’t the most experienced doula I spoke with, but she had a c-section with her first and a VBAC with her second.  She immediately understood where my self-doubts were coming from, and having someone that “got it” suddenly became the most crucial form of “experience” in my book.  Her demeanor is so calming.  She has already worked hard to familiarize herself with my previous birth experience, my concerns, and my hopes for this upcoming birth.  We’ve talked about how she’ll communicate with me, what she’ll suggest, and how she should interpret my responses to her. 

I never imagined I would “need” so much extra assistance to get through this process.  Sometimes I feel like I should be able to buck up and just do the damn thing.  But knowing that had I been better educated AND had a doula last time that my labor and delivery experience may have gone differently … well, I want to know I did everything this time around, for the baby and for myself.

Hello, Fear and Anxiety

There are a lot of topics I’ve been thinking about lately, wanting to write about.  But when I sit down and try to compose my thoughts, they come out incomplete, disorganized, at times incoherent.

Sure, I had the flu, am still getting over this damn flu (I’ve never had a cough quite like this…), and am now 36 ½ weeks pregnant, which let’s be honest, disqualifies me from putting together a coherent thought, let alone several strung together.

This was frustrating me, greatly, until I realized the underlying issue: What I am really thinking about, almost constantly these days, is my upcoming labor and delivery.  I hate to admit that I am more nervous this go-round. 

Here I thought that after having my first child I would feel like a “pro” of sorts when it came time for the show, but instead, in my wavering confidence over “should I or should I not attempt a VBAC?” and “What if I end up having another emergency c-section?” or “What if there are complications?”  or… I find myself steeped in uncertainty. 

I want my baby girl here, in my arms, without going through the unknown adventure that lies ahead.  It’s hard to believe now, but before I had Eli I was all confidence about the process, looked forward to it, even.  Sure, I was nervous, didn’t know how gracefully I would/would not handle pain, didn’t know what exactly to expect.  But I never doubted that things wouldn’t go smoothly, that I wouldn’t be able to birth my son naturally.  My pregnancy had been uneventful, save for the typical ailments, and so there was no reason in my mind that things would change once we got in the delivery room.

Naïve?  Yes.  But looking back I long to be that person again, so sure about the process, so certain that my body would do what I wanted it to.  I have no true reason to think that things won’t go well this time.  Again, my pregnancy has been uneventful, complication free.  My heartburn/indigestion is starting to drive me bonkers, the sleepless nights are chipping away at me, but I know these things are temporary and so they are (mostly) easily dismissed.

I have been seeing a chiropractor in the hopes of keeping this baby in a good position, and so far all is well.  Nothing indicates a problem at this point.

And yet…

There is a part of me that can’t let go of the first experience, that is petrified that things will take a wrong turn somewhere and that I will end up in the operating room, again.  That I won’t get to see my baby being born, won’t get to hold her, see her for several hours after her birth.  These are the thoughts that eat at me the most.

The fear is irrational, but isn’t being pregnant a sure and sometimes constant path to irrationality? 

Then there’s the thought of leaving Eli while I am at the hospital.  The truth is, I have not been separated from him for more than five hours, ever.  It’s not my preference that this has been the case, it’s just the way it’s worked given our distance from family and my determination to breastfeed the first year.  So my anxiety not only involves giving birth, it also includes being apart from my firstborn for an extended time.

I am quite sure that in a few weeks I will look back on this time and think to myself, “Well, that was a waste of time and energy, letting yourself get worked up over nothing.”  But in the moment I cannot help it.  I sit here and watch baby girl drag her foot along my increasingly scary-looking stomach (holy stretch marks, veins, and bruised looking belly button this time around, yikes).  I make pacts with her:  “Be nice to Mom, okay?  Let’s just get through this together,” or, “Please don’t get stuck in there.  I promise you’ll like it out here.  Really.” 

I wonder if she senses my anxiety.  Unlike Eli, who was quite mellow even in the womb, she is active and I often feel like she is trying to beat her way out of my stomach already.

We are on the cusp of our next chapter together.  Part of me can’t believe this pregnancy is nearly over.  It has passed so quickly I often feel as though I haven’t slowed down enough to marvel at the process.  Then my brain takes over and wishes her here, now, so I can sit assured, knowing all will be okay. 

I’ve realized that the impending labor and delivery process probably never gets any easier, no matter how many children you’ve had, or how well the process has gone previously. 

I just get disappointed when I let my previous experience cloud my confidence, rattle my nerves.  I know my body is capable of doing this the way it is meant to, and I hope to report very soon that we have welcomed our newest addition: a healthy baby girl.