We had maternity pictures done yesterday. I say "we" even though the "maternity" description technically only applies to me because about half of them involved TH or baby girl or all of us.
Pictures of our little family as it's in the process of growing. The last real portraits we'll have taken to document our short little stint as a family of three.
I haven't seen any yet, but I can already tell you that, in one sense, they won't live up to the vision in my head. In my head, I want to see myself in those pictures with perfect hair, perfect make-up, the perfect outfit on that perfectly shows off my growing, gorgeous belly. My husband would look dashing and casual. My daughter, curls perfectly framing her sweet head, would smile sweetly for the camera and show the world just what an angel she is. We would be the picture perfect family, poised on the edge of growing once again.
In reality, I didn't have time to do my hair. To be perfectly honest, I didn't have time to shower, either. In my defense, I showered the afternoon before and actually blow-dried my hair, something that usually happens about 10 times a year. TH and I had a hot date night to go see Blue Man Group and I wanted to look cute. But that was Saturday. On Sunday, we spent the day running errands and building furniture. By the time we stopped to get ready, there was no time for me to shower or re-do my hair. So I brushed it and relied on the fact that it usually looks better the second day anyway. I had a cute new shirt but had never found the time to finish the outfit off, so I paired with with an old pair of maternity capri jeans. My unpainted toes peeped out from my sandals--who on earth has time for pedicures? And as I was running around getting dressed and trying to get my toddler dressed as well and hollering across the house to my husband that we were supposed to be in the car leaving IN TWO MINUTES, he had enough time to try on two shirts and pick the better of the two. So much for tightly coordinated outfits.
Baby girl was having none of the photo shoot. She had a rough day yesterday. Or maybe it's a normal day in toddlerdom. She melted down just about anytime we wouldn't give her something she wanted. Asking her to do something was the surest way to have it NOT done. She only napped for an hour. At the shoot, when faced with a stranger and a camera, she refused to let her daddy put her down. When we tried for group shots, she stared sullenly at the photographer and refused to smile. When she came to kiss my tummy, I got a nice, fat snot glob on my new shirt.
Motherhood is so glamorous.
But that's where we get to the other sense. We had a photo shoot yesterday of our little family as it's in the process of growing. Not a fake family. Not a magazine family that is airbrushed and perfectly, impossibly poised. Our real family.
My hair wasn't done. My toes were unpainted. And at one pointed I got slimed by baby snot. But I had a diamond necklace on that my husband gave me for Valentine's that showed one heart inside another, a symbol, he said, of the hearts that I grow inside me. The portrait of a real mom.
And my sweet baby girl wouldn't smile most of the time (she did finally warm up a bit at the end), but hell, that's real, too. Real for the joyful world of the wild passions of toddlerdom.
So we sat snuggled together, documenting for all times not the perfect family we could be, but the perfect family we actually are.
And the smiles that shone from two of our three faces showed just how happy with that reality, with our family, that we really are.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
3rd Tri, Oh My!
So, the other day I woke up and was in the third trimester.
Whathuh? What happened to the second tri? I mean, I vaguely remember the first tri passing in a blur of exhaustion and nausea, but the second tri lasted all of three weeks. Literally. We had time to paint baby girl's big-girl room, and order her furniture. There was a blissful period of a way-overactive sex drive which has now, woefully, tapered back down to normal ranges. And that day we found out Dos is a boy and perfectly healthy . . . okay, so maybe the second tri lasted four weeks. But 13??? Impossible.
And yet somehow we have 13 new weekly belly pics on my hard drive, documenting my growing belly, my growing baby, our growing future.
Somehow my pregnancy countdown ticker now shows there are only 89 days to go until my due date. EIGHTY-NINE. As in, not just double digits, but double digits that start with an EIGHT.
Somehow I passed my V-day, the viability thresh hold that marks when Dos would start to have a fighting chance in the outside world if, heaven forbid, something should happen to bring him out early.
Is this what it's going to be like after he's born, too? Time moving at an all-together-too-fast pace, passing in a blur of keeping all our many balls in the air?
I am happy to say, even though I look back and wonder where the time went, I know that I've been enjoying this pregnancy each and every second. I said it the first time around and I'll say it this time as well: I love being pregnant. I love the way my body looks. I love resting my hand distractedly on my belly as I sit and work. I love feeling my child kick and roll and punch and hiccup inside me. So yes, life passes all together too quickly. But I know I've been enjoying the hell out of it even as it rushes by.
So yeah. Third tri. Crazy, huh?
We had an amazing anatomy scan a month ago, getting to check out every bit and piece of my son (SON! After 11 weeks, that is still crazy to say), who is perfectly healthy and amazing in every way. We got to see him in 3D and I totally teared up. He is adorable. He has my nose, my daughter's nose. My kids already look like siblings.
Check out my positively adorable little man:
I am already so in love.
I have my next appointment in less than a week, and with it another ultrasound (LOVE my doctor's office!!!). In our minds, this will be the last "just for fun" ultrasound that we get. Not that ANY of the ultrasounds are really just for fun. They all have medical reasons, things that they are checking on. What I mean is that after this, the next ultrasound that we'll get will be to determine game-time conditions. 36 weeks. So this one is the last time we'll get to see our son in utero without the stress and pressure of knowing that his arrival is impending. The last time we get to just lay back and smile and watch him kick around. (Oh, and it's also the last of my monthly doctor's appointments. After this, I'll go every three weeks a couple of times, then after two weeks, and then ONCE A WEEK 'TIL THE END. I cannot believe I'm already to this point.)
Our preparations are coming along nicely, though as always happens, there is more to do than we originally thought. Yes, baby girl's big girl room is just about ready. But after that we still have to wash and sort all the boy clothes we've had handed down to us and go through all of baby girl's newborn clothes to pull out anything gender-neutral enough to use again. We still have to pull back out, wipe down, and put together the infant accoutrements that we'll need once again. We still have to think about things like new bottles and breast pump parts. We still have to boy-up the nursery. But in general, I feel pretty good about where we are as far getting ready. We won't be all the way done, ready, and waiting at 30 weeks like we'd hoped, but we'll be pretty close. Go us.
We have no name yet. We have successfully narrowed our list down to our top 3 choices, but I don't really know where to go from there. We may do that thing where we just don't decide until he's here, until we can meet him and see him and see if that gives us any clues or nudges in one name direction or another. Seeing as how we had Alina's name picked out the day we found out she was a she at 16 weeks, our families are trying hard to be patient this time around, but it is still a constant question.
As for the birth preparation, we are preparing. We are reading the hypnobabies material. I am listening to my daily positive thinking CD. In general I'm feeling much calmer about the whole VBAC scenario than I was a few weeks ago. We still have a lot of questions for the doctor to cover at our next appointment. We still have some research to do. Of course, it all depends on Dos--on his turning head down and face to the back when it's show time. But I can't control those things, so I'm focusing on what I can control: my attitude and thought process about the whole thing. As an added bonus, the other really great thing about the relaxation and positive-thinking work I've been doing is that it's also helped me really accept and move on from the way baby girl's birth happened. It's one thing to be at peace with it, which is where I've been for the last year or so. But it's another thing to say I've really accepted it.
So, that's where I am. Sorry for the long and rambly post. That's what happens when I only blog about the pregnancy once every two months. There's a lot to catch up on!
To recap: V-day! Healthy! Getting ready! Double digits! Third trimester! Last just-for-fun ultrasound! Last monthly appointment! eeeeeeek!!!
How far along?: 27 weeks
Total weight gain: I don't know. As of my 24-week appointment, I was at 18 pounds. I'm not really all that worried about it. I eat healthy. I walk when I can. I am taking care of myself and that's what really matters. The weight gain is just a number that I will work on reversing after Dos is here.
How big is baby?: He was an estimated 1 pound, 8 ounces at my last appointment, so I'm sure he's well up over two by now.
Maternity clothes?: Yep, and now that the weather is getting warmer, I'm able to break out a lot of the stuff I wore last time around. Yay for skirts and sundresses!
Stretch marks?: Still nada. The belly balm has become an after-shower ritual. Even if it doesn't do anything, I still like how soft it makes my skin feel!
Sleep?: Medium. I can't stay in a single position for two long without getting achey, so I spend most of the night tossing and turning from side to side. When I am actually sleeping, though, it's delicious.
Best moment this week?: The best moment of every week is feeling my baby move around inside me. Have I already mentioned how much I love being pregnant?
Movement?: All the time. He's finally stretched out a bit so now I'm getting movement from my upper stomach all the way down to the bottom. It's a much more intense feeling than it was with baby girl since I have a posterior placenta this time. Amazing.
Food cravings?: No, and a hint of a whisper of the food aversions have crept back in. There were a couple of days last week when I hardly ate a thing because everything sounded so gross. I'm trying to just listen to my body and give it what it wants and not force on it anything it doesn't want.
Labor signs?: None yet.
Belly button in or out?: My ever-evolving belly button, how I love thee. It changes daily depending on how Dos is positioned. Sometimes the middle of it sticks out while the outside edges are still recessed, like a little castle with a moat around it. Sometimes it's just flat. Sometimes it's a traditional innie. It's a constant source of amusement for me, but the weird thing is that I don't like anyone touching it. It feels too weird.
What I miss: Chocolate. And having a beer or two with friends. And really hard workouts. Soon!
What I'm looking forward to: Our 28-week appointment.
Milestone: So many this time around--V-day, double digits, third tri, oh my!
Whathuh? What happened to the second tri? I mean, I vaguely remember the first tri passing in a blur of exhaustion and nausea, but the second tri lasted all of three weeks. Literally. We had time to paint baby girl's big-girl room, and order her furniture. There was a blissful period of a way-overactive sex drive which has now, woefully, tapered back down to normal ranges. And that day we found out Dos is a boy and perfectly healthy . . . okay, so maybe the second tri lasted four weeks. But 13??? Impossible.
And yet somehow we have 13 new weekly belly pics on my hard drive, documenting my growing belly, my growing baby, our growing future.
Somehow my pregnancy countdown ticker now shows there are only 89 days to go until my due date. EIGHTY-NINE. As in, not just double digits, but double digits that start with an EIGHT.
Somehow I passed my V-day, the viability thresh hold that marks when Dos would start to have a fighting chance in the outside world if, heaven forbid, something should happen to bring him out early.
Is this what it's going to be like after he's born, too? Time moving at an all-together-too-fast pace, passing in a blur of keeping all our many balls in the air?
I am happy to say, even though I look back and wonder where the time went, I know that I've been enjoying this pregnancy each and every second. I said it the first time around and I'll say it this time as well: I love being pregnant. I love the way my body looks. I love resting my hand distractedly on my belly as I sit and work. I love feeling my child kick and roll and punch and hiccup inside me. So yes, life passes all together too quickly. But I know I've been enjoying the hell out of it even as it rushes by.
So yeah. Third tri. Crazy, huh?
We had an amazing anatomy scan a month ago, getting to check out every bit and piece of my son (SON! After 11 weeks, that is still crazy to say), who is perfectly healthy and amazing in every way. We got to see him in 3D and I totally teared up. He is adorable. He has my nose, my daughter's nose. My kids already look like siblings.
Check out my positively adorable little man:
I am already so in love.
I have my next appointment in less than a week, and with it another ultrasound (LOVE my doctor's office!!!). In our minds, this will be the last "just for fun" ultrasound that we get. Not that ANY of the ultrasounds are really just for fun. They all have medical reasons, things that they are checking on. What I mean is that after this, the next ultrasound that we'll get will be to determine game-time conditions. 36 weeks. So this one is the last time we'll get to see our son in utero without the stress and pressure of knowing that his arrival is impending. The last time we get to just lay back and smile and watch him kick around. (Oh, and it's also the last of my monthly doctor's appointments. After this, I'll go every three weeks a couple of times, then after two weeks, and then ONCE A WEEK 'TIL THE END. I cannot believe I'm already to this point.)
Our preparations are coming along nicely, though as always happens, there is more to do than we originally thought. Yes, baby girl's big girl room is just about ready. But after that we still have to wash and sort all the boy clothes we've had handed down to us and go through all of baby girl's newborn clothes to pull out anything gender-neutral enough to use again. We still have to pull back out, wipe down, and put together the infant accoutrements that we'll need once again. We still have to think about things like new bottles and breast pump parts. We still have to boy-up the nursery. But in general, I feel pretty good about where we are as far getting ready. We won't be all the way done, ready, and waiting at 30 weeks like we'd hoped, but we'll be pretty close. Go us.
We have no name yet. We have successfully narrowed our list down to our top 3 choices, but I don't really know where to go from there. We may do that thing where we just don't decide until he's here, until we can meet him and see him and see if that gives us any clues or nudges in one name direction or another. Seeing as how we had Alina's name picked out the day we found out she was a she at 16 weeks, our families are trying hard to be patient this time around, but it is still a constant question.
As for the birth preparation, we are preparing. We are reading the hypnobabies material. I am listening to my daily positive thinking CD. In general I'm feeling much calmer about the whole VBAC scenario than I was a few weeks ago. We still have a lot of questions for the doctor to cover at our next appointment. We still have some research to do. Of course, it all depends on Dos--on his turning head down and face to the back when it's show time. But I can't control those things, so I'm focusing on what I can control: my attitude and thought process about the whole thing. As an added bonus, the other really great thing about the relaxation and positive-thinking work I've been doing is that it's also helped me really accept and move on from the way baby girl's birth happened. It's one thing to be at peace with it, which is where I've been for the last year or so. But it's another thing to say I've really accepted it.
So, that's where I am. Sorry for the long and rambly post. That's what happens when I only blog about the pregnancy once every two months. There's a lot to catch up on!
To recap: V-day! Healthy! Getting ready! Double digits! Third trimester! Last just-for-fun ultrasound! Last monthly appointment! eeeeeeek!!!
How far along?: 27 weeks
Total weight gain: I don't know. As of my 24-week appointment, I was at 18 pounds. I'm not really all that worried about it. I eat healthy. I walk when I can. I am taking care of myself and that's what really matters. The weight gain is just a number that I will work on reversing after Dos is here.
How big is baby?: He was an estimated 1 pound, 8 ounces at my last appointment, so I'm sure he's well up over two by now.
Maternity clothes?: Yep, and now that the weather is getting warmer, I'm able to break out a lot of the stuff I wore last time around. Yay for skirts and sundresses!
Stretch marks?: Still nada. The belly balm has become an after-shower ritual. Even if it doesn't do anything, I still like how soft it makes my skin feel!
Sleep?: Medium. I can't stay in a single position for two long without getting achey, so I spend most of the night tossing and turning from side to side. When I am actually sleeping, though, it's delicious.
Best moment this week?: The best moment of every week is feeling my baby move around inside me. Have I already mentioned how much I love being pregnant?
Movement?: All the time. He's finally stretched out a bit so now I'm getting movement from my upper stomach all the way down to the bottom. It's a much more intense feeling than it was with baby girl since I have a posterior placenta this time. Amazing.
Food cravings?: No, and a hint of a whisper of the food aversions have crept back in. There were a couple of days last week when I hardly ate a thing because everything sounded so gross. I'm trying to just listen to my body and give it what it wants and not force on it anything it doesn't want.
Labor signs?: None yet.
Belly button in or out?: My ever-evolving belly button, how I love thee. It changes daily depending on how Dos is positioned. Sometimes the middle of it sticks out while the outside edges are still recessed, like a little castle with a moat around it. Sometimes it's just flat. Sometimes it's a traditional innie. It's a constant source of amusement for me, but the weird thing is that I don't like anyone touching it. It feels too weird.
What I miss: Chocolate. And having a beer or two with friends. And really hard workouts. Soon!
What I'm looking forward to: Our 28-week appointment.
Milestone: So many this time around--V-day, double digits, third tri, oh my!
Friday, February 18, 2011
Pity Party
My baby hurts my feelings.
There. I said it. It's not rational or mature, but it's the truth.
It hurts my feelings when I walk into her room to wake her up for the day and she immediately asks for Daddy. When she wants milk and I try to give it to her and she says, "No. Daddy milk," and will only take it from him. When she wants Daddy to read her a book and won't come snuggle with me. When she gets hurt and wants Daddy to comfort her. When Daddy walks into the room and she immediately reaches for him, no matter how contentedly she'd been snuggled in my arms until that point.
It makes me feel like my baby doesn't love me. Like she and I are already positioned for impossibly strained mother-daughter interactions for the rest of our lives. Like that vision that I had of her and I being close like my mom and I are is nothing more than a naive fantasy, like reality will be what all those girl-haters have been saying all along, that they don't want daughters because of how tumultuous the experience and relationship is.
What about TH? What role does he play in all this. Nothing really. He's not doing anything to encourage it per se. He's just being himself--fun, loving, and for the most part totally unwilling or unable to maintain any kind of boundaries or discipline for her. So I get stuck waking her up in the morning (hard) and getting her dressed (hard) and then he swoops in and feeds her breakfast (yum!), plays games until it's time to leave (fun!), and then takes her to school (she's great in the car). In the evenings, I pick her up from school ("Time to stop playing with all your friends and come home!") and bring her home to wrestle some kind of dinner into her (hard), and then he swoops home from work right about the time dinner ends and play time begins. I feel like I'm stuck with all the chores, all the discipline, all the "sorry, you have to do this" crap and he gets all the fun.
No wonder she likes him better. Of course she does. Dad = fun while Mom = work.
Suck.
Is my perception of this accurate? Undoubtedly not. I am tired and hormonal. I cry pretty easily these days. I know I've heard her ask for me, too, when they are together.
But does that make it any easier? No. The reality is, perceptions aside, that she begs for Daddy when she's with me. That she reaches for Daddy when she's with me. That she wants Daddy to do things with her and to play with her and to give her things and to comfort her. She says "bye-bye" to me easily and cries when Daddy leaves.
And that breaks my mommy heart.
There. I said it. It's not rational or mature, but it's the truth.
It hurts my feelings when I walk into her room to wake her up for the day and she immediately asks for Daddy. When she wants milk and I try to give it to her and she says, "No. Daddy milk," and will only take it from him. When she wants Daddy to read her a book and won't come snuggle with me. When she gets hurt and wants Daddy to comfort her. When Daddy walks into the room and she immediately reaches for him, no matter how contentedly she'd been snuggled in my arms until that point.
It makes me feel like my baby doesn't love me. Like she and I are already positioned for impossibly strained mother-daughter interactions for the rest of our lives. Like that vision that I had of her and I being close like my mom and I are is nothing more than a naive fantasy, like reality will be what all those girl-haters have been saying all along, that they don't want daughters because of how tumultuous the experience and relationship is.
What about TH? What role does he play in all this. Nothing really. He's not doing anything to encourage it per se. He's just being himself--fun, loving, and for the most part totally unwilling or unable to maintain any kind of boundaries or discipline for her. So I get stuck waking her up in the morning (hard) and getting her dressed (hard) and then he swoops in and feeds her breakfast (yum!), plays games until it's time to leave (fun!), and then takes her to school (she's great in the car). In the evenings, I pick her up from school ("Time to stop playing with all your friends and come home!") and bring her home to wrestle some kind of dinner into her (hard), and then he swoops home from work right about the time dinner ends and play time begins. I feel like I'm stuck with all the chores, all the discipline, all the "sorry, you have to do this" crap and he gets all the fun.
No wonder she likes him better. Of course she does. Dad = fun while Mom = work.
Suck.
Is my perception of this accurate? Undoubtedly not. I am tired and hormonal. I cry pretty easily these days. I know I've heard her ask for me, too, when they are together.
But does that make it any easier? No. The reality is, perceptions aside, that she begs for Daddy when she's with me. That she reaches for Daddy when she's with me. That she wants Daddy to do things with her and to play with her and to give her things and to comfort her. She says "bye-bye" to me easily and cries when Daddy leaves.
And that breaks my mommy heart.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Toddler Wars
The initial skirmishes have begun.
I thought I had more time. I thought it wouldn't be until the "terrible twos" (or the rumored "even more terrible threes") approached that we'd have to start dealing with willfulness and temper tantrums. But my strong, independent girl has always been a bit socially precocious, and we find ourselves, ready or not, in the beginning stages of Toddler Wars.
It started a couple of months ago. She started experiencing frustration and would hit--us, the table, her own head--as a way of coping with it. Where on earth do they learn that? To hit themselves and then look quickly at us to see how we'll react? And then, inevitably, close on the heels of the hitting, the full-blown crying, the reaching for us, as, overwhelmed with her own swirling emotions, she sought the comfort of our embrace.
Those were the first little forays. We should have seen it coming.
We are now up to our ears in tantrums. If she doesn't get her way, more often that not it leads immediately to tears. Some blessed times we're able to distract her from her impending fit, but often we aren't and we just have to tell her, "I'm sorry you're so frustrated" while we watch her little face contort with anger and the big crocodile tears fall down her face.
I know a lot of people say that verbal abilities often lessen the severity of the tantrums, but I'm not sure I can say that I believe it. In our case, baby girl is very advanced verbally. At 17 months, she has roughly to 150-200 words and is saying 3-4 word phrases. She is VERY verbal. And she is so used to being able to communicate with us to get what she wants that when she tells us something and then doesn't get what she wants, it is the end. of. the. world.
Right now she doesn't want to sit in her chair to eat. She wants to sit on the floor or in one of our laps. And it's so hard to know how to respond to this. Something tells me it's not as insignificant a request as wanting her "BIG milk" cup as opposed to the small one, as such requests are readily granted and we are so thankful she can tell us exactly what she wants. I don't want to teach her that she can sit in our laps to eat. I want her to know that she has to sit in her chair to eat so that when we have company over or we are out at a restaurant or something, she is used to the rule and doesn't fliphershit because all of a sudden we are confining her. But holy hell it makes mealtimes stressful, and as a working mom, mealtimes constitute most of what I get with her during the week. Add to this scenario a 6-months-pregnant mom who is exhausted from working, exhausted from growing another baby, and cranky from all the damn hormones rolling through my body, and it's just a crappy situation all around. I don't feel like I'm at my best, which is where I'd like to be when dealing with a new challenge like this.
It is so, so tempting to just give in and avoid the tears.
And I admit we have given in. More than I would like. We've pulled out the laptop and showed her cartoons during dinner so that she'd be distracted and actually eat a decent meal. We've held her on our laps. We've given her juice and let the milk thing slide. I've let her eat less than I'd like to see my skinny girl eat because I just don't know how to force food into her.
But I guess that's the crux of the Toddler Wars, isn't it? Sometimes it's a battle worth fighting and the tears flow and the screams ring from the rafters and we hold her and tell her we're sorry she's frustrated, calm and loving on the outside even as she pushes us away and makes our insides roil with tumultuous emotion. And sometimes it's a battle not worth fighting, or that we just don't have the strength to fight that day.
And so the war begins. A gain here. A loss there. The only hope that we are all able to emerge relatively unscathed and, hopefully, stronger in the end.
Something tells me the next two years are going to rock my world more than originally anticipated.
I thought I had more time. I thought it wouldn't be until the "terrible twos" (or the rumored "even more terrible threes") approached that we'd have to start dealing with willfulness and temper tantrums. But my strong, independent girl has always been a bit socially precocious, and we find ourselves, ready or not, in the beginning stages of Toddler Wars.
It started a couple of months ago. She started experiencing frustration and would hit--us, the table, her own head--as a way of coping with it. Where on earth do they learn that? To hit themselves and then look quickly at us to see how we'll react? And then, inevitably, close on the heels of the hitting, the full-blown crying, the reaching for us, as, overwhelmed with her own swirling emotions, she sought the comfort of our embrace.
Those were the first little forays. We should have seen it coming.
We are now up to our ears in tantrums. If she doesn't get her way, more often that not it leads immediately to tears. Some blessed times we're able to distract her from her impending fit, but often we aren't and we just have to tell her, "I'm sorry you're so frustrated" while we watch her little face contort with anger and the big crocodile tears fall down her face.
I know a lot of people say that verbal abilities often lessen the severity of the tantrums, but I'm not sure I can say that I believe it. In our case, baby girl is very advanced verbally. At 17 months, she has roughly to 150-200 words and is saying 3-4 word phrases. She is VERY verbal. And she is so used to being able to communicate with us to get what she wants that when she tells us something and then doesn't get what she wants, it is the end. of. the. world.
Right now she doesn't want to sit in her chair to eat. She wants to sit on the floor or in one of our laps. And it's so hard to know how to respond to this. Something tells me it's not as insignificant a request as wanting her "BIG milk" cup as opposed to the small one, as such requests are readily granted and we are so thankful she can tell us exactly what she wants. I don't want to teach her that she can sit in our laps to eat. I want her to know that she has to sit in her chair to eat so that when we have company over or we are out at a restaurant or something, she is used to the rule and doesn't fliphershit because all of a sudden we are confining her. But holy hell it makes mealtimes stressful, and as a working mom, mealtimes constitute most of what I get with her during the week. Add to this scenario a 6-months-pregnant mom who is exhausted from working, exhausted from growing another baby, and cranky from all the damn hormones rolling through my body, and it's just a crappy situation all around. I don't feel like I'm at my best, which is where I'd like to be when dealing with a new challenge like this.
It is so, so tempting to just give in and avoid the tears.
And I admit we have given in. More than I would like. We've pulled out the laptop and showed her cartoons during dinner so that she'd be distracted and actually eat a decent meal. We've held her on our laps. We've given her juice and let the milk thing slide. I've let her eat less than I'd like to see my skinny girl eat because I just don't know how to force food into her.
But I guess that's the crux of the Toddler Wars, isn't it? Sometimes it's a battle worth fighting and the tears flow and the screams ring from the rafters and we hold her and tell her we're sorry she's frustrated, calm and loving on the outside even as she pushes us away and makes our insides roil with tumultuous emotion. And sometimes it's a battle not worth fighting, or that we just don't have the strength to fight that day.
And so the war begins. A gain here. A loss there. The only hope that we are all able to emerge relatively unscathed and, hopefully, stronger in the end.
Something tells me the next two years are going to rock my world more than originally anticipated.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Celebrating Love
Valentine's Day.
I've never understood why so many people hate it, why so many people sneer and scoff and proudly declare that they don't celebrate it, with the same disdain that might tinge their voice when telling someone they no longer believe in the tooth fairy. As if Valentine's Day is something contrived, something fake, something that children are conned into but that adults figure out as they age.
Yesterday was baby girl's second Valentine's Day. I'll admit I wasn't able to dwell on the holiday as much as I did last year--something about a baby growing inside me and a laundry list of new responsibilities to tackle keeps me amazingly preoccupied these days. Somehow the day snuck up on me, one of those "oh yeah, it's still a whiles off" and then allofasudden "holy shit guess what today is??" kind of things. But even so, even with all the other things we have going on, all the other things we have to spend our money on, all the other responsibilities we have on our time, even then we made sure to make it a special day.
Actually, it's because of those things that we made sure to make it a special day.
Valentine's doesn't have to be about showy displays of wealth or insincere levels of affection. Think it's a Hallmark holiday? Don't buy a card. Make one. Write a love letter. Send a romantic text or goofy e-card. Don't want to go through the hassle of reservations for dinner and fighting crowds? Dig into the back of your pantry and make a special meal. Hell, make a pizza and eat it by candle light. (For YEARS my husband and I ate Taco Bell by candle light every Valentine's day to remember and honor the way we did it for our very first one.) The point is, it doesn't have to be expensive. It doesn't have to be fake. It just has to be sincere. Affectionate. Focused. Dedicated.
All too often life pulls us in every direction but together. Adults--and especially parents--have a million trillion demands on their time. Sure we should love and appreciate our spouses and partners every day of the year. And we do. But the reality is that we don't always have the time or attention or opportunity or energy to make our spouse, our partner, feel that love and appreciation. What a wonderful holiday Valentine's is, to remind us for just one day to stop with the maddening rush of life and pay homage to the thing that makes our lives special in the first place--love.
My husband and I love Valentine's Day, and we can't wait to celebrate Valentine's Day with our kids. To wake them up in the morning with kisses and let them eat breakfasts of chocolate and candy on heart-shaped construction paper place mats. To let them see all the mushy, special, romantic things that we do for each other. To teach them that love is to be celebrated and honored and remembered above and beyond what the normal pace of life typically allows for.
And I hope they never outgrow it.
I've never understood why so many people hate it, why so many people sneer and scoff and proudly declare that they don't celebrate it, with the same disdain that might tinge their voice when telling someone they no longer believe in the tooth fairy. As if Valentine's Day is something contrived, something fake, something that children are conned into but that adults figure out as they age.
Yesterday was baby girl's second Valentine's Day. I'll admit I wasn't able to dwell on the holiday as much as I did last year--something about a baby growing inside me and a laundry list of new responsibilities to tackle keeps me amazingly preoccupied these days. Somehow the day snuck up on me, one of those "oh yeah, it's still a whiles off" and then allofasudden "holy shit guess what today is??" kind of things. But even so, even with all the other things we have going on, all the other things we have to spend our money on, all the other responsibilities we have on our time, even then we made sure to make it a special day.
Actually, it's because of those things that we made sure to make it a special day.
Valentine's doesn't have to be about showy displays of wealth or insincere levels of affection. Think it's a Hallmark holiday? Don't buy a card. Make one. Write a love letter. Send a romantic text or goofy e-card. Don't want to go through the hassle of reservations for dinner and fighting crowds? Dig into the back of your pantry and make a special meal. Hell, make a pizza and eat it by candle light. (For YEARS my husband and I ate Taco Bell by candle light every Valentine's day to remember and honor the way we did it for our very first one.) The point is, it doesn't have to be expensive. It doesn't have to be fake. It just has to be sincere. Affectionate. Focused. Dedicated.
All too often life pulls us in every direction but together. Adults--and especially parents--have a million trillion demands on their time. Sure we should love and appreciate our spouses and partners every day of the year. And we do. But the reality is that we don't always have the time or attention or opportunity or energy to make our spouse, our partner, feel that love and appreciation. What a wonderful holiday Valentine's is, to remind us for just one day to stop with the maddening rush of life and pay homage to the thing that makes our lives special in the first place--love.
My husband and I love Valentine's Day, and we can't wait to celebrate Valentine's Day with our kids. To wake them up in the morning with kisses and let them eat breakfasts of chocolate and candy on heart-shaped construction paper place mats. To let them see all the mushy, special, romantic things that we do for each other. To teach them that love is to be celebrated and honored and remembered above and beyond what the normal pace of life typically allows for.
And I hope they never outgrow it.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
About that VBAC
Mommy amnesia.
They say that's one of the things that allows for the procreation of the human race. That women forget what childbirth (and the newborn days) are like, and that's the only reason anyone ever has more than one child.
And yet here I am, 16 (or fewer!!) weeks away from giving birth for the second time, and I have only, can only, forget one of the two. The newborn days are now a happy blur. I remember my sweet, sleeping daughter. In my mind's eye, I see her playing happily on her play mat, or sitting in her swing, staring wide-eyed at the big, bright window. I've forgotten the nights we couldn't get her to sleep, the crying, the tears and frustration over her feeding and weight gain.
Mommy amnesia--1; newborn days--0.
But like an epidural that only works on half your body, the magical mommy amnesia really isn't doing a thing to numb the pain and memories of the other.
I remember the excitement, the happiness, the determination and hope we felt when I went into active labor. I remember the 24 hours I labored. I remember walking six miles that day, around and around and around the L&D floor at the hospital, with my husband beside me every step of the way. I remember the onset, the gradual seeping in of the disappointment, the confusion, and eventually the fear that things weren't happening the way they were supposed to. I remember everything we tried. Every concession we made. I remember the changing shifts, the changing goals, the change from walking to laboring in bed when we moved on to pitocin and eventually an epidural. I remember the gentle look on my doctor's face as he tried to get me to understand that it wasn't working, that my baby wasn't descending, that it wasn't going to happen. I remember how exhausted I felt. How defeated. I remember them increasing my drugs and being wheeled into the operating room. I remember throwing up, and how calm the anesthesiologist at my head was, how supportive. I remember the surgery the way I remember a vivid dream--I can see the plot in my mind, but it's all hazy. Clouded. Muted. I know they held her up for me to look at, but I had a hard time focusing my eyes. I had been awake, in active labor, for 24 hours, had eaten nothing, and had walked six miles. My body was spent. I remember only bits and pieces of afterward, of my family coming to visit me in the recovery room, of me seeing pictures of my daughter on my husband's camera. Only bits and pieces of the next day, with friends and visitors streaming in and out. I remember the slow sinking feeling that took over me in the hospital, the feeling of being trapped, of not really believing the outside world existed anymore. I remember my difficult recovery at home--not physically, but mentally and emotionally. How I felt like my body had failed. How embarrassed I felt about what I had allowed to happen. How much I second guessed every decision we made in the course of that day.
How determined I became to have a VBAC with my next child.
I remember it all.
And now here I am. I am "with my next child." It's time to make the plans, to prepare ourselves. And for the last 16 months, all I've thought about is VBAC-VBAC-VBAC. It's written on my chart. The websites are bookmarked on my computer. My friends and family know that's what I want.
So why now, when the moment is close, am I struggling with such fear?
It's because I can remember. Because I do remember.
Because from where I stand, I am heading into a challenge I've already failed at once. And now I know how controlled and predictable a c-section can be. How safe. How easy the physical recovery can be. And now I know how dangerous a vaginal delivery can be, how many things can go wrong, so far above and beyond what happened to me. Terms like "uterine rupture" float in my head, and I know that has to be part of my decision process. I don't even eat lunch meat while pregnant because of the minuscule risks associated with it; why on earth would I willingly engage in something that has a 1 in 100 chance of REALLY BAD THINGS for me and my baby?
Why was it so important to me to have a vaginal delivery? I remember that it was important. I remember the long, difficult process I went through getting over the fact that it had been taken from me, and the determination with which I set my sites on my second chance at success. But why?
For my first pregnancy, my husband and I took a Bradley class. We read and practiced and practiced and read. And it was all really useful stuff for the first 22 hours of that day. But in the end? When it counted? Not so much.
We obviously aren't paying for another class like that this time around. Not spending another 8 weeks in late night classes while paying for a sitter for baby girl, when there's the very real chance it won't matter this time, either. But we have to do something to prepare, right? Something to prepare for this birth, this VBAC I set my sights on so long ago? We borrowed a friend's hypnobabies program and have been working through it together at home. A lot of it resonates. A lot of it doesn't. And a lot of it taunts me, provokes that bitter voice in the back of my mind to scoff, "Easy?!?! Childbirth is easy??? Those naive fucks."
It tells me I'm supposed to only allow in the positive messages surrounding childbirth, and reject the negative ones, but what happens when the negative ones come from within? From my own memories?
At this point, I'm still shooting for the VBAC. But if you asked me to tell you why, right now, today, my answer may very well be, "Because it was something I wanted. Something that was important to me." Like that. All in the past tense.
Because I know it was important to me. Back when fear and memories weren't swelling within me.
And I don't make life decisions based on fear, remember?
So right now, VBAC it is. I might have to do some more research on the pros of a VBAC to bolster that side of the chart a bit more. I might have to stop and really figure out the answer to "why?" Not my answer from back then, but my answer for right now. I might have to record my own affirmations that include nothing about the ease and comfort of childbirth, affirmations that speak more to what is possible than what should be.
Because in birth, there is no should. There is only could. It's not about what I'm entitled to, what I deserve as a woman, as a mother. It's about the passage of my child into the world, safely. And there are many, many ways that could happen.
Right?
They say that's one of the things that allows for the procreation of the human race. That women forget what childbirth (and the newborn days) are like, and that's the only reason anyone ever has more than one child.
And yet here I am, 16 (or fewer!!) weeks away from giving birth for the second time, and I have only, can only, forget one of the two. The newborn days are now a happy blur. I remember my sweet, sleeping daughter. In my mind's eye, I see her playing happily on her play mat, or sitting in her swing, staring wide-eyed at the big, bright window. I've forgotten the nights we couldn't get her to sleep, the crying, the tears and frustration over her feeding and weight gain.
Mommy amnesia--1; newborn days--0.
But like an epidural that only works on half your body, the magical mommy amnesia really isn't doing a thing to numb the pain and memories of the other.
I remember the excitement, the happiness, the determination and hope we felt when I went into active labor. I remember the 24 hours I labored. I remember walking six miles that day, around and around and around the L&D floor at the hospital, with my husband beside me every step of the way. I remember the onset, the gradual seeping in of the disappointment, the confusion, and eventually the fear that things weren't happening the way they were supposed to. I remember everything we tried. Every concession we made. I remember the changing shifts, the changing goals, the change from walking to laboring in bed when we moved on to pitocin and eventually an epidural. I remember the gentle look on my doctor's face as he tried to get me to understand that it wasn't working, that my baby wasn't descending, that it wasn't going to happen. I remember how exhausted I felt. How defeated. I remember them increasing my drugs and being wheeled into the operating room. I remember throwing up, and how calm the anesthesiologist at my head was, how supportive. I remember the surgery the way I remember a vivid dream--I can see the plot in my mind, but it's all hazy. Clouded. Muted. I know they held her up for me to look at, but I had a hard time focusing my eyes. I had been awake, in active labor, for 24 hours, had eaten nothing, and had walked six miles. My body was spent. I remember only bits and pieces of afterward, of my family coming to visit me in the recovery room, of me seeing pictures of my daughter on my husband's camera. Only bits and pieces of the next day, with friends and visitors streaming in and out. I remember the slow sinking feeling that took over me in the hospital, the feeling of being trapped, of not really believing the outside world existed anymore. I remember my difficult recovery at home--not physically, but mentally and emotionally. How I felt like my body had failed. How embarrassed I felt about what I had allowed to happen. How much I second guessed every decision we made in the course of that day.
How determined I became to have a VBAC with my next child.
I remember it all.
And now here I am. I am "with my next child." It's time to make the plans, to prepare ourselves. And for the last 16 months, all I've thought about is VBAC-VBAC-VBAC. It's written on my chart. The websites are bookmarked on my computer. My friends and family know that's what I want.
So why now, when the moment is close, am I struggling with such fear?
It's because I can remember. Because I do remember.
Because from where I stand, I am heading into a challenge I've already failed at once. And now I know how controlled and predictable a c-section can be. How safe. How easy the physical recovery can be. And now I know how dangerous a vaginal delivery can be, how many things can go wrong, so far above and beyond what happened to me. Terms like "uterine rupture" float in my head, and I know that has to be part of my decision process. I don't even eat lunch meat while pregnant because of the minuscule risks associated with it; why on earth would I willingly engage in something that has a 1 in 100 chance of REALLY BAD THINGS for me and my baby?
Why was it so important to me to have a vaginal delivery? I remember that it was important. I remember the long, difficult process I went through getting over the fact that it had been taken from me, and the determination with which I set my sites on my second chance at success. But why?
For my first pregnancy, my husband and I took a Bradley class. We read and practiced and practiced and read. And it was all really useful stuff for the first 22 hours of that day. But in the end? When it counted? Not so much.
We obviously aren't paying for another class like that this time around. Not spending another 8 weeks in late night classes while paying for a sitter for baby girl, when there's the very real chance it won't matter this time, either. But we have to do something to prepare, right? Something to prepare for this birth, this VBAC I set my sights on so long ago? We borrowed a friend's hypnobabies program and have been working through it together at home. A lot of it resonates. A lot of it doesn't. And a lot of it taunts me, provokes that bitter voice in the back of my mind to scoff, "Easy?!?! Childbirth is easy??? Those naive fucks."
It tells me I'm supposed to only allow in the positive messages surrounding childbirth, and reject the negative ones, but what happens when the negative ones come from within? From my own memories?
At this point, I'm still shooting for the VBAC. But if you asked me to tell you why, right now, today, my answer may very well be, "Because it was something I wanted. Something that was important to me." Like that. All in the past tense.
Because I know it was important to me. Back when fear and memories weren't swelling within me.
And I don't make life decisions based on fear, remember?
So right now, VBAC it is. I might have to do some more research on the pros of a VBAC to bolster that side of the chart a bit more. I might have to stop and really figure out the answer to "why?" Not my answer from back then, but my answer for right now. I might have to record my own affirmations that include nothing about the ease and comfort of childbirth, affirmations that speak more to what is possible than what should be.
Because in birth, there is no should. There is only could. It's not about what I'm entitled to, what I deserve as a woman, as a mother. It's about the passage of my child into the world, safely. And there are many, many ways that could happen.
Right?
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