Weekend Warrior

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It’s Sunday morning and I’m sitting outside in the summer breeze with my gorgeous baby boy napping on my chest. Time is stopped and my soul is nourished. This moment is ours to keep forever.

Since my recent return to work, I’ve learned to live for these moments. “Weekend” holds a whole new meaning for me now. Until this point in my life, I never understood the pure elation of a Friday afternoon commute home from work, or the heartbreak of bedtime on Sunday night. The week days are a blur of activity- work, commute, daycare, dinner- but weekends, weekends are the windows looking into the heart of life. Weekends are the life force that propel our family through the chaos of day-to-day.

Going back to work has been, hands down, the biggest challenge of my life. I’d spent 11 weeks beginning to figure out my identity as a mother, and just as soon as I was starting to feel confidence and some sense of normalcy in our daily life, I was expected to start all over and find my identity as a full-time working mother.

I never imagined myself as a working mother with an infant child in daycare. Though I recognize the value of socialization for the little man, and the importance of child-free adult interaction for myself, my heart aches at the thought of missing even a second of his life. I deserve to be the one who gets to watch him grow and learn, not a stranger. The biggest irony in it all is that I pay someone else to do what I am the most capable of and so desperately want to do myself.

I’ve stopped asking other working mothers how they have learned to deal with this transition, because I can’t handle hearing their response. “It gets easier.” Its tough to hear because it is absolutely true. It does get easier. But that’s what breaks my heart so much. I never want it to be even a little easier to be away from my baby, because to me, that means that the incredible bond we’ve built over his first weeks of life is lessening. Yes, I know I am still his mother and that our bond will always be strong, but even this tiny shift in our dynamic is not one that I am ready for yet.

It is a new season in our lives. I know that, with time, we will figure out a way to conquer the seemingly insurmountable challenge of Monday through Friday with relative ease, but until then, I will just close my eyes, take a deep breath, and be thankful for the weekend. The soul-nourishing, time-stopping, beautiful weekend.

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Truth, Lies, and The Postpartum Body or “If You’re Saggy & You Know It, Clap Your Boobs”

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The funny thing about pregnancy is that it is allowably selfish. I came to realize this early on. The well-being of my baby depended on my own, so all of my focus was 100% on “me”. MY body. How am I feeling this week? How big is MY belly? How much longer do I have to be pregnant for? I spent countless hours googling questions about how MY body was reacting to the pregnancy. Appointments with the midwife were all about MY uterus and how good of a job I was doing at growing this baby. I took prenatal yoga to make sure that MY body was healthy. His lifeline was braided together with mine. It was a huge adjustment for me then, after MY body did its job and pushed a new life into the world. All of the sudden, we were two separate beings. He was still 100% dependent on me, but in a much more active sense. He required all of my attention, which I gladly gave. The point of all of this, after all, was to have a new baby to care for- right?

In the weeks following his delivery, I devoted myself tirelessly to my Little Man. Everything I did was for him. I ate because he needed me to have nutrients to pass on to him. I slept because he needed me to be awake enough to care for him. I showered because I didn’t want my poor baby to smell my B.O. when I cradled him. In the midst of this milk-drunken self sacrifice, I (gladly) lost my sense of self. Once we settled into our routine, however, I started to try to focus some more on “me” again. I had spent 10 months being pampered and so in touch with my body, then 2 months of suddenly neglecting myself. Once I faced the realization that I had gone from feeling like a self-realized goddess to feeling like a stranger in my own skin, I started to pay attention to my body again. I was amused by my observations.

I miss my pregnant belly. There, I said it. There was a stretch of time not so long ago when I never could have imagined myself uttering those words, but they’re the truth. I felt very “woman” while I was pregnant, and to feel woman is to feel sexy. To boot, there was always this wonderful thought in my mind: “I’m not fat, I’m just pregnant.” Though I was 40 pounds heavier than I had ever been, I felt so proud of my beautiful body. Now, even after shedding the a quick 20 lbs of baby/fluids, I am stuck facing the reality that is the new landscape of my body. Here is the very real breakdown:

Face: I look like a mom. I can’t put my finger on it, but something about my face (maybe the bags under my eyes?) says: “that lady has seen life come out of her hoo-ha”

Flexibility: After the acrobatic act of birthing a baby, you would think that I would be more flexible. After all, my body basically ripped in half to produce a child, right? Wrong! I think my body has PTSD. At the slightest suggestion of stretching or bending, it goes on strike and says “Nope, there’s no way that’s happening again!”

Boobs:I love breastfeeding. It gives me a closeness that I could have never have expected with my son. That being said- WHY, GOD WHY?! I’ll never forget the feeling of that first latch- truly magical….and shocking! My nipples used to always hurt at first while we were both getting used to nursing, now they feel nothing. And I mean nothing. Behind those numb nipples are two massive pains in my arse. E cup. I didn’t even know they made bras in that letter of the alphabet. Men always talk about wanting a woman with giant knockers, but if they ever saw boobs in real life, they would know this is not ideal. Big = heavy, and heavy = saggy. On top of this, one boob is always dripping, that leaky bastard. Through my nursing pad, through my bra, through my shirt, and out on display for the world to see. A milk duct is getting clogged every week or so. I’ve figured out how to remedy that, but it always ends in milk literally shooting out of my nipple. Last, but definitely not least, they’re lopsided. Not “Oh, no one else will notice that” lopsided, but more like “Holy crap, did you frankenstein a boob off of another body onto your own” lopsided. My boobs belong in a carnival freakshow.

Stretch Marks: I was lucky enough to escape my pregnancy with not a single stretch mark on my belly, so I let my guard down. Bad move. In comes milk, out come the boobie stretch marks. I didn’t even realize that those were a thing. I now look like I am wearing a purple tiger-striped bra at all times.

Aroma: The gas. I can’t even, with this gas. Luckily, I have a few oblivious scapegoats in the baby and the dogs, but I know the truth. Also, blame the hormones, but the B.O. is out of control. I fear that when my son grows up, the scent of body odor will bring back fond photographic memories of feeding at his mother’s breast as a baby.

Nether-regions: Of course there was bleeding. Every mother has to deal with that. The bleeding was what it was, but it was the padding that I couldn’t handle. I was so uncomfortable. I think that the lessons in self-diapering from the nurse in my recovery room bathroom were more intensive than my baby diapering lessons in childbirth class. After my long labor (see labor epitaph in previous post), I also ended up with a torn labia and a dislocated and/or fractured tailbone. Those things I could deal with, too. A few stitches and some pain meds and I was good to go. What I was NOT prepared for was the sensation that my insides were going to fall out of my lady hole for the first few weeks after giving birth. I was also not physically or mentally prepared for the horror that was my first post-delivery sneeze. I vow to my dying day to warn every pregnant lady that I meet to physically hold her nether-regions and clench once she feels that first sneeze coming on.

‘The 6-week appointment’: Once things began to feel back to normal down there (I’ve come to terms with the fact that nothing will ever feel the same up top ever again) it is finally time for the all-mighty 6 week postpartum check up. Partners everywhere, rejoice! Getting the green flag from my midwife meant that I was approved for physical activity again. ALL physical activity. My feelings on the “go-ahead” went quickly from elation to “well, shit”. This meant that using the excuse “I’m not allowed to”, wasn’t going to cut it anymore. For anything. I was going to have to face the reality that I needed to start figuring out how my new body worked. Now, I am a very confident woman, but let me tell you, the first time those clothes come off, whether it was in front of a mirror realizing that I no longer had an excuse to not tone up that tummy, or in front of my hubby realizing that he hasn’t seen any parts of me uncovered since before I changed transformer-style from a kangaroo to a normal human being again, I didn’t feel too great. Luckily for me, my husband thinks that I am amazing, perfect, and beautiful so it had very little effect on him. It was, however, very emotional for me to realize that I didn’t feel great about my body like I always have. There was also a very strange little voice constantly in my head trying to convince me that I’d given my body to my child and that it is no longer acceptable to be sharing it with anyone else. That voice is a pesky little bastard, but I’ve learned that I can drown it out with some smooth moves from my hubby and a glass of wine (or four).

I’m learning that pregnancy didn’t just change my body for 40 weeks. It is a transformative process and now that I’ve traveled through this part of my journey, my body will never be the same again. My body tells of my stops on this journey and I am learning to be proud of it. Now, let’s hit the beach!

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Finding Your Feet Again

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The first time I saw my toes after months with a bulbous belly in the way, I started ironically humming a song that I have always loved  “…this is what it’s like, finding your feet again.“

A few days ago, the song popped into my head again, and it was hard to stifle a chuckle when I realized how different those words now felt to me. This is the newest stop on my motherhood journey- finding my feet again. Figuring out who I am. Gradually, I am starting to feel like “myself” again, however I am realizing that “myself” is different than I remember. “Myself” is so much more than it was before.

Before bringing my little man earthside, before bearing witness to my body’s own goddess strength, I was a different version of myself. The question “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” was immediately met with a description of my possessions, my career. Those were the feet I stood on- weak & unstable- those of a child.

It has been incredible seeing my life and priorities evolve in such a short amount of time. Just as in labor, there has been a moment of transition- a short time where I was on the cusp of my new self, but afraid to embrace it. The uncertainty made me shakey, nauseous. Just as in labor, however, I came through this transition ready to push. Ready to push myself into a new, better version of me. And, just like in labor, I have pushed enough to produce a new life- my own. Now, “Why don’t you tell you about yourself?” is met with this:

I am a Wife & I am a Mother. These are the two feet that I stand on-the feet of a Woman. These are feet that acknowledge that my life is only as beautiful as those whom I share it with. These are the feet that will carry me safely, sturdily, on this journey.

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“I have everything you need right here.”

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“You’ve got to be so in love already!”

I’ve heard these words countless times since Little Man was born, but the truth is, responding with a “yes” has made me feel like a liar. Of course I love my baby, but it is a love that has been evolving. An acquired taste, if you will.

Upon first laying eyes on him, I was in complete awe. I couldn’t believe that this perfect little human came from my husband and I, that I had grown him in my body, and that he was all mine to care for for the rest of my life. I knew that I would do anything for him. I had love for him immediately, but I would not yet say that I was “in love”. I know, it sounds horrible, but to anyone who has never had a baby, I promise that saying this does not make me crazy- it just makes me honest.

I read an article once that talked about our society’s quickness to diagnose new mothers with post postpartum depression. Don’t get me wrong, I know that PPD is a very real problem that affects many women, but I couldn’t help but snigger in agreement at the premise of what I read. The article compared becoming a mother to acquiring a CEO position at a big company. When you become a CEO, the expectation is that there will be a learning curve. The expectation is that you will still have a personal life with some semblance of the one you had before your new job. The expectation is that you will get overwhelmed from time to time, especially at first. If you breakdown and cry during your first few weeks or months, no one will be shocked. When we are new moms, the expectation is that we will know what to do immediately. The expectation is that our personal lives will do a complete 180 from what it was just a few days before. The expectation is that we will handle this all in stride, with a smile on our tired faces and love for our babies in our hearts. The reality that we face is this:  if we are exhausted or overwhelmed and not completely “in love” after just one week of our brand new lives, we are “depressed and need to be medicated”. If we break down and cry during our first few weeks or months, “something must be seriously wrong.” We, as a culture, need to do a better job of respecting the learning curve for new moms. We all need an adjustment period. We need to remind each other that we have all felt this way, and these feelings don’t make us inadequate- they make us sane! To go through a major life-changing event without some challenging emotions attached to it would make us all crazy.

Don’t get me wrong, I experienced a lot of moments of pure, unadulterated joy and bliss during those first weeks, but many will be shocked to learn that a majority of the emotions that I was working through were not positive ones. I was dealing with a beautiful cocktail of hormones, plus the stress of being thrust into a completely new and different lifestyle. To boot, everyone in the world expected me to love it and be a professional at it all right away.

The first emotion that I really had to work through after my amazing mother headed home and my darling husband went back to work was isolation. I felt like I was the only woman in the history of the universe who had gone through these ups and downs of new motherhood. As I’ve said before, there are not a lot of other women in my life at this point who have chosen to begin their motherhood journeys. I did not feel that there were others who I could be completely honest with about what I was feeling. I was excited to spend time with my baby and bond, but how was I supposed to navigate getting out of the house and to the store with a baby when I couldn’t even get him to settle down long enough to do my hair? How was I ever going to enjoy social outings again if I had to hide and breastfeed my baby every hour or half hour or, some days, nonstop all day long? I felt as if my baby were holding me hostage in a life that wasn’t mine.

The next emotion that I really had to work through was yearning. Mostly, this was yearning for my old life. In moments of exhaustion and frustration, I found myself thinking things like “What have I gotten myself into?” and “Will my life ever feel normal again?” I felt so much guilt for thinking these things. For so long, all I wanted in this world was to meet my little boy and to hold him in my arms, but now that he was here, I was wishing it away?! What was wrong with me?! At the same time, I was also yearning for more help or less help or for someone to come visit or for someone to go away. I was insatiable. It is really difficult coming to the realization that becoming a mother is a process. You will yearn for “the way things used to be” until you reach the point where you “can’t imagine what life was like before.” You will yearn for more alone time, until your brains are turning to mush from breastfeeding and watching a marathon of TV shows all day. You will yearn for peace and quiet until your guests leave and you realize that you now only have an infant who can’t even hold up his own head to keep you company all day. Our yearning stems from a fear of the unknown, but once we get more comfortable in our new mommy shoes, that yearning will most likely shift into a yearning to do it all over again.

The last of these emotions, and perhaps the hardest to talk about, is resentment. After a few days of being exhausted and  covered in spit up, where the only lunch you have time for between breastfeeding and soothing a crying baby is a few peanut butter crackers, you will begin to resent… basically everyone. You will resent your partner for having the freedom to leave and go to social outings (or even go to work!) at will. You will resent your friends for being able to go to a nice restaurant for a last minute dinner date. You will even resent your dog for being able to sleep through the night. You will also know, on a very real level, that none of this is their fault. This, however, will not stop you from feeling this way. Why doesn’t their life change more drastically when yours has? Well, the simple answer to that is that you are the mom. You are the one who is allowing your child to thrive by nourishing his body with milk from your own. You are the first face he sees when he wakes up in the middle of the night because he is still adjusting to life in this new world. You are the last voice he will hear before he is rocked to sleep in your arms. And chances are, once you’ve gotten yourself free from the “baby blues” hormones, you will realize that its a pretty fair trade off.

Tonight, as my son was crying from exhaustion and fighting sleep, I said to him

“Its OK Baby- I have everything you need right here.”

When he finally settled and peacefully closed his eyes, those words weighed heavy on my heart.  The world could end and as long as he had me, he would be fine. I can feed him with my body. I can keep him warm in my arms. I can shelter his heart in the safety of my love, and as long as he was safe and happy, I would have all that I needed too.

In that moment I was taken aback by the raw truth in my words, and I realized for the first time, that

I am completely in love.

Ohana

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One of the biggest challenges that I have experienced so far in my postpartum world is a lack of “community”. Anymore, families in the US are not brought up with multiple generations under one roof. Many families members, even of just one generation, often live scattered around the country (or across the world, in some cases). That old saying “it takes a village to raise a child” is completely valid.  I have been raised in a society where there is an alarming lack of cumulative wisdom and sharing of birth/child rearing experiences, and that has had an unfortunate impact on my experiences as a mother so far. To further push the point, for those women who are lucky enough to have been raised in an extended family, there is still a certain sense of taboo surrounding the real, hard discussions about many issues encountered in these processes. This leaves many women – myself included – with a feeling of isolation. It makes many of us feel that our worlds have been completely flipped upside-down when we become pregnant and again when our babies are born, because we do not have a real-life knowledge base to compare our own experiences to. It makes us feel as though many of the very normal, natural things that we are experiencing are unique to us, which in turn makes us hesitant to share with others and further perpetuates the problem. I feel lucky in that I do have an incredible mother who has been 100% supportive and nurturing during my pregnancy and motherhood journey so far, but I also feel blessed that I recognized the lack of a larger knowledge-base to support my own experiences early-on, and was adamant about finding ways to create this sense of community for myself.

Being an active social media user, I first turned to the internet. Early in my pregnancy, before making the news public, I found myself on google searching for every idle thought and fear that flitted through my mind.

“Can I eat lunch meat while pregnant?” “If I don’t have morning sickness, does that mean that I’m not pregnant?” “When will I start to feel pregnant?” “Percentage of pregnancy ending in miscarriage” “How to tell if I’m pregnant with a boy or a girl” “Cute ideas to tell parents that I am pregnant”

It was truly out of hand. As I spent more and more time on google, I soon realized that it was fairly easy to skew the search results based on the way that I phrased the question. I found myself thinking “Wouldn’t it be great to compare my experiences with other ladies who are going through the same things at the same time or who have gone through this before?” I eventually found myself in a facebook group of about 600 other women across the world who had apparently arrived at the same conclusion that I had- we needed to create our own community. For whatever reason we all had this need. For me, I know, it had a lot to do with this: In my immediate family on one side, I was the most recent baby born (25 years ago!) and on the other side of the family, there had been 2 second cousins born, but they lived on the other side of the country. The information regarding their gestations and upbringing did not feel accessible to me. In addition, I was the first of our close friends in the area to get pregnant. I felt as if I did not have a peer group. The women of this new facebook group were all due around the same time that I was. Some were first time moms like me, others had one or multiple other children as well. I truly believe that the best thing that I could have done for myself early in the pregnancy was join this group. These women allowed me to ask the candid questions that I needed answered so badly, all while hiding behind the safety of my keyboard. They did not judge or laugh at me. They shared in my excitement and in my misery. The group dwindled down in size over the 10 months of my pregnancy, with some women unfortunately losing their babies early, some women just choosing that it was not an outlet that they needed any longer, and some women being kindly asked to leave because of passing unfair judgement or just being outright rude. By the end of my pregnancy, there was a solid group of about 50 women or so, who were (and to this day, still are) women who I consider my friends. We have shared in each others’ joy and sorrow, we have all asked “stupid” questions, and we have all shared our input on our fair share of “TMI” questions that you would only ask a close group of girlfriends who have their own experiences to base an opinion off of. We are all honest about our experiences – the good, the bad, and the ugly – so that we can collectively grow and learn from them.

After Little Man’s arrival, I also started to recognize the need to get out of the house and find other local women who were in the same place in their lives that I was. Much to my delight, I was able to join a “Mom & Baby Meetup” through the Doula group that I used to help aid in my son’s birth. Since joining, I have been blown away by the impact that these women have had on me as a woman and mother. The first time that we met, I remember being taken aback upon realizing that I could stay seated right where I was and breastfeed my beautiful baby boy uncovered, all while speaking candidly and honestly with these remarkable women. It was freeing. I remember feeling warm and fuzzy inside as we shared our birth stories. I remember genuinely choking up when I realized that, though our birth experiences and journeys to motherhood were all so different, we were all going through the same trials. I remember the relief that I felt when I realized that other new moms were having the same challenges that I was every day.

Whenever I am feeling like navigating postpartum life is near impossible, I just take out my phone and call/text/facebook any of my beautiful, strong-willed mommy friends for reassurance and validation. I am eternally grateful to these communities for helping me keep perspective and remember that I am not on this journey alone.

On a daily basis, I am forced to participate in a society that places very little value on the relationship between a mother and her young infant, but I find solace in the fact that I am doing my part to help reverse the vicious cycle. I want there to be an overwhelming support and sense of community for my friends as they begin their journeys into motherhood. I want them to have the option to use it to their advantage or to go about it on their own. I have vowed to my girlfriends that, as the pioneer mother among us, I will candidly share any/all aspects of my pregnancy, labor, and child-rearing experiences with them if they want to hear it. I want their pregnancies to come ready-made with the sense of warmth, support, and inclusion that I had to seek out.

 

41 Hours- A Birth Story

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From the beginning, I had wanted a natural birth experience. Though there is a crunchy granola part of me that would have loved to birth my son at home in a tub and immediately crawl into my own bed afterward, the larger, more sensible part of me decided that I could still have a natural birth in a hospital, as long as I surrounded myself with the right support team. At least that way, should (God forbid) something go wrong, we had all of modern medicine at our disposal should we need it. This decision started me on my quest to find the most amazing birth team possible, and let me tell you, I believe 100% that my birth story turned out the way it did because of the amazing team that I surrounded myself with. First and foremost, my amazing, strong husband, who advocated for me and supported me mentally & physically from beginning to end of this marathon labor. On the medical end, we had Linda, our spectacular, nurturing midwife who I literally trust with my life. Rounding out the team were our Doulas, Jocelyn & Giselle. Their role was vital for the whole natural-birth-in-a-hospital experience. Jocelyn & Giselle had been a part of my pregnancy since I was about 25 weeks along. We took their childbirth class, and they had been on call for questions or concerns since our relationship started. Once labor began, they were there to act as mental support for me to keep me focused on my path to natural labor, and also help provide physical relief as I labored. I say without a doubt that this whole experience would have been very different if not for Jocelyn & Giselle, and I am eternally grateful to them for the experience that they helped create.

Friday, March 28th had been my last day of work. Being a timely person myself, I fully expected my son to arrive on his due date of Monday, March 31st, or even a little bit before if I did things particularly right. The days leading up to my due date were spent analyzing every little sensation happening in my body. Was this finally labor? Was it happening?! Imagine my surprise (not!) when the 31st came and went with no baby. Once the 1st of April rolled around, I decided that my only job was to figure out how to bring this baby earthside. The following few days consisted of drinking a lot of cinnamon tea, eating pineapple, bouncing on my exercise ball, walking through stores, driving over potholes, and just about anything else I could do to “bring on labor”. In retrospect, I probably should have spent a little bit more of this time napping and relaxing on the couch, since I don’t think that any of these things actually helped little man on his journey. He came when he was ready.

On the morning of Wednesday April 2, I woke up around 3:30 am to contractions. I remember waiting out the contractions and using the handy “contraction timer” app on my phone to time them. After about an hour of consistent contractions about 3-5 minutes apart, I excitedly woke Mike up and said to him “I think we’re going to have a baby today!” He was so excited. I texted our Doulas, who told me to head back to bed and get as much rest as I could and to update them when I woke up again. After a few more hours of sleep, I woke up again and much to my dismay, the contractions had stopped. I remember feeling bad for getting Mike excited for nothing. Frustration. More bouncing, tea drinking, walking, etc.

Thursday morning, April 3, I awoke to slight cramping again and shortly after getting up, my “show” made its appearance. My contractions were nothing like the ones that I was having the previous morning, but not nothing at all. Mike took the day off and we took advantage of the opportunity to run some errands, though I was exhausted. We walked Target & Home Depot, then came home and made ourselves spaghetti for dinner- what I would soon realize would be the last real meal I would eat until after Michael’s arrival. We decided at this point that the reality was that Baby Michael was probably going to make his appearance sooner rather than later, so we called my parents in Michigan and suggested that they plan to leave MI and head toward IL first thing Friday morning, just to be safe. Around 7pm on Thursday, my contractions started in earnest. I texted my Doulas an update and hopped in the tub to try to relax. I spent the evening timing my contractions, which were regularly coming about 7-8 minutes apart, but I could still function through them. I decided to crawl into bed to rest and see what happened. When Mike came to bed, I remember saying to him “This might be the last night that we ever go to bed together without a baby”. As it turns out, I was only partially right.

After a few short hours of sleep, I woke up around 1am on Friday April 4 to painful contractions. I didn’t want to get my hopes up again like I had on Wednesday, so I tried to just relax in bed and see how they went. By 2:30am, I realized that this was the real deal and I woke up Mike to tell him that I was going to call Jocelyn over to help me work through the contractions. Jocelyn got to the house around 3:30am and, though Mike wanted to get up, I told him to stay in bed and sleep as long as he could since I had Jocelyn and my wonderful little dogs at my side to help me through these early stages of labor. We had no idea just how much he would appreciate that extra little bit of sleep as the labor unfolded. Jocelyn and I sat in the living room with the dogs as the contractions became more and more difficult for me to get through. We watched “That Touch of Mink” with Doris Day and Carey Grant, then put on my “Kings of Convenience” radio station on Pandora once I wasn’t able to enjoy the movie any more. It was at this point, when contractions were still manageable, that I said to Jocelyn a few things that would end up being my inspiration throughout the rest of my labor. The first thing I said was “The best thing about contractions is that they always end.” which is absolutely true, though much harder to remember at the end of labor. I also shared with Jocelyn my personal mantra for life, which is “In this moment, I am perfect.” I let her know that, to me, this meant that my body and spirit are always in the place that they need to be, doing what they need to be doing in that exact moment. Jocelyn remembered this and recited it back to me many times throughout the next few days. During this early labor, Jocelyn applied pressure to my lower back, massaged my legs, put a cold washcloth on my forehead, and suggested new positions as I labored in the comfort of my living room. By around 8am, Mike had gotten up and we decided it was nearly time to head into the hospital. Jocelyn said that I should eat some protein to build up my strength, so Mike gave me a hard boiled egg which did not sit well with my stomach. I threw it up immediately and we decided to just stick with juice. Shortly after, we gathered all of our hospital bags and hit the road. On the way in, we called the hospital to let them know that we were on our way and would like the room with the tub if it was available, since there is only one at the hospital. I also called Linda to let her know that it was baby time. The answering service passed the message along, but surprisingly, I got a call back from the other, newer Midwife in the practice letting me know that it was her on call day at the hospital and Linda would not be there. “OK, I can deal with this.” I thought. After all, I knew that it was a possibility that Linda wouldn’t deliver my baby, but I didn’t realize until later how much this fact would genuinely affect my labor.

Regardless, we arrived at the hospital around 9:30am, where I was showed to the one room with a birthing tub (yay!) after a relatively easy check in process. Shortly after, the other midwife came in and checked my cervix. I was dilated to 4 cm, which surprised all of us, as we really thought that I had dilated further after the contractions that I had been having. The other Midwife was excited and said “It looks like we are going to have a baby today!” Which is the best thing that a woman in labor can hear. She then followed up with “…one way or another. Because I really want to sleep in my own bed tonight.” I know she meant it as a light-hearted joke, but that latter part of her sentence ended up haunting me the rest of that day. After my check, I got comfy in the wonderful cotton labor gown that I brought from home and got hooked up to the wireless monitors. I asked if I could get into the tub to labor, but was told that I couldn’t because it might slow down labor and we didn’t want that to happen at this point. I sadly obliged, and for the next several hours we walked the halls of the hospital, bounced on the exercise ball, and swayed to rhythm of my contractions. At some point my parents showed up, so Mike and I walked out to the waiting area to meet them and give them an update, even though there really wasn’t much to share. I continued to request that I hop in the tub, but was shot down by the midwife each time. At about 4pm, she came back in to checked my cervix again. I was only dilated to “maybe 5 centimeters.” It was so disheartening. “All that work, and for what?” I thought. In retrospect, I know that those hours of labor were probably rotating my baby and pushing him down my birth canal, but without that physical evidence of dilation and use of the phrase “failure to progress”, it was a very tough emotional moment in my labor.

After this check, the Midwife decided it was time to make a decision. She presented me with these options: 1) Allow her to break my waters (they had not yet ruptured on their own) to push my labor along, or 2) Go home and come back later. WHAT!? This was not what Linda and I had discussed. I asked for a few minutes to think over my options. “Why isn’t it an option for me to stay there and labor at the hospital?” “Its not like there was a line out the door of women waiting for a room in labor & delivery!” “I don’t want to lose my tub room!” I said. Was this because she wanted to go home and sleep in her own bed like she said earlier?” I thought. I didn’t know her well enough to trust that she had my best interest in mind, though I realized later that she did. I debated the options with Mike, who pointed out to me that we probably didn’t want to go with option number one yet, because if I still did not dilate further after getting my waters broken, we would then have to do Pitocin, and if that didn’t work within a certain amount of time, we would be headed down a road of interventions that we did NOT want to go down. I am so grateful to him for his clarity in that moment. I was, however, still confused as to why we couldn’t stay, so I asked the Midwife when she returned. Her answer was not straight-forward enough for a woman in labor to understand. Again, in hindsight, it is amazing that she even allowed me to go home to relax and labor in the relative comfort of my own cozy surroundings, but I would have felt much better about it if I had been given the option to stay, then gently nudged toward the option of going home. Mike was unhappy with her answer as well, and decided to go into the hall to have some words with her. I was oblivious at the time, but apparently he used some persuasive, choice words with her which have earned him a bit of a reputation at the OB/Midwife practice now that the ordeal is over. (“If we get into a car accident on the way home or my wife delivers our baby at home and something happens to him, that’s on you!” or something to that effect) Regardless, I am so grateful for his efforts, because he came back in with a new option #3 that I was much more comfortable with: We could have one more hour to walk, bounce, etc at the hospital to see if I progressed any more. If I hadn’t dilated any further, we would then head home to labor more. So, after another excruciating hour with no more dilation, we threw our arms up and decided to head home with the best attitude possible.

It was time for Jocelyn to head home for some sleep, as she had been up with me since 2:30am, so Giselle came and met us at the hospital then came back to the house with us. The car ride was pure hell for me, as I was exhausted, frustrated, and there were a lot of potholes! When we got home, I managed to somehow, in between contractions, eat a piece of toast and hop in the shower. After my shower, I crawled into bed with Giselle right behind me. I was so exhausted that I managed to nap between contractions, only to wake up screaming to strong contractions that I was not able to mentally prepare myself for in my sleep. Mike tried to sleep on the couch, but ended up in the bedroom with us as he had been woken up by my very loud vocalizations. He relieved Giselle for a while and let her take a quick nap. By 4am or so, I couldn’t figure out how to get through contractions anymore. I remember laying down, sitting up in bed, folding myself over a stack of pillows, sitting on the exercise ball draped in Mike’s arms, hot compresses, cold towels- the list goes on and on. There were a lot of tears and exhaustion. I started to think about going back on my plan and getting an epidural. By 6am on Saturday April 5, I was at my wits end. I decided it was time to go back to the hospital and no one was going to stop me.

We grabbed our bags again and headed into the hospital again. We called the hospital again and told them we wanted the tub room again. We called our Midwife office answering service again, but this time, to my absolute delight, Linda called me back to let me know that she was on call for labor and delivery that day. I was as happy as I could be at that point. The car ride back to the hospital was almost too much to take. It was so painful for me to have a contraction while sitting still, sitting straight up, and going over potholes. I remember weeping in the car and telling Mike that if I had not dilated any further when we got to the hospital, I was going to have to get an epidural because I just couldn’t do it anymore. Mike respectfully said “Let’s just see how things are going when we get there, then we can decide.”

Mike, Giselle and I arrived at the hospital around 6:30am and were met by Jocelyn again. Linda was also there waiting for us, and together, the 5 of us walked right back into the room with the tub (thank God!) where she checked my cervix and excitedly informed me that I was dilated to 8cm! All thoughts of giving up on my plan were gone from my mind, and in their place was excitement, determination, and a new vigor. Linda handled me with such warmth and compassion and made me feel so completely at ease. She said that she was so proud of how far I had come and that I could hop right into the tub to labor my last few centimeters. I was so relieved. The tub felt so nice. I distinctly remember labor in the tub. There were some contractions that continued to burn and rip through me like others had, but there were others where I was able to just float in the water and breathe through them. It was amazing how much more manageable they felt. That water was miraculous.

After about an hour in water, I started shaking and throwing up, so together we decided it was time for me to get out as I was probably in transition. Linda, who was in the room focusing all of her nurturing and attention on me, checked me again and let me know that I was at 9cm and it was time to break my waters! Since I was so far along at this point, I was OK with this decision and let her go ahead with it. I remember a few times during the last few days of pregnancy thinking “Did my water just break?” and looking back, I can’t help but laugh because I now know that I would have KNOWN if my water had broken! After it was done, I remember being SO grateful that I hadn’t let the other Midwife do it sooner. The quality of the contractions changed so much. They came much quicker and stronger and I started getting very VERY loud and vocal. I distinctly remember screaming “F*CK!!!!!!!!!!!!!” at the top of my lungs during the first contraction after my water was broken. From that point, I screamed “I can’t! I can’t!” many times, until I was reminded that “you can” from my awesome Doulas, at which point I started to scream “I can! I can!” instead. I like to think that I somehow managed a sarcastic tone, even in the throngs of delivering my baby.

At 10:10am, Linda finally pronounced me 10 centimeters dilated and said that I could push. I was very hesitant at first, as it was just too much pain and pressure to take, but then I realized that the only way out of this state was to push. SO. I. PUSHED. I remembered hearing in yoga and childbirth class that “if you feel like you’re pooping, you’re using the right muscles” so that is how I pushed. For the last portion of my pushing, Linda said that she was going to give me instructions while I was pushing and it was very important that I follow them, so I took her word as law. She said push, I pushed. She said exhale for 5 counts, I exhaled for 5 counts. She said push again, I pushed again. Until I felt like I was going to pass out. After 32 minutes of me feeling my body do things that I never imagined it could do, I heard the scream of my beautiful baby. In the middle of what she promised to be my last push, Linda presented me with the one experience that I didn’t even know I wanted more than anything else in my labor. Right after Michael’s head was delivered, during the most intense part of pushing, she said “Honey, open your eyes and look at your baby. Do you want to catch your son?” I opened my eyes which had been slammed shut to focus on exerting as much power as I could during pushing, saw that sweet, sweet baby’s head, and replied “GIVE HIM TO ME!” I reached down, grabbing my baby boy by the underarms, and pulled his soft, squishy, wet, wiggly little body onto my chest.

I did not escape the whole ordeal unscathed, with a few stitches and a broken tailbone as souveniers, but I didn’t care. I did it. He was here, in all of his 8lb 13 oz, 22 inch glory. I couldn’t believe it! After 41 long hours of labor, my sweet, sweet son had arrived- and he was all mine forever.

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They say hindsight is 20/20, and I absolutely believe it to be true. A few things that I took away from my birthing experience:

1) Mental state plays a huge role in physical progress. I really think that, subconsciously, I wanted Linda to deliver my son, thus accounting for my supposed “stalled labor” on the first day

2) Don’t necessarily abide by the “rules” of labor- trust your instinct. My contractions never really got closer together than 6 minutes apart. Up until the time I started pushing, I was still able to doze briefly in between contractions. My body was doing exactly what it needed in order for me to safely deliver my baby. If I would have waited for my contractions to be 3-4 minutes apart before going to the hospital like they say, we would have had the baby at home!

3) Its OK to change your birth plan/its really important to have a birth team that you trust. We went into the labor knowing that we wanted a natural labor and delivery, but open to the fact that it may change. We trusted our team of Doulas and Midwives implicitly and know that they were supportive of a natural labor if it was going to be safe to do. We came to terms with the fact that, if they suggested that it was necessary for an intervention (ie. c-section, etc.) it was because it was medically necessary, not just because they wanted to move things along and get us out of the hospital. Granted, that trust had not been established with the first Midwife, which accounted for some of the stress of that first day. Also, by the 2nd morning when I said I would want an epidural if I hadn’t progressed, I had already thought a lot about it and made peace with the decision. I would not have physically been able to continue to labor like I had been for much longer than I did, and if I couldn’t push when I eventually needed to due to exhaustion, that would have defeated the whole purpose of my natural labor because it would have most likely resulted in a much more dramatic intervention.

4) The instinct and physical capability of a woman in labor is truly remarkable. I will never forget the struggle and pain that I went through, yet I find myself yearning to experience it all over again. I want to re-live those moments over and over- the first time I felt my son, heard my son, saw my husband’s face in my son. It was all worth it, and I am so grateful that I was mentally present so that I could truly appreciate what my body and spirit were going through during the onset of labor, in the throngs of delivery, and during those first precious moments when my life became whole.

Definition

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Milk noun \ˈmilk\ Drunken adj. \ˈdrəŋ-kən\ Love noun \ˈləv\:

The state of absolute bliss and untainted love experienced by a mother when she looks into the smiling eyes of her baby after nourishing his body with her own.

Arguably, the feelings associated with this state of mind perpetuate all interactions between mom and baby until the end of time.

Why Milk Drunken Love?

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A measly 3.5 weeks ago I was pregnant and oblivious.

I remember during the last few weeks of my pregnancy when some of the lovely ladies that I know who were lucky enough to already be mommies would say things to me like “Enjoy it while you can!”, “Sleep in before its too late!”, etc. etc. I know them all well enough to know that their requests of me were coming from a place of love, but I’ll tell you what- I wanted to punch them all in a hormonal rage! How could I possibly sleep with this baby torching my throat with a flamethrower and tap dancing on my bladder every night? How could I ‘enjoy’ the misery that I was going through? Surely those self-righteous Mommies had forgotten how awful the last few weeks of pregnancy were!

They say the grass is always greener, and I have learned that is especially true of pregnancy and motherhood so far. Now that I am newly crossed over to the other side, I want to (and have!) grab every pregnant woman that I can by the shoulders, shake them, and yell “ENJOY IT WHILE YOU CAN!” “SLEEP IN BEFORE ITS TOO LATE!” ETC. ETC!

I am suddenly, simply by default of having experienced childbirth and caring for a newborn, one of those aforementioned self-righteous mom-bitches, too.

I spent so much time toward the end of my pregnancy wishing time away. I didn’t revel in the relative ease with which I could run out the door on a whim to go grab a quick bite to eat. I didn’t close my eyes and breathe in the peace and comfort of relaxing on the couch with my husband watching  marathon of our favorite TV show without interruption. I did not appreciate the last few mornings I was able to sleep in past 6am or nights where I could sleep for stretches longer than 3 hours. I feel I did not spend an appropriate amount of time sorting through my feelings about ending the previous chapter of my life, and I don’t want to start this leg of the journey the same way.

I am happy to bring you along as I begin to stumble, milk drunkenly, into the realm of Mommyhood.