Get Out While You Can

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Update – Several of you have inquired about the outcome of my OB visit.  First off, thank you for your concern.  A few of you had ideas, suggestions, etc. as to what may be causing my problem.  I appreciate the support, and am once again reminded that yes, I should be as open and honest as possible in my little corner here. 

The good news is that my ultrasound came back normal.  If “things” don’t completely stop soon (I’m attempting not to gross anyone out this post), then I will be put on the pill for a couple months to force my body into a cycle.  It was a huge relief to know there is no need for some kind of procedure, which would only further prolong my already slow recovery.

Enough about that…

*  *  *  *  * 

So in the last two weeks I have been able to go out with my husband not once, but twice for dinner.  No, don’t rush over that sentence.  Okay, in case you missed it, I have spent time alone with my husband outside of our home TWO times in the last TWO weeks.  Prior to this, the last time we’d spent any time together sans child was way back in November 2010. 

There are several reasons for this, the main one being we were living on location while Vinny worked, away from family and friends, and I am paranoid beyond belief about having someone I do not personally know well watch our child (now children).

And now, as I continue to breastfeed our second child and avoid my breast pump as much as possible (I can’t help it, I know it “buys” me freedom, but I hate pumping), we are once again reduced to life revolving around my boobs and Sophie’s feeding schedule.  Mind you, I say this with no irritation or ill-will.  It’s my choice to do this, my preference, and in the grand scheme of things, committing a year of my life to feeding her is a blip on the radar.  It flies by. 

All this being said, would I like to “get away?”  Would I like to spend time just with Vinny on occasion?  Hell yes.

Thankfully, this is starting to happen (a rather huge perk to our cross-country move).  We enjoyed an evening out courtesy of my parents, and then a little more than a week later (and 200+ miles away) an evening out with Vinny’s sisters and their husbands, courtesy of his parents.

You’d think I would be totally and completely thrilled to have this time away.  And mostly, I am.  But I do find myself lingering between wanting the time away and then feeling like I am going to miss something while I’m gone.  Evenings are toughest.  Although it is the most draining part of the day, it is also my favorite time of day with the kids.  I love the last bit of cuddling in the evenings: rocking Sophie to sleep, reading Eli a couple bedtime stories. 

Knowing that Sophie is our last, there is part of me that doesn’t want to miss a moment.  She is growing and changing so quickly.  Then there is Eli.  He is so much fun each and every day.  I love this age with him, and know that I will look back on this period with longing when he is older.

Of course we all need a break from the wee ones now and again.  But I never anticipated leaving them with so much reluctance, even for a short two-hour break. 

In the end, the time away always does me good.  I feel recharged, refreshed, and thankful for adult conversation.  The car ride to and from is always quiet, and man, does it ever feel peaceful.  It reminds me of how much I love (and miss) spending time just with Vinny. 

Now that we know we have occasional babysitters, we are plotting for the days when Sophie is off the boob and we could escape, er, leave for an entire day (or more? Dare we wish for such a thing?). 

As good as it feels to get away and spend some quality time together, there is always such a rush of happiness when I see the kids upon our return.  Cliches tend to originate in some grain of truth, and as much as they tend to annoy me I have to admit some of them have taken on more depth for me as time passes.  What is that saying?  Absence make the heart…?  Just kidding, I know how it goes, and so do 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.     

And Then...?

Sleep deprivation.

Yup, I’m in the thick of it now.  With Eli, weeks 5-8 postpartum were the worst, and I find myself in repeat mode with Sophie.  The first few weeks after you bring the baby home you seem to coast along on some kind of magical fuel.  You’re tired, sure, but manage to keep going and going and going…

Until you don’t. 

I knew it would be different in some ways this time around.  And it is.  Breastfeeding is going better, Sophie goes back to sleep easier than Eli did after night feedings, and these two things alone have saved me so much grief and frustration.

However, Eli is up and at ‘em most of the day and that makes any kind of daytime rest difficult.  Plus, Sophie’s been on a feeding rampage and one day will be full of feedings every one-to-two hours and then the next she’ll nap like a champ (but I won’t).

Were we not gearing up to move across the country in just over a week, I would be viewing this stage of exhaustion with more amusement.  Normally, I like an occasional bout of sleep deprivation.  No joke. 

There’s something about entering this phase of mental meltdown that I find fascinating.  In the past I’ve had this experience while working extremely long hours on film shoots.  At some point you cross the threshold into this altered state where you are still mostly functional, with now-and-again brain hiccups.  In college one of my friends referred to this state as “film trippin’.”

One of my favorite sleep deprived moments came while working on Jarhead.  I was working on location and we were putting in 16-17 hour days, and had been for a couple weeks.  We were filming at an empty military base and as I walked across the base to our office I randomly stopped and picked up a stick with a leaf on it and said, “Jeanine would like this” (Jeanine being one of my co-workers and very good friends). 

Of course I frightened Jeanine with my “gift,” and under normal circumstances I would not be inclined to pick up stray objects off the ground.  But in the moment it felt like the most natural thing in the world, and this is the part of sleep deprivation that I find fascinating.  Why wouldn’t I normally pick up sticks off the ground?  What made this action so normal (and pleasant) in this instance?  My intentions were good, even if the action was a little strange.  And so part of me wonders if in my “normal” state I am too rushed, too oblivious to the small details around me, blind to the small bits of beauty that sometimes lay at my feet. 

Regardless, this memory has become precious to me and always generates a good laugh when it is recalled.

When it comes to being sleep deprived with small children I have to admit there is much less to giggle over.  At least, not in the moment.  Later on you’ll find amusement at your mindless mishaps.

The other day as I was feeding Eli oatmeal I held the spoon up to him and asked, “Would you like more email?”  Thankfully he isn’t old enough to mock me.

I’m not sure what happens in your brain, what synapse misfires as you search for a word and then replace it with a completely unrelated one.  That, or at times your brain shuts down altogether.

“Hey, I’m going to…”

Hmm, going to what?  It’s amazing that you can launch into a sentence and completely forget what you were going to say four words into it.  I can’t tell you how many times this has happened: I start a sentence only to drift off and stare into space.

Where did the thought go?  It’s not like a bowl of ice-cream just floated in front of my face, or I noticed that our apartment is suddenly clean.  No, nothing like that.  But sleep deprivation is distraction at the highest level. 

My inability to pay attention to anything or anyone for more than four seconds (if it requires any type of thought or concentration) is embarrassing.  I forget what people say to me as they’re saying it.  I can’t recall details that should be difficult to forget.  I have newfound sympathy for anyone that struggles with an attention disorder, as it is ultimately very frustrating when you are trying to be “on it.”

I only wish I didn’t have to be.  “On it,” that is.  I wish I could sit here and simply enjoy my children without our daunting “to-do” list staring at me, our rooms full of belongings still waiting to be packed, my up-and-down ride of emotions as I flip from excited to devastated when it comes to our move.  In the throes of this sleep deprivation every emotion is amplified, every brain fart is annoying rather than amusing, and I sit here wishing for more sleep.

That time will come.  Part of me feels guilty for wishing my days away, wanting to be in that “land of more sleep” since I know this is our last baby.  I should savor every second.  Part of me feels wistful, wishing I could be infinitely amused during this latest bout of sleep deprivation.  Part of me feels…

Shit, I forgot.

Milk Machine, Again

Checking in from somewhere deep in the Land of Sleep Deprivation…

And the real question is: How is breastfeeding going with child #2?

The answer: Better, worse, the same.

I will say this: we got off to a much, much better start with Sophie.  This, in large part, is due to my doula, Gracie.

I had been in recovery only a couple minutes when she said, “I think we should try breastfeeding now.”  This was after the forty hours of labor and a rather hellish c-section.  I was relieved to finally be lying down in peace, as close to resting as I had been in two days.  The idea of breastfeeding at that moment, honestly, did not thrill me. 

My husband expressed doubts, too.  “But she’s still hooked up to so many things (me, not Sophie), and there are all these tubes.  I don’t know if she’s in any shape…”

Gracie would not be deterred and pressed in her oh-so-gentle way.  “Sophie’s about an hour old and now is the perfect time.  We’ll help place her and get her comfortable.” 

With some rearranging and maneuvering of tubes and gown, Sophie was placed on my chest, where she quickly latched on and began to eat.  I could barely move to hold her, but Gracie helped to keep her in place.  I was amazed and thrilled, moved to tears that this was happening and so very grateful that I had someone there helping to make it happen.

Compared to our early days with Eli this was a fairy tale beginning.

Sophie continued to and has been exclusively breastfed so far.  This makes me very, very happy.

This is not to say all has gone without a hitch. 

I am, again, a constant food trough.  My nipples have taken a beating.  There have been blisters, there has been cracking, there has been blood. 

Our last day at the hospital Sophie spit up blood.  I was in an immediate panic: why was blood coming out of our baby?  To see it spattered on her shirt made my blood pressure spike and I felt lightheaded.  Vinny was off doing release paperwork and I could barely make the flustered phone call to get him back to the room.  

After much hoopla by the nurses and attending pediatricians, not to mention a half-day delay in our release, it was decided, “Oh, your nipple was bleeding when she ate and she spit it up.  Totally normal.” 

Good times, friends.

All the old ailments and challenges returned: engorgement, spontaneous leaking (and no, not just when my milk lets down, just whenever … it soaks through my nursing pads and my shirt), her pulling back while latched on, clicking, total agony when water and/or a towel brushed anywhere in the vicinity of my nipple.

It’s hard in these early weeks, as we are adjusting to each other, to truly enjoy the process.  I am thankful to know this time around that we will arrive at the day where we are both comfortable, where things will proceed without a hitch, where the process will feel natural. 

We’re not there, yet.  And it gets frustrating.  One feeding goes well.  The next does not.  One feeding she eats calmly, the next is a frantic feeding frenzy that ends in me near tears and her with a gassy belly, screaming in pain. 

We are still in the “learning” period. 

You’d think there would be more patience this time around.  But the combination of sleep deprivation and knowing things should and will be better in the future sometimes sends me into a tailspin of frustration.  Did I mention we are also moving across the country in just over three weeks?

Add to that our 18-month old who is also adjusting to all this change, vying for my attention, wanting to be picked up by me (this breaks my heart, and was one of the reasons I so adamantly did not want a c-section), etc., and I often feel myself being pulled in too many different directions.

Thankfully, my husband has been home with me since the day we brought Sophie home.  He keeps me centered when everything feels overwhelming, keeps Eli happy when I cannot give him attention, and is my true partner in keeping our household functioning.

And so the days unfold, often in a haze, often spent entirely in my pajamas.  I know one of these days soon I will realize with a start that breastfeeding is going smoothly… that the haze is lifting and there is once again some semblance of a “normal” life.

Until then, it’s one feeding at a time.

 Sophie and I with my doula, Gracie, at our post-partum visit, 

where we talked at length about breastfeeding.

And She's Here...

I wish I could say otherwise, but I had another c-section. 

It was a possibility, of course.  One I had hoped wouldn’t come to fruition.  However, at the end of the ordeal we met our daughter, Sophie.  And she’s beautiful and healthy, and I’m doing pretty well, too.

So what happened?

On Monday, April 4^th, I had contractions off and on all day.  Nothing steady, but I knew we were getting close.  Then on Tuesday I was woken at 4am by a contraction.  I fell back to sleep and eight minutes later was woken up by another contraction.  This continued until 7am.  I had hoped for more sleep, but part of me was already giddy with excitement.  I was sure this was the day we were going to meet our daughter.

We attacked the day, rushing around the apartment doing last minute tasks, all the while my contractions were getting closer and closer together.  At 10am I spoke with our doula, Gracie Davis, and it was decided the time had come for her to join us.  We made the arrangements to have Eli picked up, and I was happy for the distraction of the contractions; it kept me from thinking about the fact that Eli would be leaving soon, the first time I would be separated from him overnight.

Gracie joined us, Eli left, and the day rolled on.  Gracie did a lot with acupressure to ease me through contractions as I was having a lot of back pain.  We also took a couple walks around the neighborhood, probably frightening our neighbors with my contractions on the sidewalk.  Regardless, it felt nice to be at home, relaxed, not panicked about whether or not we should be leaving for the hospital yet.  Gracie kept careful track of the contractions and would let us know when we should leave.

Around 3:30 that afternoon we decided to head to the hospital.  My contractions were 3-4 minutes apart, lasting 60-80 seconds, and the intensity had been building all afternoon.  L.A. traffic any afternoon is not my idea of a good time and I started to worry that we’d be stuck somewhere, hence the decision to make the move.

After getting settled into my triage room, taking some time to get back into a steady rhythm of contractions, I let the nurse check me.  I was dilated to a one.  Let me say that again:  a one.  After thirteen hours of steady contractions I felt like I had been slapped in the face.  Really, no progress?  I was frustrated and could feel my confidence buckling.

Gracie stepped in and reiterated the positive:  I was 70% effaced.  That was progress.  The work was not for nothing.

I cannot adequately express my gratitude for what Gracie did during my 40 hours of labor.  This scenario was repeated over and over.  I would get checked, things would be progressing slowly or not at all, and Gracie would be at my side, reassuring me, pointing out the good things that were happening, the important work that was being done.

I’m not going to lie: had she not been there I would have caved early on and said “screw this, give me the c-section.”  Of course, had I done that I would be sitting here full of guilt, wondering if I had sold myself short, not having done all I could to bring Sophie into the world without surgery.

After twenty hours I decided I needed an epidural.  This was a critical moment for me.  I was convinced having the epidural would slow down progress and this was something I absolutely did not want.  Yet, I was in so much pain and things were progressing so slowly that I wasn’t sure I had another twenty hours in me without caving to surgery.  I decided the epidural was the way to go, and had much reassurance from my OB and the nursing staff that epidurals do not slow labor when you are in the active stage. 

They were right.  After the epidural things continued to crank along, albeit at my regular slow pace.  I rested a bit here and there and was thankful for the reprieve from pain. 

Now I was trying to grapple with the increasing pressure I felt in my stomach.  I inquired about having my water broken.  The concern was that Sophie was still so high that breaking my water could result in the cord coming down, or her hand flying out, or some other sort of nightmare situation that would necessitate an emergency c-section.  So at this point my OB told us, “it’s not safe to do that.”

Four hours later he came into the room, checked me and said, “Okay, let’s break your water.”  I was nervous but excited.  I was convinced this was the step needed to get things moving along to the pushing stage. 

Well, let me just say all my various healthcare providers had been right about the “large quantity of amniotic fluid.”  It sounded like a waterfall coming out of my body.  The way I was sitting I couldn’t see what was happening, I could only hear and feel it, but to me it was sweet relief.  I immediately felt less pressure and pain in my stomach.  Unfortunately, I soaked my OB and traumatized my husband. 

More importantly, I felt a renewed sense of energy and optimism.  It was time to do this!  Two hours later my OB came back to check me and I was dilated to a ten.  Mind you, at this point we were nearing 35 hours of labor and I was antsy to get this over with.  Although I was dilated to a ten he wanted to wait two more hours before I started pushing to see if the baby would drop further, meaning less pushing for me.  This sounded reasonable, so I agreed.

Two hours later it was time to push.  I was already beyond exhausted, but the thought of meeting our daughter propelled me forward.  If they wanted me to push, then dammit, that’s what I’d do. 

And I did.  I pushed and pushed and pushed.  She would drop down, progress would be made, the contraction would end and then whoosh!  She would get sucked back up the birth canal.  The frustration on my OB’s face couldn’t be hidden and at first I thought he was annoyed with me, that somehow I wasn’t pushing enough or the right way or…  So I asked him and he said, “No, I just really want this to happen for you.”

Part of me knew right then that it wasn’t going to happen.  And so I asked him to be straight with me.  He told me that if there wasn’t progress after three hours we’d need to talk.  So I pushed awhile longer, hoping I could get her out, thinking that after all of this how could I not get her out?  Was I really going to get this close, feel her trying to descend out of my body and then not get the satisfaction of giving birth to her?  I could feel my grip slipping away, knew I was inching closer to having a meltdown.  Gracie kept encouraging me, Vinny tried to crack jokes, get me to smile or laugh in an attempt to distract me.  I appreciated everyone’s efforts, but the look on my OB’s face said it all.

After three hours of pushing he told me we should “go in and get her.”  He didn’t want me to continue straining my body or get to the point where the baby was in distress.  I agreed, it was logical, but my heart broke.  I couldn’t hold it together and didn’t try to.  I was a mess and told him to give me five minutes to be devastated and that then I would pull it together.  And I mostly did.  I knew I had given it my best shot.  I wanted to meet our daughter.  Now.

I won’t go into detail about how awful the c-section surgery was after that much labor.  I’ll say this much:  uncontrollable shaking, radiating pain into my neck/shoulders, and vomiting.  Still, when I felt them pull her out of my stomach I experienced a relief I had been waiting over forty hours for.  When I heard her cry, I cried too.

It’s been a little over a week and I feel okay both mentally and physically.  And let me say, I am more than happy with okay.  I expected the experience to follow me home the way it did with Eli, to feel the depression descend in on me.  But it hasn’t.  It helps immensely that breastfeeding is off to a fairly good start.  And it helps that I knew a c-section was a possibility this time around, despite my best efforts or intentions. 

My constant goal throughout this experience was to know that I had done everything in my ability to get her here without surgery.  And I feel I did that.  So there is no reason to sit here and mentally beat myself up, or wonder what it is about my body that is so inadequate when it comes to birthing my children.  I’m not playing that game this time, and for that I am grateful. 

No, what I’ve been thinking about instead is the fact that I almost did give birth to my daughter.  I could feel her, so close, and yes, I am disappointed things didn’t work out.  But somehow I take joy in the fact that I went through most of the process anyways, that I let my body try to do what it was made to do.  I could sit here and say my body failed me.  But all I have to do is look at Sophie and I couldn’t imagine saying such a thing.  My body made another beautiful baby. 

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.

Giving Pregnancy Weight the Middle Finger

I have to say that this second pregnancy has been much less kind on my body. 

There are many, many more stretch marks this go-round, mainly on my bursting belly. 

My ass?  It’s always been big.  But now?  There should be moons orbiting it.

I have pork chop arms.  NO!

Again, for the second time, I am at the point in my pregnancy where most of my maternity clothes DO NOT FIT.  This is insulting at the highest level.

And yet, my general attitude is “oh well.”

It feels good not to care about my appearance right now. 

Let me re-phrase that:  It feels good that my appearance right now is not sending me down a deep, dark hole of self-pity. 

I am grateful for the lessons I learned the first time around, as I watched in horror at my quickly morphing body, doing things I never thought possible.  Then I had Eli and wondered if things would ever get back to “normal.” 

Well, they very nearly did.  I was on the road to getting my body back.  I know it can be done. 

So this time around I have found that I am much more forgiving of the process, because really, there’s nothing I can do about it anyways.  This is how my body makes babies.  I gain a lot of weight, everywhere, things stretch and expand to unthinkable proportions, and at some point, soon, there will be a baby as a result of all this shifting and inflating.

It will take awhile, but eventually I’ll come up for air and then it will be back on the road to getting my body back, again. 

I find it amusing what I can overlook the second time around.  This pregnancy I throw on whatever clothes will keep me cool and comfortable and don’t give a shit about whether I even “match.”  Will people give me looks?  Who cares?

Trust me, it’s no joy to look at myself in the mirror without clothes.  I still cringe, still rush for cover in my PJ’s or whatever semi-clean attire I can manage during the day (having a toddler also contributes to my “I don’t have time to worry about my appearance” attitude).  But I also know my body isn’t going to look like this forever.

This is one instance where the previous pregnancy experience has been a blessing.  So, in the spirit of the Cee Lo Green song that keeps getting stuck in my head: F*ck you, pregnancy weight.  You’re there now, but you won’t be for long.