I met my husband for lunch today at [insert generic restaurant here]. The boys were away and I was having a girls day with the youngest, so we thought it would be fun to get together. For once, I was wearing make-up, because I had a reason to look quasi-presentable. I was also wearing a smile, because I was out and about, interacting with people and getting to spend some quality time with my best friend and best girl-baby.
He was a few minutes late, so I plopped the baby on a table, sat down and pulled out my iphone. Yanno...because god forbid we have a SECOND of idle time that is not spent in front of a screen.
But that's another blog post for another day.
As I sat there, swiping through my email (which is code for perusing facebook), I felt eyes on me. I looked up and saw a youngish woman, dressed in business-casual clothing and sporting a fancy pocketbook, staring at me.
And my stomach dropped.
Because I knew exactly what she was thinking of me, and it wasn't pretty.
How did I know?
I'm not a mind reader, but I didn't have to be.
I knew because I had been her.
SHE WAS ME just a few short years ago.
********************************
Rewind about 5 years.
I was living a 9-5 lifestyle. I would wake up, put on slacks and a blouse, do my hair and make-up, and drive to a cubicle where I would work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week.
In short...I was miserable. I wanted out. My job was almost as boring and repetative as my coworkers (thank god for the few who also moved to their own drum beat, or I would have probably committed suicide in the supply closet). My downtime was minimal and I felt more like a hamster in a wheel than a human.The grey walls of my cubicle were essentially sucking the life force out of me, and I was convinced that I was turning into a robot. Some days, I would attempt to break the monotony (and my wallet) by eating lunch at [insert generic restaurant here]. I would take my precious hour of freedom and flee into the sunshhine, briefly, and then into my car to drive to this establishmennt. I would arrive, park, and walk in.
And THEY would be there.
Those stay-at-home-moms I hated so much.
Those women, in their tight yoga pants and sporty sneakers, hair pulled back from the gym, gabbing with their friends while sipping a coffee, their babes parked next to them, sleeping soundly in their expensive "travel systems." (because mismatched car seats and strollers are for peasants).
They just looked so...happy.
So comfortably dressed, so content, so free...
Their lifestyle infuriated me because I was jealous. Not just jealous....GREEN with envy. Because they could choose their own wardrobe and spend their time how they pleased. They probably had rich husbands supporting their households, so they were left to spend the days going to the gym. And having lunch dates with friends. And shopping. And getting pedicures. And pretty much doing whatever they pleased. And well yeah, they had a baby in tow, but seriously, those things slept like 20 hours a day (or so I had heard), and honestly, it still seemed like a pretty sweet deal.
I'm embarassed to admit how ugly I was towards them. I seethed and hated and threw nasty glances. I looked down on them because they had no idea what it was like to struggle. To work and essentially sell your soul to something and get almost no life back in return.
My resentment was palpable.
I'm sure my crazy eyes scared off more than one woman.
*****************************************
So.
Fast forward 5 years.
Here I am, in [insert generic restaurant here], wearing my stylish jeans, hair done, face made up, smiling, waiting for my husband, with my sleeping baby in tow.
And SHE walks in. Miss 9-5, in her slacks and blouse, staring daggers at me.
Ouch.
I'm pretty sure she wants me to die.
Although she looked away quickly, I couldn't stop staring. My eyes were pleading with her.
Don't judge me! You have no idea!
Because she truly has no idea who I am or what my life is like.
She has no idea that I'm wearing my trendy jeans because these are the ONLY pair of pants that I have that don't have snot and yogurt on them, because I ONLY wear them when I'm "going out."
For that matter, she has no idea that the ONLY reason I don't have greasy, unwashed hair and a greasy, unwashed face is because having lunch at [insert generic restaurant here] IS MY BIG EVENT OF THE WEEK that I plan my entire life around, and that it can take me hours or even DAYS to prepare for, thanks to the endless needs of the children that I must place in front of my own.
She has no idea that I look so happy because for this is the first time in three weeks that I've left my house, and that I'd probably be wearing the same smile if I was panhandling for change, just because I was so grateful for a change of scene.
She has no idea that my job, while 1% amazing, is 99% boring and repetative, and that my downtime is minimal and that I feel more like a hamster on a wheel than a human. That my coworkers (ie, children) are essentially sucking the life force out of me, and I'm convinced that I'm turning into a robot. That some days, I attempt to break the monotony (and my wallet) by eating lunch at [insert generic restaurant here]. So I take my precious day of freedom (even though I still have the baby, so it's not REALLY freedom) to flee into the sunshine, briefly, and then into my car to drive to this establishment.
Do you see what I'm going for here?
This woman has no idea that we have the same struggle. And the thing that sucks most is that she'll never know unless she decides to pop out a few kids and become a stay-at-home-mom.
Being a stay-at-home-mom, I constantly have a war going on inside of me. The "old" me tells me that I should be grateful for my lavish lifestyle and feel fortunate for being able to stay home and care for my children. Meanwhile, the "new" me is all bitch, PLEASE, you call this lavish?!? And she's right, because most days I work 10 times harder than I ever did in my corporate job, while feeling 100 times more defeated, all the while looking like I crawled out of some dumpster in Bayonne.
And when I go out, I know that a certain percentage of the population is judging me. They think I have a sweet deal because I'm "taking time off of work" to raise the kids. Which implies that I'm not working, but rather doing the post-collage equivalent of backpacking through Europe. (which couldn't be farther from the truth. I CANNOT EMPHASIZE ENOUGH how far I am to anything resembling a backpacking vacation. Or any vacation, for that matter.)
And I can't blame them, because I used to judge too.
But their judgement is nothing compared to the judgement I place on myself, and that kind of blows big time.
To this day, I have to constantly remind myself that I'm actually working and contributing. EVEN WHEN I'm exhausted and aching and broken and haven't slept in days, part of me is telling me that I"m living a "lavish" lifestyle for which I should be grateful.
And you know what? I don't think I'm alone.
I think many stay-at-home-moms fight similar deamons. Because we know what society is thinking, and even if society is REGRETABLY MISINFORMED, we buy into it on some level.
Stay-at-home-mom = non-worker.
Am I right?
There's no real moral to this story. No great way to wrap it up in a tidy little bundle, because life is messy, and humans have a tendancy to forego empathy and jump right to nasty, inappropriate conclusions about other people. Hey, I'm as guilty as anyone for that.
So I guess it really goes back to those old sayings...
What are they?
Something like:
Be kind to everyone, for they're fighting a great battle
or
Before you judge someone, walk a mile in their shoes
or
If you're going to eat, wait 30 minutes before jumping into the judgement pool
or something like that.
Long story short...next time see a mom in yoga pants with greasy hair, just assume she's in yoga pants because all her other pants are dirty/too tight and her hair is greasy because she hasn't showered in 3 days.
Then tell her that her job - and her struggles - are legitimate. She would appreciate it.
And then buy her a coffee.
Because chances are she hasn't slept in days.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
A note to myself, when I had infertility
Valentine's Day is kind of a loaded holiday for me. (yeah, says every woman on the planet)
But not for the typical reasons - the unrequited romantic love and the like.
It only became a loaded holiday very recently, when my husband and I tried to conceive - and failed miserably, multiple years in a row.
The first Valentine's Day was right around the time when we started trying. We were full of hope. Not yet married, but that was only a technicality. We were in love and committed and ready to start a family. That Valentine's Day, the world was ours for the taking, and our lives were about to begin. It was an amazing and empowering feeling.
By the time the next Valentine's Day rolled around, it was clear that something was wrong. We were married but not pregnant. Despite all the tracking and all the planning and the scouring of the internet, there was no baby. We had been referred to an infertility specialist.
Infertility.
The word infertility penetrated every waking hour of every day. Our fairy tale had come to a crashing halt. The life we imagined was slipping through our fingers with every month that went by. With every period that I got, our sense of failure grew. We celebrated that Valentine's day wondering if it was always going to be just us. Forever a table of 2. It was a dark time.
The Valentine's Day after that? Hooo boy. It was a doozy. I was in the middle of our second IVF treatment (the first, around Halloween, had failed. It was a blow that I have yet to recover from). I was up to my elbows in injections and bloodwork and invasive, humiliating procedures. It was all or nothing. We had every reason to think this one would fail too, but for some reason we refused to give up hope.
That hope paid off. We were pregnant with twins by the end of the month.
We now have two absolutely incredible two-year-olds PLUS a surprise 4 month old who beat all the odds and insisted on BEING when we were told that we probably couldn't have kids on our own.
These kids are the light of my life.
And now, five years from our first attempts to start a family and three years out from that second IVF, there is so, SO MUCH that I would say to person I was then. Much more than can be put into this blog (or even put into words), but it would include some of the following:
1. This is going to suck. Big time.
Every person handles stress differently. I, for one, handle stress like an overdramatic EMO teenager with a serious case of PMS. I have actually built my life around this fact, and have minimized stress wherever possible, mostly because at any given time, I'm one late credit card payment or plumbing leak away from a nervous breakdown. But when I am FORCED to manage my stress, I find that knowing I'm in for a difficult time before it happens can be what gets me through. I'm all about being prepared (like a manic boyscout with OCD).
Unfortunately, with pregnancy, you never know when the universe could align and you could just be pregnant. Despite all the infertility talk and tests and whatnot, I always held out that I could be pregnant, like, next week, and then I wouldn't have to keep going on with this medical intervention. I honestly didn't have a clue that my infertility would culminate in a two-year battle of awfulness, both physical and emotional, that I can't really put into words. Had I known that I was in for such a rough time, I could have gathered my strenght and prepared for battle. But I was blindsided, and it made it that much more difficult to endure.
2. Leave your dignity at the door.
The first time I went in to be monitored, the ultrasound tech held up this long, turkey-baster-looking object, told me to spread my legs, and warned me that this might feel a little cold. Holy cow. The amont of people who knew my ovulation schedule or had seen my vagine by the time a year had gone by was astronomical. From the receptionist to the ultrasound crew to my doctor, everyone knew my estrogen level at any given time, and that I had an anatomical curviture that made IUI difficult. During every IVF, I laid there, spread eagle, while a surgical staff of at least 10 ambled around, discussing the weather while fiddling with equipment. It was humiliating. But honey, if that's what it takes, then you might as well slap a smile on your face and embrace it. The good news is that it completely prepared me for birth, because if you have even a SHRED of dignity left after IVF, it's violently ripped from your sweaty hands during and after the delivery of your children.
Seriously.
Say goodbye to your modesty or any sexual appeal that you might have to your spouse. Becasue shit is about to get real.
3. The shots are not a big deal.
It's amazing how quickly out-of-the-ordinary things can become ordinary. Everybody talks about the injections, and how horrible it must be. And sure, it's no picnic. Nobody WANTS to penetrate their skin with needles 3 times a day. But compared to the emotional pain you're enduring during infertility, the physical pain of those needles is nothing. And if those needles can be a path to END your emotional pain, so much the better. Wake up, pee, shower, shot, and you're on your way. Don't stress.
4. Keep your expectations realistic.
While I was undergoing infertility treatment, I told myself, my husband, and the universe that if I could just have a child, I'd never be unhappy again.
Ridiculous.
OF COURSE I'm glad to have my children but am I happy 100% of the time? No way, jose. You know what? Kids are hard. Yes, they are wonderful and amazing little creatures, but they can also break you. They will wreck you like a hurricane and leave nothing in their wake but destruction and tears. They are LIFE-ALTERING events, and you sacrifice A LOT to have them. And then there's...yanno...LIFE, which can also bring it's share of misery and challenges. So to think that I only needed kids to be happy was unrealistic, and I'm now dealing with the added guilt of hating myself for being unhappy when I PROMISED the universe that I would have a smile on my face every day that I was a mom. It's taking a therapist and a lot of introspection to work through, and I should have never put that pressure on myself. Lesson learned. At $40 an hour.
5. Have fun while you can.
Easier said than done. It's nearly impossible to have fun when the threat of a meaningless, barren existance is hanging over your head 24/7. But I was so preoccupied being miserable, I didn't really take advantage of my childless situation. The silver lining of infertility (as long as it's temporary) is that it buys you the time and freedom to enjoy all the things that childless couples enjoy. Like traveling and sleeping in and drinking beer for dinner because nobody is relying on you to keep them alive (except maybe the dog, and it's easy to be a dog-mommy while drunk. just don't forget to lock the back door before you go to bed). I should have done more of those things instead of wallowing in self pity. Because now I'm looking back from a weary, sleep-deprived, and isolated state and KICKING myself for not fully exploiting that freedom. To those of you who are currently struggling with infertility: PLEASE take some time for yourselves. Because eventually you WILL have children (I pinky swear times infinity) and you will deeply miss those extra hours of sleep and a change of scenery.
And finally,
6. You will get through this. And it will be worth everything.
Dear former self:
You are stronger than you ever imagined (and no, crying does not mean you're weak). You are a rockstar and a warrior. You will fight for your children, and you will have EARNED them. You will be a million times tougher for going through this experience. You will know that you and your husband can handle adversity because you have seen each other through the darkest of times and come through with an unbreakable bond. When you're struggling as a mom, on your knees, ready to break, you will remember this time of sacrifice and pain and GET UP OFF THE FLOOR and be a better mom for your kids.
YOU CAN DO THIS.
Lean on your partner, let him lean on you, and keep going. Because the reward is worth a million years of suffering.
YOU ARE A MOM.
You just don't know it yet.
But not for the typical reasons - the unrequited romantic love and the like.
It only became a loaded holiday very recently, when my husband and I tried to conceive - and failed miserably, multiple years in a row.
The first Valentine's Day was right around the time when we started trying. We were full of hope. Not yet married, but that was only a technicality. We were in love and committed and ready to start a family. That Valentine's Day, the world was ours for the taking, and our lives were about to begin. It was an amazing and empowering feeling.
By the time the next Valentine's Day rolled around, it was clear that something was wrong. We were married but not pregnant. Despite all the tracking and all the planning and the scouring of the internet, there was no baby. We had been referred to an infertility specialist.
Infertility.
The word infertility penetrated every waking hour of every day. Our fairy tale had come to a crashing halt. The life we imagined was slipping through our fingers with every month that went by. With every period that I got, our sense of failure grew. We celebrated that Valentine's day wondering if it was always going to be just us. Forever a table of 2. It was a dark time.
The Valentine's Day after that? Hooo boy. It was a doozy. I was in the middle of our second IVF treatment (the first, around Halloween, had failed. It was a blow that I have yet to recover from). I was up to my elbows in injections and bloodwork and invasive, humiliating procedures. It was all or nothing. We had every reason to think this one would fail too, but for some reason we refused to give up hope.
That hope paid off. We were pregnant with twins by the end of the month.
We now have two absolutely incredible two-year-olds PLUS a surprise 4 month old who beat all the odds and insisted on BEING when we were told that we probably couldn't have kids on our own.
These kids are the light of my life.
And now, five years from our first attempts to start a family and three years out from that second IVF, there is so, SO MUCH that I would say to person I was then. Much more than can be put into this blog (or even put into words), but it would include some of the following:
1. This is going to suck. Big time.
Every person handles stress differently. I, for one, handle stress like an overdramatic EMO teenager with a serious case of PMS. I have actually built my life around this fact, and have minimized stress wherever possible, mostly because at any given time, I'm one late credit card payment or plumbing leak away from a nervous breakdown. But when I am FORCED to manage my stress, I find that knowing I'm in for a difficult time before it happens can be what gets me through. I'm all about being prepared (like a manic boyscout with OCD).
Unfortunately, with pregnancy, you never know when the universe could align and you could just be pregnant. Despite all the infertility talk and tests and whatnot, I always held out that I could be pregnant, like, next week, and then I wouldn't have to keep going on with this medical intervention. I honestly didn't have a clue that my infertility would culminate in a two-year battle of awfulness, both physical and emotional, that I can't really put into words. Had I known that I was in for such a rough time, I could have gathered my strenght and prepared for battle. But I was blindsided, and it made it that much more difficult to endure.
2. Leave your dignity at the door.
The first time I went in to be monitored, the ultrasound tech held up this long, turkey-baster-looking object, told me to spread my legs, and warned me that this might feel a little cold. Holy cow. The amont of people who knew my ovulation schedule or had seen my vagine by the time a year had gone by was astronomical. From the receptionist to the ultrasound crew to my doctor, everyone knew my estrogen level at any given time, and that I had an anatomical curviture that made IUI difficult. During every IVF, I laid there, spread eagle, while a surgical staff of at least 10 ambled around, discussing the weather while fiddling with equipment. It was humiliating. But honey, if that's what it takes, then you might as well slap a smile on your face and embrace it. The good news is that it completely prepared me for birth, because if you have even a SHRED of dignity left after IVF, it's violently ripped from your sweaty hands during and after the delivery of your children.
Seriously.
Say goodbye to your modesty or any sexual appeal that you might have to your spouse. Becasue shit is about to get real.
3. The shots are not a big deal.
It's amazing how quickly out-of-the-ordinary things can become ordinary. Everybody talks about the injections, and how horrible it must be. And sure, it's no picnic. Nobody WANTS to penetrate their skin with needles 3 times a day. But compared to the emotional pain you're enduring during infertility, the physical pain of those needles is nothing. And if those needles can be a path to END your emotional pain, so much the better. Wake up, pee, shower, shot, and you're on your way. Don't stress.
4. Keep your expectations realistic.
While I was undergoing infertility treatment, I told myself, my husband, and the universe that if I could just have a child, I'd never be unhappy again.
Ridiculous.
OF COURSE I'm glad to have my children but am I happy 100% of the time? No way, jose. You know what? Kids are hard. Yes, they are wonderful and amazing little creatures, but they can also break you. They will wreck you like a hurricane and leave nothing in their wake but destruction and tears. They are LIFE-ALTERING events, and you sacrifice A LOT to have them. And then there's...yanno...LIFE, which can also bring it's share of misery and challenges. So to think that I only needed kids to be happy was unrealistic, and I'm now dealing with the added guilt of hating myself for being unhappy when I PROMISED the universe that I would have a smile on my face every day that I was a mom. It's taking a therapist and a lot of introspection to work through, and I should have never put that pressure on myself. Lesson learned. At $40 an hour.
5. Have fun while you can.
Easier said than done. It's nearly impossible to have fun when the threat of a meaningless, barren existance is hanging over your head 24/7. But I was so preoccupied being miserable, I didn't really take advantage of my childless situation. The silver lining of infertility (as long as it's temporary) is that it buys you the time and freedom to enjoy all the things that childless couples enjoy. Like traveling and sleeping in and drinking beer for dinner because nobody is relying on you to keep them alive (except maybe the dog, and it's easy to be a dog-mommy while drunk. just don't forget to lock the back door before you go to bed). I should have done more of those things instead of wallowing in self pity. Because now I'm looking back from a weary, sleep-deprived, and isolated state and KICKING myself for not fully exploiting that freedom. To those of you who are currently struggling with infertility: PLEASE take some time for yourselves. Because eventually you WILL have children (I pinky swear times infinity) and you will deeply miss those extra hours of sleep and a change of scenery.
And finally,
6. You will get through this. And it will be worth everything.
Dear former self:
You are stronger than you ever imagined (and no, crying does not mean you're weak). You are a rockstar and a warrior. You will fight for your children, and you will have EARNED them. You will be a million times tougher for going through this experience. You will know that you and your husband can handle adversity because you have seen each other through the darkest of times and come through with an unbreakable bond. When you're struggling as a mom, on your knees, ready to break, you will remember this time of sacrifice and pain and GET UP OFF THE FLOOR and be a better mom for your kids.
YOU CAN DO THIS.
Lean on your partner, let him lean on you, and keep going. Because the reward is worth a million years of suffering.
YOU ARE A MOM.
You just don't know it yet.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Panic and Pepto Bismol
You'd be surprised how many times I've thought about writing a blog or actually sat down to write a blog, only to be deterred by one of a million distractions (both physical and mental). I honestly thought that without my horse and without my ability to exercise comfortably and without my ability to pretty much do anything I enjoy doing, I'd be blogging my socks off. But it hasn't been the case, and I'll tell you why:
There is nothing funny about raising twin toddlers while thirty-something weeks pregnant.
Trust me.
There is NOTHING funny about chasing around two miniature crackheads while waddling around with something akin to an extra-large bag of dog food strapped to your midsection.
There is NOTHING funny about having your giant, freakish belly treated like a beanbag chair/punching bag/table top by two sets of hands, elbows, knees, and teeth (no, I'm not kidding - they're biters).
And there is certainly NOTHING funny about trying to reel in your emotions as your children's antics stretch each and every one of them (good AND bad) to the breaking point...all before you've had your morning cup of decaf.
Talk about depressing...
I vaguely remember being pregnant with the boys, and wondering at how any woman managed to maintain a full-time job and/or watch their other children while being pregnant. I also vaguely remember wondering this while I was taking a break from my cushy freelance writing work to sit out on the deck, put my feet up, and sip iced tea. And if there was EVER a point where I wanted to invent a time machine, go back in time, and punch myself in the face, NOW IS THAT TIME.
Because I'm LIVING the nightmare that I once saw other women trapped in, and let me tell ya, it smells like panic and pepto bismol.
I wake up uncomfortable, with an aching back, sausage fingers, and heartburn, and it's all down-hill from there. I get stepped on, kicked, elbowed, beaten, screamed at, poked, wacked...you name it ...all the while trying desperately to protect my protruding belly with the grace of of a constipated hippo. Oh, you dropped a toy? You want me to pick it up? Awesome. I love the feeling of all the oxygen being squished out of my body like an accordian when I bend over. Oh, you want to step on my feet to get 2 inches closer to the counter top? Why not? It's not like my feet aren't already swollen, disfigured lumps of flesh anyway. Let's add some indian burn to the mix.
I'm exhausted. Like, nonstop. It's the exhaustion that I used to experience after backpacking in the mountains all day, except at the end of the day I feel defeated rather than accomplished, and instead of achieving inner peace from communing with nature, I've tapped into every nut-house emotion that my hormones can serve up. Because why WOULDN'T you break down in tears when your son throws a handful of raisins on the floor. Seems totally legit, right? RIGHT?!?!
I'm also angry. And a little suicidal. Because I can't drink coffee. And I can't drink wine. And I can't eat soft cheeses. And a world devoid of caffeine, alcohol, and brie is not a world that I care to live in, but I HAVE to, otherwise the kid will be born with three eyes or something, and it'll be all my fault.
My advanced state of desperation is really a shame, because the boys are just amazing. Every day they're doing something I've never seen them do before. They're full of life and learning to manage things like utensils and emotions and all in all just simply wonderful. And I'm missing it, mostly because I'm at my wits end and I truly believe that I will keel over and DIE if I have to pick them up just one more time.
I know in the back of my head that they are growing up so, SO QUICKLY and my time to hold them and just breathe them in is short-lived and coming to a close (they're already wriggling out of many of my hugs). I know that I need to cherish these moments and not let a little back pain and fatigue get in the way of this wonderful time in their lives.
I know this. I really do.
But for realz, pregnancy is not a comfortable process, and it's hard to put the aches and pains in perspective. I only wish the boys understood and could maybe go a little easy on me when they want to use me as playground equipment.
Fortunately, the pregnancy is wrapping up. The baby is still in the less-than-fifth-percentile (surprise, surprise), so we're looking at delivery around 37 weeks, unless he or she suddenly pulls an A-Rod and bulks up. At 33 weeks now, that gives us precious little time to finish preparing our lives for this new stranger to enter.
It's exciting. And scary. And WEIRD, you guys, to know that I'm about to meet another person who will become one of the most important people in my life forever and always.
So I'm counting the days and hugging the boys (when I don't feel like strangling them) and reminding myself that this is the LAST TIME I will ever experience a living thing growing inside me (unless I get a tapeworm), so maybe I should just chill the F out and try to enjoy my last weeks of pregnancy - and life as I know it - before it's gone forever.
It's a bittersweet process.
So I have a lot to reflect on and a heck of a lot to look forward to.
Like a baby.
And goat cheese.
And a glass of pinot noir.
And fall, which is my favorite season of all time ever.
It's all about keeping my eye on the prize(s) and working through the discomforts.
But mostly? It's remembering how good things are, even when they seem like crap.
In other words: Perspective.
It's all about perspective.
There is nothing funny about raising twin toddlers while thirty-something weeks pregnant.
Trust me.
There is NOTHING funny about chasing around two miniature crackheads while waddling around with something akin to an extra-large bag of dog food strapped to your midsection.
There is NOTHING funny about having your giant, freakish belly treated like a beanbag chair/punching bag/table top by two sets of hands, elbows, knees, and teeth (no, I'm not kidding - they're biters).
And there is certainly NOTHING funny about trying to reel in your emotions as your children's antics stretch each and every one of them (good AND bad) to the breaking point...all before you've had your morning cup of decaf.
Talk about depressing...
I vaguely remember being pregnant with the boys, and wondering at how any woman managed to maintain a full-time job and/or watch their other children while being pregnant. I also vaguely remember wondering this while I was taking a break from my cushy freelance writing work to sit out on the deck, put my feet up, and sip iced tea. And if there was EVER a point where I wanted to invent a time machine, go back in time, and punch myself in the face, NOW IS THAT TIME.
Because I'm LIVING the nightmare that I once saw other women trapped in, and let me tell ya, it smells like panic and pepto bismol.
I wake up uncomfortable, with an aching back, sausage fingers, and heartburn, and it's all down-hill from there. I get stepped on, kicked, elbowed, beaten, screamed at, poked, wacked...you name it ...all the while trying desperately to protect my protruding belly with the grace of of a constipated hippo. Oh, you dropped a toy? You want me to pick it up? Awesome. I love the feeling of all the oxygen being squished out of my body like an accordian when I bend over. Oh, you want to step on my feet to get 2 inches closer to the counter top? Why not? It's not like my feet aren't already swollen, disfigured lumps of flesh anyway. Let's add some indian burn to the mix.
I'm exhausted. Like, nonstop. It's the exhaustion that I used to experience after backpacking in the mountains all day, except at the end of the day I feel defeated rather than accomplished, and instead of achieving inner peace from communing with nature, I've tapped into every nut-house emotion that my hormones can serve up. Because why WOULDN'T you break down in tears when your son throws a handful of raisins on the floor. Seems totally legit, right? RIGHT?!?!
I'm also angry. And a little suicidal. Because I can't drink coffee. And I can't drink wine. And I can't eat soft cheeses. And a world devoid of caffeine, alcohol, and brie is not a world that I care to live in, but I HAVE to, otherwise the kid will be born with three eyes or something, and it'll be all my fault.
My advanced state of desperation is really a shame, because the boys are just amazing. Every day they're doing something I've never seen them do before. They're full of life and learning to manage things like utensils and emotions and all in all just simply wonderful. And I'm missing it, mostly because I'm at my wits end and I truly believe that I will keel over and DIE if I have to pick them up just one more time.
I know in the back of my head that they are growing up so, SO QUICKLY and my time to hold them and just breathe them in is short-lived and coming to a close (they're already wriggling out of many of my hugs). I know that I need to cherish these moments and not let a little back pain and fatigue get in the way of this wonderful time in their lives.
I know this. I really do.
But for realz, pregnancy is not a comfortable process, and it's hard to put the aches and pains in perspective. I only wish the boys understood and could maybe go a little easy on me when they want to use me as playground equipment.
Fortunately, the pregnancy is wrapping up. The baby is still in the less-than-fifth-percentile (surprise, surprise), so we're looking at delivery around 37 weeks, unless he or she suddenly pulls an A-Rod and bulks up. At 33 weeks now, that gives us precious little time to finish preparing our lives for this new stranger to enter.
It's exciting. And scary. And WEIRD, you guys, to know that I'm about to meet another person who will become one of the most important people in my life forever and always.
So I'm counting the days and hugging the boys (when I don't feel like strangling them) and reminding myself that this is the LAST TIME I will ever experience a living thing growing inside me (unless I get a tapeworm), so maybe I should just chill the F out and try to enjoy my last weeks of pregnancy - and life as I know it - before it's gone forever.
It's a bittersweet process.
So I have a lot to reflect on and a heck of a lot to look forward to.
Like a baby.
And goat cheese.
And a glass of pinot noir.
And fall, which is my favorite season of all time ever.
It's all about keeping my eye on the prize(s) and working through the discomforts.
But mostly? It's remembering how good things are, even when they seem like crap.
In other words: Perspective.
It's all about perspective.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Normal-Risk Pregnancies Are For Suckers
It's always dicey deciding how much personal information to give on this blog. I want to be honest and discuss the matters that are important to me and foremost on my mind. But on the other hand, there's that whole "airing dirity laundry out in public" concept. I could be all like, "Yo, my butt be itchin' like CRAZY," and you could all be like, "ummmm...ew. TMI" and things between us might be weird. Well, weirder than they already are.
It's difficult for me to identify the line between sharing and going there, and even harder to make sure I don't cross it. I'm kind of an open book. Like, to a fault. And then there's my husband, who was either a ninja or a high-raking official in the CIA in a past life, and would just as soon be tortured to death than divulge what he ate for breakfast.
We're different like that.
He's a Secret Sammy and I'm an Honest Oliver [yes, I just made those names up], and those two personality types do NOT mesh when the Honest Oliver has a sensitive and poignant yet hysterically funny blog.
...I've heard.
So I kind of stewed over talking about potential problems in this pregnancy. But at the end of the day, my need to vent overrules my (or my husband's) need for privacy. Plus, I've already divulged how this child was concieved, so honestly, I think we've already gone to Weirdsville.
We went in for a routine ultrasound a few days ago and this child, who was already petite at 20 weeks, is now in the less-than-fifth percentile for size at 26 weeks. What seemed adorably compact (and easy on the vajayjay to deliver) is now starting to become a situation. The baby has been diagnosed with IUGR - intrauterine growth restriction - and while she or he seems very active and to have good blood flow, the size is definitely a concern. My pregnancy has gone from normal to high-risk, and my monitoring has been bumped up from every 4-6 weeks to every week. The doctor, while optimiztic due to the health of the baby, blood flow, and placenta, has nevertheless discussed the potential for early delivery if he/she doesn't get back on track.
And I'm like, for cryin' out loud, AGAIN with this high-risk crap?!? Doesn't a due date mean anything around here??
The boys were delivered at 34 weeks due to IUGR. They were 3 and 3.5 lbs, respectively. They have been miraculously healthy, but I've already discussed the challenges with preemies here, and I am seriously overwhelmed and frustrated at my inability to grow a normal-sized kid.
And I'm scared.
I'm in no way a worrier, but I am fully aware of the risks of IUGR and early delivery. Risks that could seriously affect the physical, emotional, and cognitive development of my child. Risk that could have life-long consequences, even with the best care. I got lucky with the boys, but I'm in no mood to run that gauntlet again.
Not to mention, the term "bed rest" takes a new and ominous tone for someone who has twin toddlers to wrangle.
And on top of this, I feel horribly guilty.
Because I haven't been eating nearly as well during this pregnancy and rest?? What IS that word??
So has my inability to eat healthy and rest caused a diagnosis of IUGR?
The medical community is still out on this subject, but it's definitely a possibility. Not just anecdotally, but, like, from the actual research, which I've read thoroughly (and I have a background in medical research). Potential maternal treatments for IUGR include bedrest and aspirin therapy, which theoretically translate into increased blood flow to the uterus. A high-protein diet may be helpful as well, but no statistic difference has been proven (yet).
In other words, there is a chance that my high activity level and subadequate diet as been negatively affecting this baby by reducing blood flow and nutrient transfer. While I was chasing the twins, I was using all my resources and not giving a fair share to the fetus.
You want to feel like a bad parent?? Try THAT on for size.
So.
I've taken the incentive to make rest and nutrition (especially, protein) a priority. Which is no easy feat when sitting on the couch amounts to "tapping in" a WWF match. For realz, I get a flying elbow to the eye socket or a bite to the achilles tendon every time I try to put my feet up. Not to mention the challenges associated with endless trips to the grocery store to stock up on fresh foods that my boys (and now I) are flying through. I saw a documentary on the San Diego Zoo on Animal Planet once and the keeper was like, "We go through 65 lbs of fruits and vegetables a day per hippo" and now I'm kind of like, yeah, us too.
I'm trying (and succeeding) to manage my stress level and I'm trying (and mostly failing) to manage my guilt level as my house falls apart around me and my already overburdened husband takes on yet more of the household chores. I'm trying my best to be a good mom, both to the twins and this fetus, and a good wife, despite our new "you go clean up the dishes while I watch Millionaire Matchmaker" dynamic. There is a lot of trying going on around here. Only time will tell if I'm succeeding.
Fortunately, I have a lot of support. I have a mother and mother-in-law nearby to help with the kids, and my husband 110% agrees with this plan of action. And last night, when I caught Isaac mid-air as he was about to sandbag my ass and explained to him that mommy needs to rest...well, he turned around and hit his brother instead. Awwwwwww!
Like I said, I'm getting a lot of support.
In the meantime, if you come to visit, please excuse the chaos. Please excuse the dirty dishes and the piles of laundry and the toys, toys, toys toys and the frazzled husband who will likely only grunt at you as he throws a kid over his shoulder and trudges off to mow the front lawn. My house is a mess. My life is kind of a mess too. But I'm being forced to choose between an orderly existance and a full-term (or near-full-term) baby right now, and as obvious as that choice sounds, it amounts to a series of small choices to NOT swiffer the floor and to NOT cook dinner and that, my friends,...is a lot harder than it sounds.
Wish me luck. We go back for another growth ultrasound in 3 weeks and I'm confident that rest + nutrition will get my little one back on track. But in the meantime, if anybody has any healthy, protein-rich recipes or babysitting services to offer, hit me up.
I, and my little baby-to-be, will be eternally grateful.
It's difficult for me to identify the line between sharing and going there, and even harder to make sure I don't cross it. I'm kind of an open book. Like, to a fault. And then there's my husband, who was either a ninja or a high-raking official in the CIA in a past life, and would just as soon be tortured to death than divulge what he ate for breakfast.
We're different like that.
He's a Secret Sammy and I'm an Honest Oliver [yes, I just made those names up], and those two personality types do NOT mesh when the Honest Oliver has a sensitive and poignant yet hysterically funny blog.
...I've heard.
So I kind of stewed over talking about potential problems in this pregnancy. But at the end of the day, my need to vent overrules my (or my husband's) need for privacy. Plus, I've already divulged how this child was concieved, so honestly, I think we've already gone to Weirdsville.
We went in for a routine ultrasound a few days ago and this child, who was already petite at 20 weeks, is now in the less-than-fifth percentile for size at 26 weeks. What seemed adorably compact (and easy on the vajayjay to deliver) is now starting to become a situation. The baby has been diagnosed with IUGR - intrauterine growth restriction - and while she or he seems very active and to have good blood flow, the size is definitely a concern. My pregnancy has gone from normal to high-risk, and my monitoring has been bumped up from every 4-6 weeks to every week. The doctor, while optimiztic due to the health of the baby, blood flow, and placenta, has nevertheless discussed the potential for early delivery if he/she doesn't get back on track.
And I'm like, for cryin' out loud, AGAIN with this high-risk crap?!? Doesn't a due date mean anything around here??
The boys were delivered at 34 weeks due to IUGR. They were 3 and 3.5 lbs, respectively. They have been miraculously healthy, but I've already discussed the challenges with preemies here, and I am seriously overwhelmed and frustrated at my inability to grow a normal-sized kid.
And I'm scared.
I'm in no way a worrier, but I am fully aware of the risks of IUGR and early delivery. Risks that could seriously affect the physical, emotional, and cognitive development of my child. Risk that could have life-long consequences, even with the best care. I got lucky with the boys, but I'm in no mood to run that gauntlet again.
Not to mention, the term "bed rest" takes a new and ominous tone for someone who has twin toddlers to wrangle.
And on top of this, I feel horribly guilty.
Because I haven't been eating nearly as well during this pregnancy and rest?? What IS that word??
So has my inability to eat healthy and rest caused a diagnosis of IUGR?
The medical community is still out on this subject, but it's definitely a possibility. Not just anecdotally, but, like, from the actual research, which I've read thoroughly (and I have a background in medical research). Potential maternal treatments for IUGR include bedrest and aspirin therapy, which theoretically translate into increased blood flow to the uterus. A high-protein diet may be helpful as well, but no statistic difference has been proven (yet).
In other words, there is a chance that my high activity level and subadequate diet as been negatively affecting this baby by reducing blood flow and nutrient transfer. While I was chasing the twins, I was using all my resources and not giving a fair share to the fetus.
You want to feel like a bad parent?? Try THAT on for size.
So.
I've taken the incentive to make rest and nutrition (especially, protein) a priority. Which is no easy feat when sitting on the couch amounts to "tapping in" a WWF match. For realz, I get a flying elbow to the eye socket or a bite to the achilles tendon every time I try to put my feet up. Not to mention the challenges associated with endless trips to the grocery store to stock up on fresh foods that my boys (and now I) are flying through. I saw a documentary on the San Diego Zoo on Animal Planet once and the keeper was like, "We go through 65 lbs of fruits and vegetables a day per hippo" and now I'm kind of like, yeah, us too.
I'm trying (and succeeding) to manage my stress level and I'm trying (and mostly failing) to manage my guilt level as my house falls apart around me and my already overburdened husband takes on yet more of the household chores. I'm trying my best to be a good mom, both to the twins and this fetus, and a good wife, despite our new "you go clean up the dishes while I watch Millionaire Matchmaker" dynamic. There is a lot of trying going on around here. Only time will tell if I'm succeeding.
Fortunately, I have a lot of support. I have a mother and mother-in-law nearby to help with the kids, and my husband 110% agrees with this plan of action. And last night, when I caught Isaac mid-air as he was about to sandbag my ass and explained to him that mommy needs to rest...well, he turned around and hit his brother instead. Awwwwwww!
Like I said, I'm getting a lot of support.
In the meantime, if you come to visit, please excuse the chaos. Please excuse the dirty dishes and the piles of laundry and the toys, toys, toys toys and the frazzled husband who will likely only grunt at you as he throws a kid over his shoulder and trudges off to mow the front lawn. My house is a mess. My life is kind of a mess too. But I'm being forced to choose between an orderly existance and a full-term (or near-full-term) baby right now, and as obvious as that choice sounds, it amounts to a series of small choices to NOT swiffer the floor and to NOT cook dinner and that, my friends,...is a lot harder than it sounds.
Wish me luck. We go back for another growth ultrasound in 3 weeks and I'm confident that rest + nutrition will get my little one back on track. But in the meantime, if anybody has any healthy, protein-rich recipes or babysitting services to offer, hit me up.
I, and my little baby-to-be, will be eternally grateful.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Outside The 50th Percentile, Looking In
The boys had their 20-month pediatrician appointments last week.
I'm happy to say that things look great.
Isaac, for the first time in his life, weighs more than Simon, and although they're still in the 15th-ish percentile for size, they're growing, which is all that matters at this point. After some pokes and prods and looks into various orafices, we got "all clear" and were instructed to return at 24 months for a check up.
This appointment, front to back, probably seems totally normal to you moms and dads out there. But for us, it was a Victory-With-A-Capital-V. Because for the first time ever, their development was (grossly) assessed to be "right on track," and for the first time in the history of their little lives, they were given a whole 4-month recess from the office.
In other words, for the first time since becoming a parent, I wasn't facing a frowining pediatrician who was telling me in so many words that there is something wrong with my kids.
You would not BELIEVE how long-lasting the effects of being a preemie are.
I swear to god, guys, I was working on a preemie ulcer this past year from all the stress of being responsible for two little guys who - horror of horrors - were/are behind in their mental and physical development.
Some days, I want to hunt down the people who developed the whole aggregate curve system for pediatric assessment and kick in their teeth.
It's not that I don't think curves are good, or that it's not important to be able to compare the development of a child against the average. But the alarmist nature of pediatricians these days (mostly in order to avoid a malpractice suit) causes them to think worst-case scenario as soon as a child changes momentum in their track. There is no forgiveness for being human, which we all are, and which I think pediatricians sometimes forget.
We are not statistics.
We are more than our points on a graph.
We all follow our own path and yanno what? That's okay too.
Since the boys were born, I've heard the following from various pediatricians:
"Well, we won't worry YET, but if they're not walking by the next appointment, we're going to have to get some tests done."
"They're not really growing as much as they should. It's a sign of malnutrition"
"He's still crawling? He might need to be assessed for hip problems"
And the doozie:
"Your son has what's called 'microcephaly.' I'm going to order an MRI and send you to a neurologist at du Pont."
Did I mention that that last statement was made as the result of an inaccurate head measurement?
Christ.
Nothing like accidentally diagnosing a child with mental retardation because the tape measure slipped.
Not surprisingly, my experience with pediatricians has been extraordinarily negative. In every appointment, it's been the same:
They're little.
They're behind.
They're not doing what other kids their age are doing, and therefore either A) I'm not feeding/stimulating/playing with them enough, or B) They're probably suffering from some kind of syndrome and are handicapped. Switching pediatricians has helped somewhat, but I find that no matter who I talk to, the negativity is there, even if it's sugar-coated.
And whats worse is that I haven't been able to hold this negativity at arm's reach. I, a person who knows FULL WELL the ability of doctors to make mistakes, and the importance of being your own (or your childrens') advocate...I was often sucked into this mind-set that my children different,w hich is bad. I started watching their every little movement. I started comparing them to kids at the playground. I revved up my interactions with them and turned every moment into a STIMULATION-SPREE (consequently taking ALL the fun of hanging out with my kids).
Hell, I even spent a tearful afternoon believing that Isaac had mental retardation after the pediatrician inaccurately measured his head size. Like, seriously? I believed that bullshit??
But on the bright side, it's been extremely eye-opening.
If you blindly trust the "expert" opinion and ignore your own gut instincts about your kids, you end up with a lot of heartache.
Lesson learned.
I know that my kids are fine, and I know that they'll eventually catch up with their peers. This last appointment was only a reinforcement of those facts.
But no joke, I hope this next kid of mine is completely and totally average in every way. I want 50th percentiles down the board. I want him/her to be a poster child for developmental milestones. Because it's taken a lot of energy and a lot of mindfulness to stand up to all the negativity surrounding the developmental pace of my boys, and I honestly never, ever want to be in that place again where I look at my kid and second-guess myself.
It's hard enough being a parent.
There's no need to make it any harder.
So for those of you with "average" children out there, count your blessings. You've been spared boatloads of worry, anxiety, and an ongoing sense of inadequacy.
And for those of you with children who fall outside the average, hang in there.
Trust yourself.
Love your kids.
Have FUN with them, and stop comparing them to everyone else.
Diversity is natural, and the less you worry, the more you can see your children for the beautiful creatures that they are.
I'm happy to say that things look great.
Isaac, for the first time in his life, weighs more than Simon, and although they're still in the 15th-ish percentile for size, they're growing, which is all that matters at this point. After some pokes and prods and looks into various orafices, we got "all clear" and were instructed to return at 24 months for a check up.
This appointment, front to back, probably seems totally normal to you moms and dads out there. But for us, it was a Victory-With-A-Capital-V. Because for the first time ever, their development was (grossly) assessed to be "right on track," and for the first time in the history of their little lives, they were given a whole 4-month recess from the office.
In other words, for the first time since becoming a parent, I wasn't facing a frowining pediatrician who was telling me in so many words that there is something wrong with my kids.
You would not BELIEVE how long-lasting the effects of being a preemie are.
I swear to god, guys, I was working on a preemie ulcer this past year from all the stress of being responsible for two little guys who - horror of horrors - were/are behind in their mental and physical development.
Some days, I want to hunt down the people who developed the whole aggregate curve system for pediatric assessment and kick in their teeth.
It's not that I don't think curves are good, or that it's not important to be able to compare the development of a child against the average. But the alarmist nature of pediatricians these days (mostly in order to avoid a malpractice suit) causes them to think worst-case scenario as soon as a child changes momentum in their track. There is no forgiveness for being human, which we all are, and which I think pediatricians sometimes forget.
We are not statistics.
We are more than our points on a graph.
We all follow our own path and yanno what? That's okay too.
Since the boys were born, I've heard the following from various pediatricians:
"Well, we won't worry YET, but if they're not walking by the next appointment, we're going to have to get some tests done."
"They're not really growing as much as they should. It's a sign of malnutrition"
"He's still crawling? He might need to be assessed for hip problems"
And the doozie:
"Your son has what's called 'microcephaly.' I'm going to order an MRI and send you to a neurologist at du Pont."
Did I mention that that last statement was made as the result of an inaccurate head measurement?
Christ.
Nothing like accidentally diagnosing a child with mental retardation because the tape measure slipped.
Not surprisingly, my experience with pediatricians has been extraordinarily negative. In every appointment, it's been the same:
They're little.
They're behind.
They're not doing what other kids their age are doing, and therefore either A) I'm not feeding/stimulating/playing with them enough, or B) They're probably suffering from some kind of syndrome and are handicapped. Switching pediatricians has helped somewhat, but I find that no matter who I talk to, the negativity is there, even if it's sugar-coated.
And whats worse is that I haven't been able to hold this negativity at arm's reach. I, a person who knows FULL WELL the ability of doctors to make mistakes, and the importance of being your own (or your childrens') advocate...I was often sucked into this mind-set that my children different,w hich is bad. I started watching their every little movement. I started comparing them to kids at the playground. I revved up my interactions with them and turned every moment into a STIMULATION-SPREE (consequently taking ALL the fun of hanging out with my kids).
Hell, I even spent a tearful afternoon believing that Isaac had mental retardation after the pediatrician inaccurately measured his head size. Like, seriously? I believed that bullshit??
But on the bright side, it's been extremely eye-opening.
If you blindly trust the "expert" opinion and ignore your own gut instincts about your kids, you end up with a lot of heartache.
Lesson learned.
I know that my kids are fine, and I know that they'll eventually catch up with their peers. This last appointment was only a reinforcement of those facts.
But no joke, I hope this next kid of mine is completely and totally average in every way. I want 50th percentiles down the board. I want him/her to be a poster child for developmental milestones. Because it's taken a lot of energy and a lot of mindfulness to stand up to all the negativity surrounding the developmental pace of my boys, and I honestly never, ever want to be in that place again where I look at my kid and second-guess myself.
It's hard enough being a parent.
There's no need to make it any harder.
So for those of you with "average" children out there, count your blessings. You've been spared boatloads of worry, anxiety, and an ongoing sense of inadequacy.
And for those of you with children who fall outside the average, hang in there.
Trust yourself.
Love your kids.
Have FUN with them, and stop comparing them to everyone else.
Diversity is natural, and the less you worry, the more you can see your children for the beautiful creatures that they are.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
20 Weeks and Already Keeping Score
I had my 20 week ultrasound yesterday. Everything looks good, and based on the distinctive profile + excessive amount of kicking and general squirmyness of meatloaf #3, I'd say we have another Ike on our hands.
Whoo boy.
For those of you who don't know, my two boys, Isaac (Ike) and Simon, have very different personalities: Simon is like a sloth. A whiny, drooly sloth who likes to be carried and generally fussed over. Ike, on the other hand, is Godzilla driving a wrecking ball drinking a Red Bull. He's a spastic, wild, beast with lightning-fast reflexes and a complete disregard for the safety of himself or others.
I tend to hold Ike at arms length.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Because chances are his fists are swinging and his legs are kicking and he's holding a toy like a mace, waiting to give you a death-blow to the nose.
Not that he's not a sweet kid. He's actually more affectionate than his brother. But where Simon will give you a hug, Ike gives you what we've come to refer to as love maulings. Any interaction between you and him, good or bad, will usually end up hurting you.
It's kind of his thing.
But other than a cold sensation of dread that this child may be the reincarnation of his fearless, fist-throwing brother, everything is fine, and the baby is healthy.
We're not finding out the sex this time.
I wanted to wait to find out with the twins but...yanno... twins. They tend to require a bit of planning. Fortunately, this singleton not only requires less planning, but I barely have time to BE pregnant, let alone agonize over what the sex is. So we're going old school and waiting for the big day to find out.
In the meantime, of course, there's the nursery. I went a little overboard with the Boys' room. Like, spent months painting an intricate mural of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak on all four walls. Apparently I have this inner Martha Steward who is DYING to come out at first chance. But you know what? If painting a life-sized room mural to show your kids you love them is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
Of course, we now have a dilemma:
The NEW nursery.
I'm convinced that child #3 will inevitably weigh my love for him or her against his/her brothers based entirely on the quality of his/her mural. I can hear the screaming accusations of my future 7-year-old now and it ain't pretty. This would normally be no problem...like I said, my inner Martha Stewart has her mom jeans pulled up, her lavendar-scented rubber gloves on, and is ready to get to work. Except I'm lacking the one resource I had in abundance when I was painting the first nursery:
Time
I am baffled about how I'm going to find the 37+ hours (yes I counted) it took me to create the first nursery.
Hell, most days I can barely find the time to pee.
I'm starting to develop a plan. I won't divulge too much now lest I spoil the nursery reveal post which will happen sometime in the far, FAR future. But I'm pretty sure I've found a way to steep this new nursery in child literary excellence WITHOUT having to hire a nanny with the money we don't have. I think it'll be awesome. And EASY, which is pretty clutch right now.
So that's our 20 week status.
We have a healthy kid thus far who may or may not be composed entirely of my husband's "deamon energizer bunny" genes, AND I've found a way to stave off one of the MANY future arguments we're destined to have with him/her.
If I was keeping score (which I already am), I'd say I just scored a point for team Mom.
Now, somebody please come clean out my office/future nursery so I can get started, because I already used up my allotted pee break this morning and I just don't have the time.
Whoo boy.
For those of you who don't know, my two boys, Isaac (Ike) and Simon, have very different personalities: Simon is like a sloth. A whiny, drooly sloth who likes to be carried and generally fussed over. Ike, on the other hand, is Godzilla driving a wrecking ball drinking a Red Bull. He's a spastic, wild, beast with lightning-fast reflexes and a complete disregard for the safety of himself or others.
I tend to hold Ike at arms length.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Because chances are his fists are swinging and his legs are kicking and he's holding a toy like a mace, waiting to give you a death-blow to the nose.
Not that he's not a sweet kid. He's actually more affectionate than his brother. But where Simon will give you a hug, Ike gives you what we've come to refer to as love maulings. Any interaction between you and him, good or bad, will usually end up hurting you.
It's kind of his thing.
But other than a cold sensation of dread that this child may be the reincarnation of his fearless, fist-throwing brother, everything is fine, and the baby is healthy.
We're not finding out the sex this time.
I wanted to wait to find out with the twins but...yanno... twins. They tend to require a bit of planning. Fortunately, this singleton not only requires less planning, but I barely have time to BE pregnant, let alone agonize over what the sex is. So we're going old school and waiting for the big day to find out.
In the meantime, of course, there's the nursery. I went a little overboard with the Boys' room. Like, spent months painting an intricate mural of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak on all four walls. Apparently I have this inner Martha Steward who is DYING to come out at first chance. But you know what? If painting a life-sized room mural to show your kids you love them is wrong, then I don't want to be right.
Of course, we now have a dilemma:
The NEW nursery.
I'm convinced that child #3 will inevitably weigh my love for him or her against his/her brothers based entirely on the quality of his/her mural. I can hear the screaming accusations of my future 7-year-old now and it ain't pretty. This would normally be no problem...like I said, my inner Martha Stewart has her mom jeans pulled up, her lavendar-scented rubber gloves on, and is ready to get to work. Except I'm lacking the one resource I had in abundance when I was painting the first nursery:
Time
I am baffled about how I'm going to find the 37+ hours (yes I counted) it took me to create the first nursery.
Hell, most days I can barely find the time to pee.
I'm starting to develop a plan. I won't divulge too much now lest I spoil the nursery reveal post which will happen sometime in the far, FAR future. But I'm pretty sure I've found a way to steep this new nursery in child literary excellence WITHOUT having to hire a nanny with the money we don't have. I think it'll be awesome. And EASY, which is pretty clutch right now.
So that's our 20 week status.
We have a healthy kid thus far who may or may not be composed entirely of my husband's "deamon energizer bunny" genes, AND I've found a way to stave off one of the MANY future arguments we're destined to have with him/her.
If I was keeping score (which I already am), I'd say I just scored a point for team Mom.
Now, somebody please come clean out my office/future nursery so I can get started, because I already used up my allotted pee break this morning and I just don't have the time.
Friday, June 7, 2013
I'm Back. Or Not. Is That A Corn Chip In My Hair? Oh Yeah, I'm Pregnant
So I've been getting the itch to blog again.
Maybe its because the boys, who are all of 20 months old now, are pretty hysterical these days, which minimizes my need for finding funny blog material.
Maybe its because I'm not working quite as much, so I'm not all zombied out from staring at a computer screen every evening.
Or maybe it's because, being pregnant again, all my active hobbies have been violently ripped from my life and I have NOTHING ELSE TO DO to retain my sanity, other than water my petunias and bake banana bread.
Did I mention that I was pregnant again? No? You look surprised. And confused. And a little wild-eyed. Never mind. Have some banana bread and we'll get back to that in a second.
So, I guess I'm blogging again.
Or maybe I'm writing A blog (singular), and will dissappear into the parenting ether for another 6 months.
The future is hard to predict when you have multiple parasites sucking the life-force out of you on a daily basis, so we'll leave this one in the "who knows?" category.
But, yeah, I'm pregnant again.
Au naturale, this time, meaning no embryologist was involved in the making of this kid, which is refreshing and a little odd for us, considering our last pregnancy was the result of a massive effort from a team of health care professionals and involved much poking, prodding, and stripping of dignity.
When your last pregnancy required about 294365348923012 trips to the doctor, it's hard to imagine just "waking up" pregnant. It's like just "waking up" with a boob job. A pleasant finding, but a baffling one, nonetheless.
But that's what happened.
I woke up pregnant one day and it seems to have stuck.
And then people inevitably ask if it was planned, because many cannot imagine that we would willingly add another child to the mix. Plus, the inability of people to mind their own business and NOT ask extremely personal questions regarding your reproductive processes truly boggles the mind.
The answer is that it was planned and it wasn't planned.
Did we want another child? Yes.
Did we think it would actually happen on our own? Hellz to the no.
So this baby may be a surprise, but it certainly isn't an accident. More like a miracle, which is okay with me.
I think we could all use a few more miracles in our lives.
So we're at 20 weeks and counting. If the birth of twins was the equivalent of the baby apocalypse, then the birth of a third one can only be interpreted as the coming of Jesus.
Or Satan.
Not sure, I guess I should brush up on my Old Testament.
But what I'm finding to be true, is that a life of apocalyptic chaos is FAR more rewarding than a life of quite control. My house is dirty and my hair is a mess, but I've smiled and laughed more in the past year and a half than I probably have in the past 10 years.
People tend to be pretty negative when it comes to children. Oh sure, they coo and beam at the miracle of life that is growing inside you...."but," they warn you, "enjoy yourselves now, because your life is OVER when he/she is born."
Your life is over.
Again and again, I hear that phrase in regards to children.
Ridiculous.
I'm here to tell you that if you're in a solid relationship with a loving partner and your shit is mostly together (mostly...because NOBODY has their shit completely together), and you're ready to throw yourself into a pretty intense and time-consuming hobby, then having children is the START of your life.
Not the end of it.
So we're adding another little person to our family.
Sure, it'll be hard. My house will be dirtier and my hair will be messier (if that's humanly possible).
And sure, I'll complain because it's WONDERFULLY CATHARTIC to complain about your children.
But at the end of the day, another child means a hundred times more smiles and laughs are ahead of us.
And there ain't NOTHIN' wrong with that, folks.
Maybe its because the boys, who are all of 20 months old now, are pretty hysterical these days, which minimizes my need for finding funny blog material.
Maybe its because I'm not working quite as much, so I'm not all zombied out from staring at a computer screen every evening.
Or maybe it's because, being pregnant again, all my active hobbies have been violently ripped from my life and I have NOTHING ELSE TO DO to retain my sanity, other than water my petunias and bake banana bread.
Did I mention that I was pregnant again? No? You look surprised. And confused. And a little wild-eyed. Never mind. Have some banana bread and we'll get back to that in a second.
So, I guess I'm blogging again.
Or maybe I'm writing A blog (singular), and will dissappear into the parenting ether for another 6 months.
The future is hard to predict when you have multiple parasites sucking the life-force out of you on a daily basis, so we'll leave this one in the "who knows?" category.
But, yeah, I'm pregnant again.
Au naturale, this time, meaning no embryologist was involved in the making of this kid, which is refreshing and a little odd for us, considering our last pregnancy was the result of a massive effort from a team of health care professionals and involved much poking, prodding, and stripping of dignity.
When your last pregnancy required about 294365348923012 trips to the doctor, it's hard to imagine just "waking up" pregnant. It's like just "waking up" with a boob job. A pleasant finding, but a baffling one, nonetheless.
But that's what happened.
I woke up pregnant one day and it seems to have stuck.
And then people inevitably ask if it was planned, because many cannot imagine that we would willingly add another child to the mix. Plus, the inability of people to mind their own business and NOT ask extremely personal questions regarding your reproductive processes truly boggles the mind.
The answer is that it was planned and it wasn't planned.
Did we want another child? Yes.
Did we think it would actually happen on our own? Hellz to the no.
So this baby may be a surprise, but it certainly isn't an accident. More like a miracle, which is okay with me.
I think we could all use a few more miracles in our lives.
So we're at 20 weeks and counting. If the birth of twins was the equivalent of the baby apocalypse, then the birth of a third one can only be interpreted as the coming of Jesus.
Or Satan.
Not sure, I guess I should brush up on my Old Testament.
But what I'm finding to be true, is that a life of apocalyptic chaos is FAR more rewarding than a life of quite control. My house is dirty and my hair is a mess, but I've smiled and laughed more in the past year and a half than I probably have in the past 10 years.
People tend to be pretty negative when it comes to children. Oh sure, they coo and beam at the miracle of life that is growing inside you...."but," they warn you, "enjoy yourselves now, because your life is OVER when he/she is born."
Your life is over.
Again and again, I hear that phrase in regards to children.
Ridiculous.
I'm here to tell you that if you're in a solid relationship with a loving partner and your shit is mostly together (mostly...because NOBODY has their shit completely together), and you're ready to throw yourself into a pretty intense and time-consuming hobby, then having children is the START of your life.
Not the end of it.
So we're adding another little person to our family.
Sure, it'll be hard. My house will be dirtier and my hair will be messier (if that's humanly possible).
And sure, I'll complain because it's WONDERFULLY CATHARTIC to complain about your children.
But at the end of the day, another child means a hundred times more smiles and laughs are ahead of us.
And there ain't NOTHIN' wrong with that, folks.
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