To Be a Woman

If I could have chosen, before coming into the world, whether I wanted to be a man or a woman, I would have chosen woman hands down.

Heck, maybe I did get to choose. Maybe that's why I'm here, wearing a bra rather than scratching my nuts.

From where I stand, being a woman truly is the better of the two experiences. We get to be strong and soft, without getting judged for either. We get to be pampered and spoiled. We have doors opened for us, and strangers rush to help us lift heavy bags into airline overhead bins. We are, let's face it, the more physically aesthetic of the sexes. And we can get free shit just by batting our eyes, smiling coyly, twirling a strand of hair around a finger, and adding the slightest gentle lilt to our dialogue.

Yes. Being a woman is awesome.

But there's another reason being a woman is awesome. Why it's the most incredible experience possible.

Look at that.

I mean, really, stop and look.

Being a woman, being a mother, means getting to do THAT.

Getting to grow a life inside of me. Getting to GROW a LIFE INSIDE of me.

My daughter? That funny, sassy, independent, loving, strong-willed, curious little girl who will one day grow into an adult, a fully functioning, contributing member of society? I grew her. She started out tiny, and grew and grew and grew. I surrounded her tiny body with warmth and protection, a perfect environment in which to nourish her.

And now I'm getting to do it again. Right now. Inside me. Dos is that size. Tiny. Vulnerable. Amazing. Miraculous.

And I get to be part of that miracle. I'm a part of that story.

What an incredible thing it is to live life as a woman. I am so incredibly thankful for this experience.

He's a Problem Solver

TH doesn't like me having problems. He wants my life to be easy-breezy-beautiful. So when I come to him with a problem, he wants to solve it. Right then. Done.

My current problem? I can't find any clothes that fit me. I'm too big for my regular clothes and still too small for my maternity clothes from last time around (I also started the last pregnancy about 12 pounds heavier than I started this one). Every morning is an exercise in frustration. Every morning I try on at least ten different possibilities. Every morning I feel crappy about the way I look.

When lamenting about this to TH, he immediately jumped in with a solution: go buy all new maternity clothes.

I told him I hated spending all that money on clothes that I'm just going to wear for five months and then (quite possibly) never again.

True to form, he had a fix.

"Maybe you'll end up really fat, and then you can keep wearing them for years."

Thanks, babe. You always know the right thing to say.

We're Done

I breastfed my daughter for 1 year, 1 month, 3 weeks, and 5 days.

421 days.

Tonight we will end play time and move straight to the bath. Then jammies. Then books. Then put her to bed. Tonight, for the first time in 421 days, I won't nurse her before she sleeps for the night.

I thought about not weaning yet. About waiting until we hit the 14-month milestone, just to be able to say that we did. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that's just my panicked reaction to thinking about not nursing her tonight. There's nothing inherently better about nursing another four days. I don't get more credit for that. And the fact is that when 14 months arrives and it's time to wean (again), I'd feel just as nervous, just as not-ready as I do today. And I'd probably look for another milestone in the future to hit, just so that I wouldn't have to say, "We're done."

But, we are done. My body is done. My milk is all but gone, my body's resources and efforts turning to to Dos rather than to making milk for baby girl. When she nurses now, it's more out of habit and involves a lot of pulling and pushing and twisting and other breast gymnastics that make mammograms look like sensuous massages. A lot smacking her little hand on my chest because she likes the sound it makes because she's bored because she's not getting much at the breast anyway. A lot of pointing out Mommy's nose and eyes and mouth and chin and ears and hair and forehead and earrings, a lot of trying to say those words while maintaining her latch, a lot of laughing on both our parts at her muffled attempts.

We're done, and I'm okay with it. I'm not ready to be done, and if I weren't pregnant, we wouldn't be. We would continue nursing in the morning and at night as long as my supply held up, as long as she still wanted to. But I am pregnant. My supply is gone and my body is trying to grow our second child and I'm okay with being done nursing my first.

When we first started nursing, I never could have predicted we'd make it this far. She was such a slow eater. She was so slow gaining weight. She was impossible to keep awake at the breast. I cried every single time she nursed, out of worry and out of frustration. My goal was to make it to 6 weeks. Then to 12 weeks, 'til I went back to work and had to become a working mom, a pumping mom. Pumping at work was a game changer and I was not going to set myself up for misery by having any expectations on myself for how long I could or would keep that up. But then the days passed. And months. She turned 6 months old. We introduced solids. I stopped getting up at night to pump extra, to build my stash. And then 10 months hit, double digits, and I knew that I would be okay with weaning at any point after that. Not ready, but okay. To me, 10 months was no different than 12 months. And then her birthday came, and we saw that positive test, and my supply started to drop, my body started to change its priorities. I stopped pumping at work. Around 13 months, I dropped the morning session. I tried to enjoy the luxury of sleeping in, for the first time in more than a year, but my body was so used to waking and seeing her that sleeping in has been a giant fail. And for the last few weeks, we nursed once a day, at night, before bath time, before bed. It's been our time to cuddle, to stop the constant motion of our lives and just be.

I've been able to nurse her long enough to see her sign milk as she drank. She looked up at me, her beautiful, bewitching hazel eyes gazing into mine, and she signed milk. She acknowledged the gift she was receiving from me.

And that's when I knew I was okay to let it go.

I nursed my daughter last night for the last time. I whispered to her while she drank that I loved her, that I loved the time we had shared together. She smiled and pulled and slapped my chest and pointed out my nose.

I can't imagine any more perfect ending to this chapter of our story.

The end.

Hello Baby

In just five short weeks, from a tiny little jellybean to a baby with arms and legs and fingers and toes. Dos was stretched out, low-rider style in my ute at the appointment yesterday. Chillaxin' is the word that comes to mind. Everything looked perfect. Everything measured perfect. Everything is perfect. We didn't get any 2D shots, but we did get some 3D ones.

Hello there, baby.

Why I Hate Russian Women

This last weekend we traveled to Dallas to celebrate both my mom's and my MIL's birthdays. For her birthday, my MIL decided that she wanted professional pictures done of the family. If you'll remember, dear reader, we just HAD professional pictures taken of the family. Here. At baby girl's birthday. One of which we had framed and gave to her as a birthday present. 6 weeks ago. Have we really all changed so much in 6 weeks that we need to redocument this time in our lives? No? Well, the only reasonable explanation that is left is that she thought the pictures WE arranged to have done were not good enough. (Eff you #1.)

For this second round of professional pictures, we had to get matching outfits. Not coordinating outfits, as is the newest trend in family shots. Matching outfits. I'm sure it doesn't take too much mental exertion to figure out that she was thinking the old-school "white shirts and blue jeans" look. Fine. Whatev. It's her birthday, right? That's what I thought, that is, until I went shopping for a white shirt. It was at the store that my train of thought turned more along the lines of "Who the fuck's idea was it to put the 'Is she fat or is she pregnant??' girl in a WHITE shirt for cheesy studio shots, anyway??" Of all the colors of the rainbow that I should NOT be wearing right now, white tops the list. But of course there was no consideration given for that, seeing as how it was her birthday and this was what she wanted. (Eff you #2.)

After the photo shoot, which I did manage to smile through, thankyouverymuch, we had a birthday dinner. One of my MIL's Russian friends joined us. She walks in, we are introduced, and she starts in with the small pleasantries. "So, when are you due?" she asks me. Ignoring the fact that the news was not supposed to have been shared yet, I smile and say "End of May." "Really??" she responds, incredulously. "Well, I guess you do show sooner with your second pregnancy." (Eff you #3.)

Super-awesome-Russian-guest-lady then follows her stunning intro with, "My daughter-in-law is due only a week after you, at the beginning of June. She's not showing yet, but she's very skinny." (Eff you #4.) 

I'm pretty sure TH saw the die-bitch-die lightening bolts shooting out of my eyes, because he quickly steered the super-awesome-Russian-guest-lady into a separate conversation, and then proceeded to tell me the rest of the weekend how much he appreciated me, how beautiful I am, how sweet I was to put up with his family, and on and on and on.

I have no witty ending, no nice conclusion to wrap this all up. I hate Russian women.

Hello Worry, My Old Friend

"Hello {worry}, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence." 

What's one great thing about second pregnancies? That you've done it all before. That you know everything will be fine and you can relax and not spend all of your time stressing out. You can stop worrying and enjoy the ride for what it is. Well, that and you're too busy chasing around your toddler to spend all your time worrying about your growing fetus.

Right?

I mean, that's what I was told. And for the most part, it's proven true over the last month or so. We were more comfortable telling people earlier this time around, once we saw the beautiful beating heart. When it came time to schedule the second appointment, I opted for the 12-week mark rather than the offered 11-week mark, even though it meant a wait of five weeks between appointments rather than four. I mean, let's have the appointment when we're supposed to, right? I'll be fine for five weeks. Busy. Tired. Much too busy and tired to worry.

Right?

And here we are. Four and a half weeks later, and I am counting the hours 'til that appointment. 

It's true that it's always darkest before the dawn. That the wait for something is always hardest in the last moments before you get it. That your worry about something peaks in the hours and minutes before that thing should be yours. 

I want to feel her. I want to see her. I want to know that everything is fine, that she's happily tucked away inside her own little space bubble of safety, waving her little limbs and growing contentedly in her warm, dark world. 

(Yeah, I said it. Her. I think she's a she. And quite frankly I don't want to mess with the whole "his/her" thing right now.)

So here I sit. Four days before our appointment. Busy as ever. Tired as ever. But sinking into that old familiar worry all the same.

And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't really have it any other way. The life inside is too precious to be taken for granted, to be regarded complacently. 

My worry is my protectiveness. My worry is my desire. My worry is my love. 

And so begins another lifetime of worry about a child. What a terribly wonderful thing it is to be a mother.

Breaking the News . . . Again

(The last of my catch-up posts. Written 9/20; published 11/1.)

The first time we told our families we were pregnant, the reactions were priceless. Memorable.

My mom screamed and cried.

My dad wouldn't really talk to me and drank heavily.

My father-in-law didn't get it at first, but when he did, he started having hot flashes that apparently only were calmed by spilling stories of the atrocities of pregnancy and childbirth in Soviet-era Russia. Sweet.

This time, we were conflicted. The weekend before we saw two lines on a test we spent in Dallas, helping my MIL who had been in a serious car accident and suffered a facial gash (read: got rear ended and has a bump on her nose). Apparently she had spent some of the time with TH volunteering advice on when we should have our second child. It's important to note here that she had her two children SEVEN YEARS APART. On purpose. So her admonitions about not having another child anytime soon must be taken with a grain of salt. TH responded with all of our well-thought-out arguments about how close the siblings would be if they grew up together, about how nice it would be to have the baby stage over and done with earlier in our lives. And he assured her that we were most definitely NOT pregnant right now.

::cough::cough::

His first thought was to wait to tell them that we're pregnant until I went into labor. Surely they couldn't say anything bad at that point.

After I pointed out to him the futility of hiding a gigantic pregnant stomach all that time, he suggested waiting at least until 12 weeks. That would give us time, time to settle into the idea, time to know the baby was thriving and healthy, and, well, time to NOT have to deal with the comments.

I agreed. That is, until I realized that meant I couldn't tell my family, either. You see, I don't really keep secrets from my family. Or, at least, from my mom, stepdad and siblings. My dad probably couldn't care less if I kept secrets from him, but there would be hell to pay if he ever caught wind that he was last to know something like this.

Then we thought about just waiting until after the first doctor's appointment. Until we saw the heartbeat.

Then we realized that everyone was coming into town for baby girl's birthday party, and that we would be meeting with a professional photographer for family photographs, and that we would have the perfect opportunity to do something I've always wanted to do: have someone capture in a photograph the moment after I yell, "Okay, on three, everybody say, 'Ali's going to be a big sister!!'" What an awesome photograph that would be! What a memory preserved!

So there we were: tell everyone all at once, in this really fun way . . . or wait two weeks longer and tell everyone separately, over the phone.

Once again, we determined that we couldn't live our lives ruled by fear. The only reason we wouldn't tell everyone all together is fear: fear that something might happen and we'll have to "untell" them, fear that they won't react well . . . fear.

With a deep breath, another "holy shit, are we really going to do this?" look, we made the call: the fun reveal.

There were a thousand moments during the day on Saturday I wanted to tell my mom. Laughing about not being able to eat the sandwiches we had catered. Ruminating on the fact that this would, God willing, be baby girl's only birthday to ever celebrate by herself. I don't know how I held onto this secret, how we got through the party with no one suspecting a thing.

We met the photographer at a park after the party, taking family pictures, different groupings of different generations. And then it was time. No more groupings. No more delaying. We gathered everyone together into one giant group shot. I took a breath and somehow, without my voice shaking, without my brain revolting against what I was about to do and clamping my mouth shut, I yelled out, clear and joyful, "Okay, everybody, on three, say, 'Ali's going to be a big sister!!!!!'"

I distinctly remember hearing a "WHAT?!?!!?" before the general roar of the crowd drowned all sensible thought out. Or maybe it was an "OH MY GOD!!!!" I honestly can't remember now. All I remember is that someone, I think it was my mom, yelled, and then everyone yelled, and then I was grinning foolishly and trying to focus on one person's voice, on one train of thought. The general melee scared baby girl and she started crying and hugging my neck. I was trying to take it all in, trying to gauge everyone's reaction. I remember turning to see how my dad was reacting, and he was staring at me, expressionless. My mom leaped into my arms, smothering me with hugs and congratulations. I got the general sense that the Russian consortium was probably mobbing TH because they certainly weren't mobbing me. I heard my dad say "I'm going to go get the car."

Yeah, that stung a little. But hey, it's my dad. The guy who didn't think he was old enough to be a grandfather. The guy who didn't think I should get married, or go on trips, or make any of the other adult decisions that I make. He reacted to the first announcement with heavy drinking. It's what he does. At least by now I recognize that.

So I knew my dad was, well, if not pissed, then highly disapproving. Expected. I hadn't yet really interacted with the Russian coalition much, but I could imagine their disapproval as well. I was relying on my parents, on my awesome, supportive, everything-is-going-to-be-great parents. And they came through. Kind of. At first.

By the time we got home and put the partied-out birthday girl to bed, my parents had gone from congratulations to . . . I'm not sure what to call it. Comments? Jokes? Good-natured ribbing? "Wow, you guys just were able to catch your breath!" "Oh my goodness, a baby and a toddler? :::insert clicking of tongue and shaking of head:::" I think that was probably harder for me to take than any other reaction. I expect my dad and in-laws to be insane. I don't put a lot of stock in their reactions to things. But my parents? My parents are kind of my guideposts through life. And it sounded like even they thought we were nuts.

That was hard.

I went to bed, exhausted. Too much had gone on that day. Too much to process. My brain and body shut down in self-preservation.

And I woke up in the morning . . . myself.

Defiant.

In what TH calls my endearing "punk-ass-ed-ness," my response to anyone who tells me I can't or shouldn't do something is usually a resounding "you wanna bet?"

And Sunday morning, for the first time that weekend, a sliver of that girl started shining through.

I realized that I don't give a flying flip if other people think it's too soon to have another baby. It's not their life. It's not their family. It's ours. And we picked this! Logically. Conscientiously. And we are happy! Yes, it's going to be crazy. Yes, it's going to be hard. But I am so, so excited about the adventure we have just embarked on, everyone-else-be-damned!

So our families know. And their reactions were . . . actually . . . not all that important. Happy, shocked, disapproving . . . it doesn't really matter.

What matters is that it helped us realize what our reaction is.

I've had a secret little smile on my face since Sunday. I can feel my cheeks glow with warmth. I can feel my heart flutter.

I was waiting for that.

Oh, and how could I leave this post without THE picture?? Here it is . . . our big reveal: