tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43550823947527030792024-02-18T20:50:43.231-08:00The Grand Science ExperimentOn making and raising a petri dish baby.2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-51847942034511596012016-09-02T09:02:00.001-07:002016-09-02T09:02:06.159-07:00The Post Where Things Are Different-erToday is September 2nd and things are completely different than the last time I blogged. <div>
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I am 34 years old and live with my parents now.<br /><div>
First, we sold our condo in about 2 seconds. Many thanks to my wonderful realtor (a friend through my infertility support group - go busted uteruses!), the nutty Chicago real estate market and the recovering economy. Then we went to the owner of a house we had fallen in love with, then freaked out over it being too much rehab and walked away from. Thankfully, the owner was happy to renegotiate and we signed a contract. The house is old, in somewhat sad shape, has an amazing overgrown garden with a big raspberry bush, smells like cat pee and will be a wonderful cozy home for my little family following a little TLC. Also, it is 4 houses down from my sister's house. We are scheduled to close on that house at the end of September. All good news.</div>
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Here's where things get shitty. My new job, the one I left my stable if imperfect, well-paying gig for, turned fairly awful.* Obviously I was holding on, trying to make money, and just dealing with various shenanigans. Except then business slowed waaaaay down - after we had a signed contract on the house - and my boss effectively laid me off. That would be difficult but bearable if not for the fact that I have to show a pay stub in September that is roughly equivalent to my previous pay stubs in order to secure our loan. I'm trying to negotiate this with my boss but he is being difficult. (*See job turned "fairly awful.") At this point, I have no idea if we're completely fucked and not going to get our house or if he's going to be a decent person and help us out. Consider it severance. You may think we're insane to proceed with the purchase of a house while one of us is unemployed but here's our thinking:</div>
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A) J is still working. </div>
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B) I have a strong resume, have a great network of people gunning for me and realistically expect to be employed again in the near future. </div>
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C) J's parent's had already agreed to assist us with the rehab of our house. That money still exists and isn't going anywhere. We are lucky; they are incredible. </div>
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D) The mortgage on our house, given the low interest rates, is actually less than we paid on our condo after monthly assessments. If we were to rent in the town we now live in, our rent would be more than a mortgage.</div>
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E) We're currently living with my parents and that cannot stand forever. I love them, we're doing well, but we are 6 people and 3 dogs in a 3 bedroom house with zero sound attenuation. </div>
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Fuck. Anywho, I feel basically embarrassed and ashamed that I am unemployed. Not because it's a shameful thing but because I am me and am very good at harboring embarrassment and shame. Simultaneously, I am wildly hopeful. It's a funny thing.</div>
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I am sick over the fate of my house and my boss's fuckery. FFFFUUUUUUUCK.</div>
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In news that is more delightful, Eloise is 6 months old now and has reached that fabled stage where babies sit and play but do not crawl into danger. It is the best. She is smiley, thinks kisses are very funny and is hopelessly in love with Henry and our dogs. Henry is smitten with her as well and enjoys talking to her in a screechy, high voice that is apparently how one must speak to babies. "Elweeze, I make you laugh! Elweeze, you want to play trucks? Elweeze, you funny!" They are so cute. Thank God I have them right now as the rest of it is soooo stressful. I can't wait to write my update post and tell you all that everything worked out and that a stranger on the street offered me a flex-time job with full benefits that pays half a million dollars per year (let's be reasonable with our dreams) and provides 4 months of vacation time. The End.</div>
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2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-81287599347517358252016-05-25T07:32:00.001-07:002016-05-25T07:32:13.827-07:00Update Where Everything is DifferentBasically everything is the same since I last posted to this blog back in February except for the following:<br />
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<li>Eloise is no longer 1 week old. She is now 15 weeks old or something like that. Now she smiles, generally tolerates life's myriad of challenges (see "dog licking" and "tummy time" in sentence to follow), and enjoys snuggling and scratching her stubborn, flaky cradle cap. She does not enjoy having her head licked excessively by the dogs or tummy time. Unlike Henry, who refused and still refuses to go above 2% on the growth chart for weight, Eloise has delicious thigh rolls and her cheeks are giant, heavy apples. I love it. It's as though last time around I made skim milk and this time I'm serving up heavy cream. No one would call her a fat baby but she has significantly more chunkage than Henry ever did. She is a delight and I want to smush her.</li>
<li>I'm back at work. I am pumping. It is terrible just like last time. Unlike last time, I decided right off the bat that I would pump no more than 1-2 times per day and would supplement with formula as needed. That has worked really well for me and seemingly for Eloise, too. I tend to pump once a day, drop about 9 oz at daycare, and the rest is Baby's One Formula which my hippie granola sister-in-law told me to get and I blindly obeyed. At home its straight boob. So far, so good. She gets mostly breastmilk and I'm not a ball of stress over reaching some crazy milk quota.</li>
<li>When I say "back" at work I really mean that I'm working again but at a new job. My new job is in the same general field as before - I'm doing project management for construction projects but this time for a general contractor where as before I was an owner's representative. It's way less corporate and more independent. It's refreshing and terrifying. I'm being paid hourly at a rate comparable to my old salary but am working 4 days instead of 5 so that I can spend a little more time with my babies. This sounds great and feels great when I spend my Mondays at the zoo in the sunshine just loving on Henry but is feeling logistically and financially difficult right now. Part-time care for Henry (almost all daycares in the city require full-time for infants) was supposed to save us money and free us up to spend more time with him. Instead, it seems to be accomplishing the latter but instead of saving money, we're losing more by not working. We're only 3 weeks in and figuring things out. I'm completely certain (sometimes) that things will fall into place and all will be ok. I've worked 50+ hours a week for the past 10 years - on-call and traveling for the past 6 of those - and I want to take some time to slow done and enjoy my babies while they're little. I know that's the right decision for me but the whole money bleeding thing is killing me. Having 2 kids in the city is really expensive. Which brings me to my next bullet point...</li>
<li>We're listing our condo on the market next month and want to move back to my hometown, a lovely suburb that borders Chicago and has ample access to public transpo. Also the home of my sister and parents. 2 Adults + 2 kids + 2 dogs in a 2 bedroom apartment is feeling like, "cramped" isn't the right word for it... ah yes, like a hell hole. That's what I mean to say. It was no big deal to scoop Henry up in a carrier and walk the dogs back in the day. Now I have to leave Eloise strapped in her carseat while I run the dogs down to pee in 30 seconds, either balancing Henry on my hip or willing him to walk down the back stairs faster. This all came to a head earlier this week when J had to work late. I picked up the kids from daycare, parked, walked a block to our apartment, got in the door and Henry decided he wanted to go back outside. But he couldn't because we had to go let the dogs out, eat dinner, and generally continue on with life. Not fucking okay. He lost his mind in the biggest tantrum I've ever seen from him. I carried Eloise up the one flight of stairs to our landing, left her in the carseat, ran back down and picked H up while he screamed and flailed. I then let us into the apartment and fed the dogs who were losing their minds about being hungry and needing to pee. I tried to negotiate with my terrorist son about coming back outside with me to walk the dogs and while that fruitless discussion was happening, my dog Frank simply couldn't hold it any more and shit in front of me in the living room. While Henry was screaming. Shit + screaming + my old dog Ella was just barking incessantly to let me know she wanted to go out which I was already completely aware of. I cleaned up poop, got the dogs out, eventually calmed Henry down by turning on Bob the Builder (no judgement), and made dinner. When J got home after 8 pm, Henry was still eating dinner. I crawled into the fetal position with a glass of wine once J took over with Henry. A total winner of a night. The point of this whole story is that I desperately need a yard so that I can just let the dogs out and deal with my insane kid. Or, let Henry play in the yard so he can be outside like he wanted. I realize that I am hanging all my hopes and dreams on a backyard and that it will only go so far towards making life with a menagerie of dogs and children feel sane but it's all I got right now.</li>
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The most stressful things - aside from famine, natural disasters, homelessness, <i>actual tragedies the likes of which I've never had to experience</i> - are the birth of a child, the death of a loved one, changing careers, moving, divorce, and canine incontinence (made that one up). J and I have agreed not to get divorced because single parenting seems overly difficult. If someone dies now, I will kill them. Please let me focus on my new baby, changing my career and moving. I am this slightly manic mix of incredibly in love and happy with my family and stressed and stretched too thin. This is probably the state of my life for the next 15-20 years with fluctuations in the love : happiness : stress ratio.<br />
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When he is not throwing epic tantrums about outdoor access, Henry is SUCH A FUCKING DELIGHT. I know I described Eloise as a delight earlier but truly, they both are so wonderful. Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago is absolutely free which makes it a favorite destination of this cash-strapped mom. Last Monday we had a day there, just the two of us, where we rode the train, saw lions, flamingos, hippos and - HOLD THE PHONE - <i>monkey doctors</i>. Not just regular doctors but ones that take care of monkeys. Henry is very interested in his own pediatrician since his two-year checkup. At the Macaque Forest, we were able to watch researchers in lab coats working with the monkeys in some humane experiment where they were offered fruits and veggies constantly. I clearly didn't catch the details. I think the experiment was called, "Do Monkeys Like Food?" and the answer was "yes, yes they do." Anywho, Henry was completely enthralled and has been saying since then, "I be a money doctor. I take care of mama monkey, daddy monkey and baby monkey. Someday." He's starting to explore the concept of things happening in the past and the future. Not everything is right now. Though most things are. After seeing pictures of him meeting Eloise at the hospital, he now repeatedly asks, "Daddy, remember when Henry was born? Mama, remember when Eloise was born?" I vaguely remember those events. Yesterday I asked him what babies do. He replied, "Be born."<br />
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I swear I can hear the gears spinning and cranks clicking while that boy thinks. He is always exploring, learning and trying to catch his language up to his whirring thoughts. It makes me so, so proud. I think I got two really good ones.<br />
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Theoretically, our condo goes on the market in the next 2-3 weeks. I'll have much more to report in life in the next several months and hopefully will be blogging about it a bit more often. Til then...</div>
2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-57471141199536865702016-02-19T07:20:00.001-08:002016-02-19T07:20:00.346-08:00Postpartum Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Eloise and I partied </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">so hard</i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> last night. She was binge drinking and crying; I was trashing our room, throwing nursing pads, pacifiers and swaddle blankets around like I didn't even care where they landed. This morning after we'd slept it off a bit I was like, "E, that was great. I haven't raged like that since college." I kept thinking how bad I feel for housekeeping particularly considering that housekeeping is primarily me.</span></div><div><br></div><div>There was a reason for her complete insanity and, not surprisingly, I was complicit. During the pediatrics rounds at the hospital, the doctor noted that Eloise had a tongue tie. She recommended that we have it snipped to prevent potential breastfeeding and speech issues in the future. Reasoning that since we'd circumcised Henry that we should do something to similarly torture our daughter - female circumcision being fairly uniformly frowned upon in these parts - we decided to go for it. The ENT performing the procedure told us that some babies are unphased and others a bit fussy. We fell into Category C: hell hath no fury like a baby with her frenulum clipped. In her solid week of life, Eloise has been easy peasy with the exception of yesterday and last night. This morning she seems to be resting comfortably and as such, my guilt is subsiding.</div><div><br></div><div>Moving onto observations and witticisms...</div><div>1. You can love 2 children at the same time. A few of you may have mentioned something to this effect. It is ridiculously true. I fawn over her the way I gush over Henry. Crazy true love all over again. Plus, watching my husband cradle a newborn makes me just about die a sudden hormonal death each time so I'm triple in love.</div><div><br></div><div>2. It is not possible for a 22 month old to grasp the arrival of a new sibling, no matter how obese you might get. Thus, his world will be rocked. Henry splits his emotional time between adoring Eloise - asking to snuggle and hold her, showing us her nose, asking her to come play in his "tunnel" (play teepee) - and having complete nervous breakdowns over unspecified tragedies. The good news is that every day, the ratio of loving, playful Henry to clinically insane Henry slides to the former's favor. We are also gradually getting better at focusing solely on him rather than feeling like we're constantly in a game of kid triage. Newborns are pretty low maintenance. Typically they can stare at a ceiling fan while they wait for attention.</div><div><br></div><div>3. There is no easy way to extract a fully grown baby from one's body. Day 1 post c-section I was asking if the hospital had a post-natal kickboxing class I could join. Adrenaline for the win! Day 2, I was moaning and begging for illegal drugs. Subsequent days are better and better but I can say, equivocally, that recovering from a c-section is a motherfucker. But then I remember recovering from vaginal birth and that was a total bitch as well. Suffering is a woman's lot in life, or something like that. I would like there to be a c-section recovery forum somewhere where I can post things like "is this shit normal?" But I think I'll have to suck it up and discuss with the many women in my life who have been sliced and diced.</div><div><br></div><div>Photos were requested and so photos you shall have. Our hospital has a contract with a professional photography company that busts into your room and sells you charming photos of your new baby. Last time, they came the morning after I'd labored for 30 hours, pushed for 4 hours, and had a kid vacuumed out of me. Henry and I looked <i>rough</i>. No photos purchased. This time we had an extra day. There were showers involved and small amounts of sleep. We suckered up and bought those pics. Here are a few.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4WBV3Wgdy5bNykTna873iliy94Pc_6f-cacasRSkYrN78TRL9ohJAg589yMzxgiAIcvETgUYcPUdKQaRuGoGEJi1OrUCEFNw9yXGVjG6U9ETEAYIxBwU7t_GEMHsmmbuA5XF9cAZNS78/s640/blogger-image-615643096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4WBV3Wgdy5bNykTna873iliy94Pc_6f-cacasRSkYrN78TRL9ohJAg589yMzxgiAIcvETgUYcPUdKQaRuGoGEJi1OrUCEFNw9yXGVjG6U9ETEAYIxBwU7t_GEMHsmmbuA5XF9cAZNS78/s640/blogger-image-615643096.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1J7SebfH5awCoySPv9szjcyCbxE9UW8_UNsyQdXqZ7MZXzug6d3cqWjU_nwzV3rK4id9XdYgqNxqCdYbiTSxIyvY0HfOR73wQOrEA4-l2eKtQhRe05_sIQu-spb0mBy6cF2T0RjoLpo/s640/blogger-image-236964700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1J7SebfH5awCoySPv9szjcyCbxE9UW8_UNsyQdXqZ7MZXzug6d3cqWjU_nwzV3rK4id9XdYgqNxqCdYbiTSxIyvY0HfOR73wQOrEA4-l2eKtQhRe05_sIQu-spb0mBy6cF2T0RjoLpo/s640/blogger-image-236964700.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FAde2Yw1zTWr-HFvgK6KeZGpNZ8qEMG5Ic8W5wi2Qj1WpaQsGX-eGzB2tbubDMFAZ78VOp1IdYMpjD3ub_MOvjBiNu6LGAskshtxLIYQiqRJKG0IusR_rU2Me2TUhBIBFq677wrZEfk/s640/blogger-image--658982087.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FAde2Yw1zTWr-HFvgK6KeZGpNZ8qEMG5Ic8W5wi2Qj1WpaQsGX-eGzB2tbubDMFAZ78VOp1IdYMpjD3ub_MOvjBiNu6LGAskshtxLIYQiqRJKG0IusR_rU2Me2TUhBIBFq677wrZEfk/s640/blogger-image--658982087.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><br></div>2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-3168905361417796702016-02-12T02:59:00.001-08:002016-02-12T02:59:34.629-08:00She's Here!My beautiful Eloise arrived last night via c-section. She is a peanut, born at 37 weeks and 1 day, she weighed 5 lbs 9 oz and was 19.5" long. She has lots of dark blond hair and the sweetest little nose I've ever seen on a newborn baby.<div><br></div><div>Since it's 4 in the morning and I can't sleep, why not write out her birth story? </div><div><br></div><div>Wednesday was the date of my cancelled scheduled c-section. Since my OB, Dr. L, had detected some movement of my placenta at 34 weeks, he wanted to repeat an ultrasound at 38 weeks in the off chance that there had been enough movement away from my cervix and I could deliver vaginally. I had mistakenly thought that my placenta previa was marginal at that ultrasound; in fact, it was still complete but had still made some movement. So Wednessay came and went without any fuss. I felt annoyed that I was still at work but glad that Miss E was still cooking, growing bigger and stronger. Thursday morning I got up and had coffee and snuggles with Henry and J as usual and then headed into work. Around noon, following a long meeting, I noticed that my back pain (a constant pal in this pregnancy) had migrated south and felt different. It radiated and was followed by mild contractions. I got up, made myself a sandwich, walked around, but it continued. I advised J and my mom to keep their phones on but that it was likely the pre-labor symptoms that many women have on and off for days or weeks. I went off to another meeting thinking the sensations would subside but they didn't. Still, the pain was very mild and left me more uncomfortable than anything. I called my OB's office and they advised me to hydrate and call back in an hour to report if there were any changes. An hour and lots of water later, the back pain and mild contractions remained. At 5, they advised me to come in to be monitored and checked out. I told Joel I expected to be sent home in an hour or so. The hospital is a whopping block and a half from my office. I walked over, got hooked up to monitors and read my kindle. Then got an ultrasound and they confirmed my previa was still complete. As I had had no bleeding, I still expected them to send me home and advise me to take it easy. Nope. The resident walked in and said that as my contractions were very regular and my previa was complete, my OB didn't want to risk a massive bleed at home and would be delivering my baby that night. I believe she asked me to "get my person here as soon as possible." In total shock, I called my mom and J and arranged for them to hand over Henry and our dogs at the hospital. The docs waited for J to arrive and once he did, everything happened pretty quickly. </div><div><br></div><div>The worst part of the c-section was honestly the prep. The anesthesiologist had to try a couple locations before he administered the spinal block. I found the numbness really disconcerting. I was nervous and couldn't banter with the docs and nurses. I felt much better when J came in. Once he came in, things started immediately and within a few minutes, Eloise was out! After grinning and breathing a sigh of relief, my totally candid thought was "that was so much easier than a vaginal birth!" Obvious thoughts by yours truly. Wait til recovery, genius. </div><div><br></div><div>She was immediately pink and wailing and sounded like an angry bird. Eloise scored a 9/9 on her apgar despite her tiny, though gestationally appropriate, size. She was brought to my cheek so I could kiss and marvel at her. J held her next to me while they put Humpty Dumpty back together again. And then we were wheeled out and it was over.</div><div><br></div><div>She's a champion breastfeeder and is impossibly tiny. That's all I know about her so far. I can't wait for the sun to come up and to spend the day staring and getting to know my daughter. Henry will meet her today as well. I can't wait. </div><div><br></div><div>My daughter and my son. Two after nothing at all and so much struggle. And somehow it feels nothing but right and destined to be. I wish I could send my 2012-13 self a note reassuring that all would be so much more than ok. What tremendous luck, love, and miracles of modern medicine.</div>2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-33972530438231244542016-02-03T07:00:00.000-08:002016-02-03T07:42:10.804-08:0036 Weeks - A Love LetterDear Henry,<br />
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As I know you've noticed, something is up in our house. We are on the brink of change. You ask to see and touch my giant belly frequently and last night pointed to it and said your little sister's name. We say that name all the time in reference to my belly so I'm not sure what you understand and what you're simply repeating. I don't think that at 22 months you could possibly comprehend that I'm growing a whole other person inside of me. At 33 years, I can't quite wrap my head around it and I've done it before. The past 8 months have been kind of a non-event for you though you have keenly observed my ballooning midsection and hilariously referred to my protruding bellybutton as a "mama penis." You are far more aware of babies both out in the wild and at daycare. This week you started telling us that babies say "ga-ga-ga." At daycare, babies are mysterious, free-floating entities that belong to other grownups. I doubt you anticipate one moving into our house in the next few weeks. You are uninterested in the "big brother, new baby" genre of literature in which I've invested. I don't understand why Richard Scarry never wrote and illustrated a definitive guide to siblings and banana-mobiles. As much as I've tried, I can't possibly prepare you.<br />
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At your age, I don't know that you really need that much preparation. If we brought home a new puppy, you'd be simply delighted. No prep necessary. Can I continue make the dog-baby analogy? Will that work? Your Abu tells me that when your Titi came home from the hospital, I just loved her to bits right away. I did, however, announce that my legs had stopped working and that I would need to be carried like her. I hope that your legs continue working and that you adore your sister from the get go.<br />
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I'm glad that at 22 months, you can't read, don't check my blog, and therefor don't know my anxiety over building our little family. Of all people, I should have the least anxiety. I am ridiculously close to my sister and, while we had our ups and downs, I know just how insanely fun it is to have a built-in partner in crime. I want nothing more than that for you. My memories of growing up with my sister includes countless episodes of breathlessly laughing, tears streaming down our faces, utter nonsense. It doesn't get any better than that. I'm trying to give you that. You're welcome.<br />
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When I hold you at night and kiss your cheeks too many times, I'm trying to impress upon you just how much I love you, that your sister can never replace you. As the clock ticks down I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to love your sister even a fraction as much as I love you (though I've been told a thousand times that I will). You were the dream that almost didn't come true. I stare at you and can't believe how beautiful, smart and funny you are. Your dad and I are the luckiest people on earth all because of you. You made us a family. Your sister will add to that, build upon that luck and love in ways that will undoubtedly astound me in the very near future.<br />
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You will always be my first baby, my love, my magical boy. I can't wait to see you rise to the occasion of being a magnificent big brother. Don't forget that my arms are always open to scoop you up and snuggle you. Nothing can ever change that. I will not always be this emotional and sappy, but I will always love you fiercely, wildly, completely.<br />
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Love,<br />
Your lucky, hormonal Mama2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-31884497444309866042016-01-27T11:12:00.003-08:002016-01-27T11:12:40.313-08:0035 Weeks - Change in PlansAs of today I am 35 weeks exactly. I have a horrible sinus AND ear infection (have you even heard of an adult having an ear infection?) and generally spend my nights writhing in the agony of face pain and congestion. I have not been to work in 2 days and am not necessarily been upset about that. It's good practice for my coworkers. I think I might be ready for maternity leave.<br />
I understand WHY but <u style="font-style: italic;">why</u> does your immune system have to shut down so entirely in order to cook a baby? I just want a little bit of it back so I can stop breathing through my gaping mouth and limit my audible groaning. This whole tremendous illness of the face thing was brought on by my own little Typhoid Mary (a poor choice of nicknames as Mary was simply an incubator and never suffered symptoms). A week and a half ago, I took Henry to see my grandma so that he could spread unmitigated joy through the halls of her assisted living community. My pregnant sister Juice, her daughter and my dad joined us. Not an hour after we left, he spiked a crazy fever and remained a coughing ball of feverish phlegm for the remainder of the week. Here's who stayed healthy after their contact with Patient Zero: my dad and niece. Here's who did not: the immuno-suppressed, ie. the elderly and 2 pregnant mamas. My grandma developed a nasty cold. Mostly congested. She is ok. By Friday, Juice was riddled with fever and generally dying. I felt crappy over the weekend and then my eustachian tubes and sinuses exploded on Monday. As of Wednesday, we all think we might live but just barely. Ok, enough complaining about that.<br />
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Who wants to hear about my placenta? Everyone!?! Well, ok then!<br />
At 34 weeks, I was pretty psyched thinking that I was 3 weeks to D-Day. My belly is enormous, my back is killing me, I'm fatigued and having a very difficult time faking the whole "caring" thing at the office. Good thing I had my medically necessary c-section scheduled for Wednesday, 2/10 at 37 weeks per the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists recommendation for placenta previa! But nooooooo. Last Wednesday following my ultrasound, I learned that my uterus and placenta, in their infinite wisdom, decided 34 weeks was about the right time to start budging away from my cervix. I still have placenta previa but it's no longer complete. THIS IS GOOD NEWS. I know it is. My OB cancelled my c-section and said he'd do a repeat ultrasound at 38 weeks to see if it's moved sufficiently out of the way of my cervix. If it has, then I wait to go into labor like a normal person. If it has not, then I have a c-section at 39 weeks. Despite the fact that I now have a chance at a normal, healthy vaginal birth, I perhaps behaved a bit like a child when I was told that bit of excellent news. Or, at least my face did. I have terrible RBF (resting bitch face) and even worse ABF (active bitch face).* Apparently, as opposed to the wonderful, best-for-baby-and-mom news that was actually delivered, my face reacted to this: "Ma'am, your flight to Aruba has been delayed by 5 hours. Also, you've been bumped to coach." But you said I got to arrive at the hospital wearing a monogrammed cashmere robe and gold moccasins! And no agonizing contractions!<br />
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I had 14 weeks to wrap my head around a scheduled c-section. I did a really good job at it. I filed my granola card away and began to really look forward to the orderly nature of the whole affair. Plus, at that time, with complete placenta previa and suspected accreta, it was the only safe way for me to give birth. Made that pill real easy to swallow. Now things are a bit more up in the air. The accreta is no longer suspected but cannot be completely ruled out and my placenta is gliding up as it should. Once again, I am mentally shifting my birth plan. I've just had a week to make the switch but I'm very steadily getting there. I do hope that I get an uncomplicated vaginal birth. I want to hold my daughter on my chest right away and not wait while I'm stitched back together. I'd love to avoid healing from abdominal surgery. (Vaginal healing is a whole other delightful affair. Perhaps we can just Harry Potter <i>disapperate</i> this baby out?) We shall see. Back up in the air. What I really need to remind myself of is the fact that there will come a time, most likely in the next 5 weeks, where I am no longer pregnant. They all come out. They all come out. They all come out.<br />
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*By the way, I think the term RBF, while hilariously accurate, is completely misogynistic. Not to get too into it but I'm pretty sure that the male equivalent of RBF is "stoic."<br />
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<br />2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-75448379395596192742015-12-21T15:44:00.000-08:002015-12-21T15:44:06.401-08:0029w5d - Rambling UpdateHow many posts do I have to start before I realize that perhaps I don't have to write <i>the most amazing post ever that perfectly encapsulates exactly how I feel in this moment about my son, pregnancy/future daughter, marriage, all friendships, work</i>? The answer is 3. I need to start writing 3 posts and never manage to adequately express feelings that don't translate well to paper. Just get a freaking update out there, Amy.<br />
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Here's the "just get it out there" synopsis.<br />
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Henry is incredible. I love him more and more every day. He says hilarious things because he is 20-months-old and hasn't quite mastered the English language. He smells really good despite our lazy approach to toddler hygiene. He potentially smells even better than a newborn baby. I'll do a sniff test comparison in a few months and will report back. I am full of hormones and hate the smell of everything but toddlers. This weekend he started telling us, in full 3-word sentences, what he likes. It's as though he was just waiting for the language to come in and now can't stop telling us. "I like monkeys. I like puppies. I like snakes. I like choo-choos." Yesterday he told us, "Amo Abu house," which, in toddler Spanglish, means "I love Grandma's house." We're not actually raising him bilingual, though I always swore I would do that. We just use smatterings of convenient Spanish and he's picked up on it like he picks up on everything.<br />
About 40 times a day I am struck by excitement to watch him be a wonderful big brother, immediately followed by a little sadness that he won't be my sweet one and only anymore.<br />
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The pregnancy is continuing, baby girl is constantly active, and all of a sudden time is really ticking down. At 28 weeks, it was confirmed that my placenta previa hasn't budged. Placenta accreta (placenta attached too deeply into the uterine wall) is still thought to be unlikely but cannot be ruled out. No bleeds to date. Since I don't have the option of willing my placenta into a safe spot up and away from my cervix, without accreta, and without the risk of the umbilical cord dangling over my cervix (vasa previa risk), then everything is truly going as I hoped it would. There's no drama, everything is stable if not completely "Ina May Gaskin, Let's Have a Baby on The Farm" ideal. A c-section has been set for 37 weeks on the dot to prevent me from going into labor on my own and bleeding out or some similarly unfortunate fate. My OB will check again at 34 weeks to see if there's any further movement and, if so, then the c-section will be cancelled. Or, in the event of the development of vasa previa, done immediately. I'm now at the point where I have my mind so thoroughly wrapped around the idea of a c-section on <u>February 10th</u> that I would be completely thrown if I was told that labor and a vaginal birth was back on the table. A scheduled c-section is exactly the opposite of what I wanted for Henry's birth but it's what's been presented to me as the only safe option for this time around. Additionally, the Type A in me is reveling in the exquisitely planned nature of this whole ordeal. Granola me got her chance last time. I realize this sounds kind of awful. I should just want whatever is best for the baby and, statistically, a vaginal birth is best. I should mourn the loss of that. And I think I did but I started doing it 10 weeks ago and I've long been done. I've moved on. I'm outrageously excited to meet my daughter and I'm sort of loving the degree of planning I can do. I mean, I've scheduled a hair cut for the afternoon before <u>because I can</u>. Fucking weird.<br />
As an aside, by "planning" for the second I mean that I need to buy tiny diapers, decide which of Henry's newborn and 0-3 clothes are either gender neutral or so soft/cute that I don't care, drag out the burp cloths, swaddle blankets, cradle, and get my hair did. <br />
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One of the great things about having kept a blog last time around is that I can check in and see how I was feeling about things at whatever trimester milestone. I was somewhat comforted to see that at this point last time, I was completely overwhelmed by work and feeling like I was flailing around helplessly. So at least I'm consistent. I'm a proud feminist, always have been, but there is something to be said for the fact that 46% of your brain mass gets replaced by cottage cheese in the third trimester. My hips hurt so I don't sleep well and I'm always tired and hungry. It becomes more difficult to be super awesome all the time. It just does. And that makes work harder to enjoy because it's hard to enjoy feeling like a mediocre employee.<br />
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My last note about this juncture of pregnancy: I am entirely bipolar when it comes to my marriage. I am either so ridiculously, high-schoolishly in love J and texting him about how blessed we are and yada yada yada or I'm plotting horrible things because he is being indecisive about what to watch on TV, has chosen the wrong night to watch a game with his friends, or he has lost something that I am sure I put in some very specific place. I get annoyed soooooo easily. On the other hand, J has been picking up the slack that I've created by passing out on the couch every night at 8:30. He cooks, cleans and walks the dogs way more than he used to have to do. We're not anywhere close to 50/50 right now and while he's been beyond wonderful, I know that it grates on him. Add my propensity towards being overly-critical and it's awesome. We spend a lot of time rolling our eyes at each other. And then he jumps on the other side of my hormonal bandwagon with me and we moon over how wonderfully blessed we are, how much we love each other, Henry and baby girl. If I recall, this goes on through infancy. Oh, we'll make it through. So long as we can ride those hormonal upswings together we'll be just fine.<br />
Having a family is easy.2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-50235100964252790832015-11-16T15:00:00.001-08:002015-11-16T15:00:36.965-08:00A Visit to the Principal's OfficeWell, it's happened. We were called to the principal's office at daycare. There's actually no principal. So, the director? Or head of the early toddler room? A similarly weighty title. According to Dr. Sears and the gentler sources on the internet, I'm not supposed to call Henry a "biter." So I won't. Instead, I'll refer to him as a child who bites "excessively" - the apt word used by the daycare director. In the adult world, any biting at all is considered excessive. In the world of 19-month-olds, a bite or two whether given or received is par for the course. A handful of attempts per day and a few lucky strikes a week is excessive. I'd agree. Last Monday afternoon, I received an email asking me and J to come to daycare to meet with the director and two main caregivers to discuss Henry's cannibalistic tendencies. Given that he's flaunted his taste for toddler flesh for several months now, I figured that he had finally up and murdered a classmate. Thankfully not the case. Instead, the director decided it was time to work with us to make sure we had a unified front against biting both at home and at school. Fair enough and, as J said, about time.<br />
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The meeting was, despite Henry's attempts to divert our attention, very productive. The daycare workers have started a log of attempted and actual bites. They note what was happening, who he was playing with, his mood, energy, etc. It turns out that Henry bites or tries to bite more in the morning when the energy in the room is higher, more so in larger groups, and typically over a dispute over a toy. He is - and this is not an excuse, just a contributing factor in my mind - the littlest guy in his class. Not the youngest, just the littlest. He's not terribly tall and he's super skinny. While other kids physically maneuver their way out of sharing situations, Henry has found that his teeth are far more effective than his hands. His language is catching up but just not fast enough for his needs. Confrontation and frustration has become synonymous with biting for him. After this meeting, we are so much more aware of this at home. When he is particularly frustrated with a situation, he is calmed by chomping down on something. We've started offering him chewy objects when he gets especially worked up. It's only been a week since our meeting so no real results yet though I think everyone feels more in control of the situation now that we're closely monitoring the lead-in to biting episodes and not just lamenting during the aftermath. I should note that daycare has always been proactive in preventing biting but is getting consistently more effective.<br />
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Their advice to us is to watch out for any biting episodes at home and share the circumstances with them. Frustration is the driving factor at home though its not a huge issue since we don't share our apartment with multiple toddlers. The director encouraged us to enroll him in a park district class for toddlers, specifically something physical that involves taking direction and cooperating with other kids. She suggested soccer. 19 months seems a preposterous age to begin soccer or any other competitive sport but I can appreciate the rationale behind it.<br />
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Does anyone else have this issue? I know it's common but apparently the mothers of biters, I mean, "mothers of children who eat friends" (MOCWEF) don't flaunt their beloveds' charming habit. As for the suggestion that I bite back, I'm sure that worked that one time in the '70s on that one kid who bit that one time but I'm not interested in making a regular meal of my habitual biter.<br />
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It's frustrating because (well, for many reasons) the biting seems so incongruous with Henry's personality. He's a lover, not a fighter. Henry is a passive little soul, unfailingly affectionate with adults, children and animals, plays imaginatively both by himself and with others. He's very verbal, telling us constantly about fishies, his friends at school, his dogs and his family. I can't reconcile the behavior with the boy that kisses me and snuggles in my arms every night and asks me to sing to him. It's sad to watch him get frustrated to the point of biting and sad to hear him say, "Henry no bite. I sorry." And then I bang my head against the wall when he does it again the next day. Henry is still delighted to be dropped off at daycare every weekday and the kids and caregivers seem equally happy to see him. I know he won't be biting in high school. It's just my current mom-sigh. <br />
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On the uterine front, I had my 24-week follow up ultrasound last week. It was really reassuring. I still have complete placenta previa. Placenta accreta looks unlikely but cannot be ruled out. It's simply something that the doctors will be very aware of when I deliver, whether via c-section or vaginally. I was very relieved to find out that, should a c-section be necessary, I would be induced at 38-39 weeks and not 34 weeks as is typical for confirmed cases of placenta accreta. The idea of delivering a purposely premature baby directly into the NICU while away from my perfect, healthy (albeit bitey) child was terrifying to me. In that scenario, I felt like I couldn't take care of Henry, I couldn't take care of my new baby girl, and I knew that I would need someone to take care of me following a cesarian-hysterectomy. Doable with the support of J and my family, but completely overwhelming to ponder. Because of the lingering concern about accreta, I will continue to have ultrasounds every 4 weeks. I love getting to peek in on my lovely, insanely active girl and can't say that I'm particularly upset about this intervention. The news of an at-term delivery has allowed me to let myself fall in love with the idea of my daughter. She is becoming more and more real as she kicks and squirms inside of me. She's big enough now that I'm starting to feel the hard lumps of her head and butt or the swish of a whole limb when she moves in specific ways. J and I laugh at what a crazy monkey we think she might be.2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-22880334569818044732015-10-20T09:30:00.001-07:002015-10-20T09:30:09.048-07:00Healthy Passenger, Engine Light On.Ok, great news first. I have one, perfectly healthy baby girl cooking. She is definitely a girl with real lady bits and nothing dangling below. More importantly, she has a four-chamber heart beating away, two beautiful kidneys, one little bladder, a spectacular brain, ten fingers and ten toes. She is measuring exactly on schedule. This is the most important thing. I am baking a healthy little warrior.<br />
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Here's what's not so great. Probably ok, but not ideal and possibly kind of terrifying. I have complete placenta previa. This means that my placenta is growing directly over my cervix. 95% of cases of placenta previa at this stage move on their own (due to uterine expansion) and the issue resolves. This is not the terrifying part. It's not the best news but it's manageable news. In the event that my placenta stays put, I will have a scheduled baby extraction via c-section at 37 weeks.<br />
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This is the only condition that I for sure have right now. However, I am at risk for some related complications. There is some evidence of placenta accreta - not all the evidence they would need for a diagnosis - and so I am being carefully watched for this condition. Placenta accreta is where the placenta actually grows into the wall of the uterus and cannot detach following delivery. The "treatment" is c-section followed by immediate hysterectomy. Oh, and massive blood loss and transfusions. Right now, my OB thinks I do not have this condition as A) it is excessively rare and B) I have only one of several indications needed for diagnosis. The Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist was concerned. She was kind of a freakshow and I would rather never see her again which, fortunately, I don't have to. So, placenta accreta. Let's just not. I am being carefully watched for this.<br />
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Finally, and fucking terrifyingly (not that placenta accreta isn't a total Halloween special), the location of the umbilical cord insertion puts me and baby girl at risk of vasa previa, a condition where the umbilical cord is draped over the opening of the cervix. In order for this to develop, my placenta would have to move the opposite direction of the cord insertion point which, for this pregnancy, is near the edge of the placenta instead of in the middle. If labor started spontaneously and my water broke, the cord would have no support and the baby would die a matter of 2-3 minutes. Hence, to avoid any risk of labor, standard practice for this is c-section at 34 weeks followed by what I assume to be gobs of NICU time.<br />
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To put it all in perspective, we live in a miraculous modern age where babies can be made in petri dishes. We can monitor the hell out of scary situations and intervene before there's any real danger. What's more, aside from the placenta previa, neither of these conditions may develop. Statistically, they probably won't. But the possibility is there, a little dark cloud hanging back in the recesses of my head. For now I need to learn to live with my cloud and not let it shadow the fact that this little girl is kickboxing me all the time, moving my stomach from the outside and generally letting me know that she's a little hell raiser. I can't wait for her to arrive, safe and sound, preferably with a minimum of drama.2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-50059408786736041192015-10-08T10:10:00.001-07:002015-10-08T10:10:17.400-07:0019 Weeks as told by Bullet PointsA post in bullet points. Because it's easier and I don't need to organize my thoughts. Also, not a ton is going on.<br />
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<ul>
<li>That last post was bananas because I am often bananas. I can work myself into an anxious wreck over pretty much anything. Out of peanut butter? Let's freak the fuck out. The gender reveal, instead of being this happy, marvelous milestone like it was last time was, for whatever reason, a total anxiety trigger. My <i>horrible, worst case scenario</i> of they say it's a girl and then at the next ultrasound I'm told it's a boy, is not actually a tragedy of any proportion. It's incredible. Both options are. Option A: Vagina stays a vagina. Fabulous! I've always wanted to have a daughter. Super duper yahtzee. Option B: Vagina becomes a penis. I'm completely obsessed with my boy. I'd get to be obsessed with another amazing little boy. Love-splosion. </li>
<ul>
<li>My ability to panic is epic. I come by it honestly. Thanks, Nana.</li>
<li>Speaking crazy Nana, I received her gender prediction this past weekend. My mom is from Puerto Rico and I am the proud owner of a certified Puerto Rican witch for a grandma. If you're Puerto Rican, being a witch is not scary, it's awesome. For my family, it just means a lot of spidey-sense feelings about things, signs, dreams, etc. One thing we trust my <i>bruja</i>-Nana on is gender prediction because she's basically always right. The senior ultrasound technician of San Juan has predicted "a little girl. It could be a little boy but I don't think it is. I think it's a little girl." Those nondescript odds work for me.</li>
</ul>
<li>As of yesterday, I am 19 weeks pregnant. </li>
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<li>That is almost the halfway point. Almost time for Janet Jackson to perform and have a wardrobe malfunction. Yesssssssss. </li>
<li>Babycenter.com says the baby is the size of an "heirloom tomato." That seems really subjective and has been rejected. It's like they've never been to a farmers' market.</li>
<li>Parents.com says the baby is the size of a mango. Assuming we're talking your garden variety, grocery store mango and not one of the little subpar yellow ones. I can get down with this.</li>
</ul>
<li>I'm finally feeling movement! I've been feeling recognizable movement for about two weeks. At first, very tiny blips and pops. Had I not done this before, I definitely would have written it off as gas. Fortunately, I'm a complete veteran - Two kids, who am I? Michelle Duggar? - and recognized the mini-Morse code going on in my uterus. The movements are still little but gaining strength and are less easily confused with gastrointestinal distress. This development has done wonders for my psyche. (See bullet point #1 re: being a basket case.) </li>
<li>My God, pregnancy is so long. Why is it so long? I'm tired and bored, would like sushi, a bottle of Cab, and a handful of cold cuts.</li>
<li>Henry. That kid is so cute, snuggly and loving it absolutely kills me. I've trained him to kiss my belly which helps me pretend that he is a fully-willing participant in the family growing exercise. He is really what wills this pregnancy to go faster because he keeps me very busy and very in love. Here's what's up with him:</li>
<ul>
<li>He talks constantly. His favorite topics of conversation are his dogs, Elmo, birds, books, daycare classmates, cars, his jacket, night-night, Mama and Daddy, his cousin (Juice's daughter) and Abu (my mom). Also, "no." Conversation is a very loose term. There's a lot of talking going on but my comprehension hasn't quite caught up with him.</li>
<li>He needs a haircut. He has stick straight, white blond hair and he looks like Rod Stewart had a baby with Jeff Daniels from Dumb & Dumber when we go too long without a trim. </li>
<li>If he could eat whatever he wanted, it would be some combination of avocado, crackers, cheese, milk and sugar. Gross. Also, nutritionally complete.</li>
<li>He's going to be an elephant for Halloween. Why an elephant? Because I found an elephant costume for sale in my neighborhood for $10. Also, he does an excellent elephant sound.</li>
<li>He excels at Eskimo kisses. Which are not called Eskimo kisses anymore. Maybe Native Alaskan kisses? Better yet, how about "touching noses."</li>
</ul>
<li>Henry has had a really bad cough for the past several days which is making night time sleep somewhat craptastic. No other symptoms, just hacking. Your typical daycare plague. He wakes himself up coughing every few hours and then, if we're all lucky, coughs so hard that he pukes. This interrupted sleep is making for a crabby kid come early evening. Thus, screen-free granola parenting has sailed out the window in favor of Sesame Street so that something, <i>anything</i>, can be accomplished between 5 and 7:30. Desperate times, desperate measures, thank you, Elmo.</li>
</ul>
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2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-31102768196859124572015-09-22T15:07:00.001-07:002015-09-24T08:23:22.248-07:00Le Reveal Sans Balloons & Cupcakes (I am so French.) Remember when I said I had so much less anxiety about this pregnancy than the last? It's still true. But barely. Apparently I can be thrown back into complete neurosis at any given time. I was pretty freaking cool, nearly cucumber-like, and then I started telling people at the 12-13 week mark and had to use the fetal doppler every 34 seconds because of the jinxing phenomenon.<br>
Then things settled, my belly started popping, I started feeling cute and the day of the gender reveal arrived.<br>
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That evening was a clusterfuck. We got hit by torrential rains leaving J stuck on the highway in gridlock traffic. Knowing that there was basically no chance he'd make it, I called my sister and she hightailed it across the city. In addition to wanting an adult buddy, I also needed help with Henry who I'd already picked up from daycare so he could witness and fully grasp this momentous occasion. I was really glad my sister was able to be there. I am not my own emotional support. I rely on family, friends and strangers to fulfill that role in my life. Hence, this blog. Henry, while glad to see his aunt, insisted on lying on my chest, whimpering with his feet on either side of my belly while the ultrasound tech probed and prodded. The probing and prodding went on for what felt like forever. It really wasn't that long, just so markedly longer than with Henry's gender reveal. Moms of boys have had this experience: the tech swivels the probe around and there, between the legs, are giant floating balls and penis. It's the most obvious thing in the history of things that are obvious. This time, no balls. Also, no real cooperation on the part of the baby. Baby kept its legs crossed at the ankle and would spring up and down occasionally providing a momentary glimpse but nothing sustained. We kept getting flashes of nothing between the legs, then flashes of the infamous "three lines" and vacant space below but they were quick. The tech said she was fairly certain but needed her senior tech to confirm. The senior tech came in and was able to get a clearer shot very quickly. Ankles still crossed but there it was. Three lines. No balls.<br>
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It's a girl!<br>
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It's a girl? For real? Are you kidding? I <i>wanted</i> a girl, I <u>want</u> a girl but I was so completely thrown by the declaration. Tech said she was absolutely certain. I walked out of there totally stunned despite the fact that all arrows had pointed in that direction from the time the ultrasound jelly hit my belly. I had tossed the pronoun "she" around in my head before this, looked at girls' clothing, but kinda didn't think it would happen.<br>
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So am I excited? Yes. I am. Do I completely believe it? No, not yet. I have the 20-week ultrasound coming up in mid-October and am absurdly anxious for a peek. I keep worrying that I'll give my heart to the idea of a girl and then be one of those people who is told they're having one gender and then delivers another. Seriously, I can't stop googling "wrong gender ultrasound." And, like googling "cancer" and "miscarriage," the interweb world is more than happy to share their stories of mistaken gender on ultrasounds. As are my mother and the housekeeper at my office. So I vacillate between happy and an emotionally-guarded nervous wreck combing the Internet for fetal vagina pics. They look like my fetus' vagina but still. BUT STILL. I just can't bedazzle one half of the nursery with glitter and flammable pink fabrics for another 3 weeks. You know, because that's what one does for female children. </div><div><br></div><div>So that's where I am. 25% excited, 15% skeptical, 60% a ridiculous mess of nerves. </div><div><br></div><div>As always, I invite and encourage your comments. HOWEVER, if you share a story about your cousin who had all three children's gender misindentified at an ultrasound, I will find you and kick you in the nutgina.*</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>*<i>Nutgina</i> - A common physical anomaly often misidentified on ultrasound as the wrong gender.<br>
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2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-6087781136483153912015-09-16T12:50:00.000-07:002015-09-16T12:50:39.719-07:0016 Weeks and SuchSixteen weeks today. Feeling like shit. Horrible headaches that make me nauseous, general feeling of being woozy and light-headed much of the time. This pregnancy is kind of a doozy. Cooking Henry was relatively easy, I've come to find out. Things that are keeping me from lying on my bathroom floor and simply moaning: I'm developing a cute little beer belly; I'll feel movement soon. I felt Henry flipping around for the first time at around 19 weeks and, if it's true that you feel the second pregnancy sooner, then I'll feel something or other in the next couple of weeks. One pick-me-up coming in the very near future is the big gender reveal. We went to a <a href="http://grandscienceexperiment.blogspot.com/2013/10/16w2d-how-i-became-member-of-pen15-club.html" target="_blank">Peek-A-Crotch ultrasound center at 16 weeks with Henry</a> and, true to form, will be doing it again this week.<br />
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I find myself thinking about gender so much more during this pregnancy. There are two reasons for this. First, when I was pregnant with Henry, I was so totally sure that he was a boy that I didn't really feel like I needed to think about what gender was living inside me. Because basically, I knew. So when the ultrasound tech swiveled around to show a prominent set of twig and berries, it just didn't feel like a surprise. I was elated - I had grown genitals out of petri dish emulsion, J's sperm and my egg - but I felt like I'd known the whole time. This time I don't have that gut feeling. The pronoun "she" wanders into my head quite a bit but that's not the same as the feeling I had with Henry. I've dreamed about having this baby several times and each time, the gender switches. Equal ticks in the girl column and boy column.<br />
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This ambiguity keeps me thinking about the gender but more so it's the future picture of my family. I think I'm done after two. It was hard to get here and I can't imagine my body will keep responding well to IVF hell. What's more, I don't think I want to be pregnant a third time or have a third child. I want parenting to be a man on man game. Children should not outnumber adults or it's total anarchy. J doesn't feel the same way - he'd like a third, he's one of three kids - but that's a discussion for the future. A discussion in which he doesn't have a uterus and doesn't pee a little when he sneezes. (I know. Kegels.) When this topic does come up, he asks me if I think that his youngest brother, was a mistake. Um, what? The question is not, "Should we eradicate all third-born children from this earth?" My answer to that question is, unequivocally, "No, they can stay." It's hard having completely irrational debates. I don't mean to shrug off J's hopes and dreams for our family, I just know that the onset of the second trimester isn't the time to make sweeping decisions.<br />
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I had this little moment of clarity the other day regarding the gender. It's totally sappy and not really like me but it's made me excited and given me a sense of calm. We're just finding out who's <i>meant to be cooking in there</i>. I told you. Sappy. But I'm pregnant and cried while watching a 2015 Cubs highlights reel. Sappy is my thing right now.<br />
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<br />2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-87210318533932640122015-08-24T11:36:00.001-07:002015-08-24T11:36:17.756-07:00My Semi-Annual Typing Exercise. Also, News.You guys have probably been checking my site daily, or more likely, twice daily to see if I've updated a damn thing since October 2014. And, until today, I hadn't. I got all excited about my Tim Gunn-make-it-work career moment which didn't really happen and then nobody wants to follow up with a "just kidding" post. There has been progress on that front but not in the fireworks whiz bang way I had hoped. It's kind of hard to go all pyrotechnics with your life when you're largely financially responsible for the lives of two real people and two real dogs. Dog food ain't free. More on that in a bit.<br />
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The big, BIG news is that I'm pregnant! Again! Parenting is the best thing ever, Henry is the best, cutest kid ever, and we are greedy and want more. Here's what did not happen: conception as a result of intercourse. Here's what <i>did</i> happen: we went back to Dr. M, I took copious amounts of drugs, had a disappointingly lackluster cycle that somehow rebounded enough to produce two meh-looking embryos, we put both in with dampened hope, and then one of them hung on and grew. J and I feel like we totally tricked the system because we got knocked up as a result of only one cycle of IVF. Like it was soooooo easy. And then we remember that most people get pregnant by having sex and we shrug and still feel like we won the lottery for the second time. Does that even happen? By reading the interwebs, I see that people do indeed have multiple children, but still I'm amazed.<br />
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I'm 12+ weeks if anyone is counting. Feel free to file this in the annals of obvious things, but second pregnancies go much faster than first pregnancies. They also make you marginally less psychotic. For example, I've only diagnosed myself with listeria ONCE in 12 weeks. My diagnosis occurred yesterday as a result of some fresh-squeezed juice but I'm over it now. My fetal doppler is used twice a week instead of twice daily. I'm chalking it up to a mixture of being busy smothering Henry with love and some vague faith in the process. My uterus worked once, it might work again. Last time around I was very dedicated to my post-work schedule of lying on the couch, lamenting my fatigue and thinking about fetal demise. This time I can't really do that until 7:30 or so and then I usually fall asleep before I really get going. Plus I have to eat. There's simply no time. My due date of March 2nd seems horrifically far away when I think about slogging through a Chicago winter but I know that somehow the time will zip by. The first trimester did, now there's only 2 left to go if I've done my math correctly. <br />
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Now, the Tim Gunn part of things. My bestie, S, and I decided to start an interior design company called Gild & Wit. Up until the present, G&W has existed between Boston and Chicago with 99.9% of the work taking place in Boston as I am still working full time. Now S is moving back to Chicago with her adorable family in tow and, hopefully, I'll be more in the mix of things. We have a blog (obviously) though at present S is writing most/all of our posts. More from me in the future, I promise. I've just been kinda sleep-pukey lately. I don't know where this ends up. Hopefully with absurd wealth and our own line at Target. Or just happily dedicating all of my work time to being creative instead of some of my work time. Who knows. In the meantime, please check our site out <a href="http://www.gildandwit.com/" target="_blank">www.gildandwit.com</a>.2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-3223351433777959532014-10-14T09:52:00.003-07:002014-10-14T09:52:52.282-07:00Tim Gunn MomentWhen i started writing this post 87 years ago, I titled it "Is This My Tim Gunn Moment?" I have since decided that, yes, this is my Tim Gunn moment. Make. It. Work.<br />
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I've been dragging my feet, hanging my head, complaining about my well-paying-benefit-loaded corporate gig because of a generally difficult work environment. (Git out yer tiny violins.) I have felt less than supported in my new gig as mom. I won't go into details here because, hey, that's unprofessional and I am trying soooo hard to be the consummate professional. Fail. In addition to the "just because your life changed doesn't mean ours has to" - which, granted, has some merit - I've gone from delightfully independent to utterly micromanaged over the past year. Another not so glorious part of my job, I am on call 24/7 which has landed me in some unfortunate situations on major holidays and whatnot. Enough complaining. Just trust me, I do not relish the opportunity to go to the office every day and it's mostly not about who I'm leaving at daycare (though that has put things in perspective).<br />
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What I have figured out is this: I am happy working when I am being creative. My favorite part of my current job is interior design. My best friend, S, is insanely creative and recently took the leap from her corporate gig into a retail interiors job. S and I are very in love and have been since sixth grade. So we're doing what any two gals with a penchant for financial instability and a longing for a creative bohemian lifestyle living in two separate cities would do - we're starting an interior design blog and business. All the details are still in the works. We're working on forming the LLC, getting our website up and running and talking to potential clients because, here's the stunner, <i>people actually want to work with us and that is bananas.</i> I mean, not truly bananas because we know what we're doing and have flawless taste but bananas because we're children pretending to be grownups.<br />
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You're probably rolling your eyes and thinking, "Well, la-dee-da, it sure must be nice to have the cash to finance this sort of gig." Yes, that would be nice. It's not the case for me. I'm going to work another job to keep this going. I foresee a lot of night and weekend work. And perhaps in 6-12 months, S and<br />
I will shrug and say, "Well, that was stupid." But maybe not. And the maybe not is keeping us going.<br />
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All will be revealed soon, hopefully in my next post. </div>
2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-37135252175163025112014-09-03T09:39:00.001-07:002014-09-03T09:39:58.986-07:004 Month Sleep RegressskerflaflaHello, smug mom. I've got some terrible news for you. I too used to have a baby that slept like an angel. One quick snack at 3 or 4 and not another peep til morning! And then there was that little daycare cold that lingered. That caused a few rough nights. And then I experimented with putting him down unswaddled. And then there was his last round of vaccines... And holy excuses I have not slept like a normal human being for a month! I now rub coffee grounds into my eyeballs in hopes of transferring some of caffeine's magical properties directly into my soul. It hit me this morning that I have now spent weeks staggering around the office like an extra from <i>World War Z</i> looking for Brad Pitt. He is nowhere and I am tired and my 21 week old baby has regressed to 3 wake ups per night. The 4 month sleep regression is real, my friends. Started at about 4-4.5 months and now we're a day shy of 5 months old. Consider this your episode of Scared Straight: Baby Fails.<br />
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Will I take this lying down? (Pun just realized and enjoyed.) Hell no! So here is what I'm doing to proactively change nights for the better.<br />
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<li>Falling asleep while reading that baby sleep book I purchased to preempt a 4 month sleep regression. Oops. Like so many other "this is how to soothe/feed/raise your baby" book purchases, it sat on my virtual Kindle shelf until I was absolutely desperate for its sage advice as well as beyond the point of being helped. </li>
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<span style="background-color: #cccccc;"><i>I'd like to lodge a complaint against every baby "method" theory book ever written. Dear infant experts, try a different format. Perhaps a pamphlet? Something with bullet points totaling less than 20 pages? I am too tired to read the thrilling testimony - <u>always in a gray box and in italics</u> - of the parents who took your advice and got their kid to sleep in less than 30 seconds thus saving their marriage. Just give it to me straight. </i>Do this, not that. Then do this, no, not that. Good. Stick to it. Stop that... ok, much better. <i>That's how your book should read. Then I could stay awake and glean actual information from its pages. In summary, PAMPHLET WITH BULLET POINTS. If you have written a second chapter, you have gone too far.</i></span></div>
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<li>Practicing consistency. Also, inconsistency. </li>
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<li>I always put Henry down "drowsy but awake" unless of course he's been particularly difficult or I am particularly exhausted in which case I put him down either mostly asleep or totally asleep. </li>
<li>In response to increased night wakings, disassociate nursing. When Henry wakes up at times where I am positive that he is not hungry, I pick him up and rock him back to sleep. Unless of course I am catatonic in which case I whisper, "Shush baby, don't cry. Here is the gift of my boob." </li>
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<li>Obsessing about the swaddle. Henry is a swaddle addict. While freebasing Halo Swaddle Sleepsacks, he is practicing rolling over and mocking me in his Rock n' Play. So yeah, at 5 months he's still swaddled and still in the RNP. Oops, my bad. Unswaddled he sleeps in such short bursts. Long enough for naps but not for night sleep. I find thinking about it far more manageable than doing anything about it.</li>
<li>Thinking about moving Henry into his own room. That would probably help with the whole nursing disassociation. Yep, bet it would. I should totally try that sometime. Except my husband basically bursts into tears when I suggest we should do that and, when attempted once, insisted we sleep with the monitor on full blast (the static was deafening) and brought him back to the room the first time he cried. I'd be annoyed if it wasn't so incredibly sweet. I am also quite tired and lack the energy to argue/reason with him. Co(dependent)-sleeping/parenting is endearing.</li>
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So how did you handle all of this? You probably weaned your kid from the swaddle at an appropriate age and had him sleeping in his own room. That would make sense. But let's say, <i>hypothetically</i>, that you hadn't done those things. What would you do then? </div>
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Argh, it might be baby sleep boot camp time. Next week.</div>
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2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-5074159093106292672014-08-13T10:45:00.000-07:002014-08-13T10:45:04.090-07:00How Does She Do It?! (Muscular Atrophy Post)"How does she do it?!" is what no one at all has said about me lately. Seriously, friends. I don't understand this whole life-work balance people speak of so frequently. There have been times in the past where I've really aced it - working out regularly either early morning (kill me now) or after work, riding my bike to yoga on the weekends, cooking dinner, etc. I've never been much of a housekeeper so I won't pretend my house used to be clean. (Hilarious side note: I often tell Henry that prior to his arrival, the apartment was spotless and that we held frequent, lavish dinner parties. He's going to feel soooooo bad when he actually comprehends.) My spurts of activity were typically followed by periods of a switch to a more sedentary lifestyle brought on by the disruption of a cold, vacation, or general sloth. I have been a lump basically since my first trimester. I kept thinking I'd get back into yoga on maternity leave. Fail. My free time at work is not free at all as I'm hooked into a hospital grade breastmilk pump. No lunch-time walks or quick trips to the grocery store.<br />
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Since H was born, I've kept up on reading. It feels like a necessary escape. 15-20 minutes each night before bed does the trick. This week I picked up knitting again. I'm working on a Christmas stocking for my niece. After H goes to sleep and after dinner, I knit for about an hour while I watch tv. Dishes and bottles can wait. It feels great to do something crafty and creative again. Cleaning the house happens in small bursts between J and me. I'm not terribly stressed about it and can accept the inevitable clutter for the time being. Instacart is serving my grocery needs. But after 13 months or so (that was painful to type), I am jumping out of my skin to get back to yoga. Really anything physical but ideally yoga. I miss my teachers, the way it makes my head and body feel and, yes, the way it makes me look. I'm so vain, I probably think this song is about me. </div>
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Please, friends, help me fit it in. Here's what my weekdays look like:</div>
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• Between 5:30 and 6 Henry wakes up and I try to force him back to sleep by sticking a boob in it. Justified as breakfast. 37 certified sleep trainers just jumped out a window.</div>
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• 6:30 - Drag sorry ass out of bed, drink coffee while getting ready. J or I talk to Henry as he plays in his bouncy chair and we scramble around the apt. Dogs are walked, bottles and frozen milk ready for daycare.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• 7:30 - Either leave for work or bring H to daycare, then work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• 10 - Pump. Contemplate formula.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• 1 - Pump.<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Contemplate formula.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• 4 - Pump.<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Contemplate formula.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• Between 5 and 5:30 - Home or daycare pickup.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• 6 - 7 - Play with Henry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• 7 - 8 - Bath and bedtime.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">• 8 - Eat pasta/takeout/leftovers/cereal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Knit/clean/laundry/life/bed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Repeat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know this is a normal schedule for a working mom but I'm not used to it yet. It makes me feel all panicky and exhausted. There is not enough time. Not enough time. Not enough time. To think that I used to complain about my busy days while sipping a glass of wine, petting the dogs, painting my toes, etc.</span></div>
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So. Physical fitness. I don't want to give up my 2 evening hours with Henry. I do have the weekends. I could work with that. But what's the weekday solution? Maybe there isn't one right now. Maybe I just enjoy my little guy and embrace the fact that sweater season will soon be here. Another point to consider: Oprah has arm flaps so why can't I? J is encouraging me to go to my old favorite yoga class on Wednesday evenings. I would get home at 7:30 just in time to feed him before bed. (Yup, nursing right before bed. 16 more certified sleep trainers just leaped to their deaths.) I could give it a whirl and see how it feels. Blah. Someone give me money and let me work part time. Thank you.</div>
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P.S. I am whining about problems that I would have killed for a year ago. Slap me.</div>
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2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-70391280058482715432014-08-07T06:44:00.001-07:002014-08-13T10:45:32.797-07:0017 Weeks - Working Topless.Oh, hi there, friends! Ever so sorry that I haven't been blogging much lately. Well, what with my baking, sewing, macrame, dog obedience competitions, baby-raising and working full time, I've barely had time to squeeze in my daily workout let alone a blog post! Let me just shake the crumbs from my floral skirt and sit at my keyboard (tap at my iphone in bed). There, that's better.<br />
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I have been back at work now for over a MONTH. When I'm at the office, it often feels like business as usual. Not much has changed in the daily minutiae of work. Sure, I stop what I'm doing three times a day to sit in a file room, topless and hooked to a double electric breast pump, while I will greater quantities of milk to drip into little plastic bottles strapped to my chest. Nudity in the workplace will never feel normal but it will always feel extra chilly. Pumping aside (and it never is, wait for the rant), work feels like work. And that's good. The first day was complete torture. I just felt eviscerated. Gummy pieces of heart littered across the 7 miles from my apartment to the office. I spent the day feeling very put-upon, like the first woman ever to go back to work after having a baby. <i>Un peu </i>dramatic. Fortunately, that was just the first day. Every day since has felt more and more normal. I don't enjoy the chaos of the mornings or the fact that I only have a few waking hours with my little guy in the evenings, but I savor what I do have. Maybe I'll win the lottery soon and won't have to work or will be able to work less. Until then, J and I are trading off daycare pickup and drop off responsibilities, going broke by calling in take out orders because the grocery store is an entire 4 blocks away (yes, I've heard of Peapod. <i>the effort</i>...), and loving the poop out of our baby boy. Our weekends are more appreciated than ever. But still no grocery shopping.<br />
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I feel I absolutely must write about pumping. Henry was kind of a breastfeeding genius from the get go. While we had a few latch issues here and there and a clogged duct or two <i>(I ooze glamour)</i>, feeding my kid during maternity leave was pretty easy peasy. He was hungry, I had boobs, my boobs had milk. A lot of women have it way tougher than that with under-supply, mastitis, cracked nipples, all sorts of boob-hell. Starting at about 6 weeks post partum I started pumping once a day to build up my stash for returning to work. While pumping was kind of a chore, it felt like a necessary not-so-evil. I wasn't winning any awards for my pumping output but I didn't really think much of it. Then I went back to work and my daily leisure pumps (always done while watching Bravo - you know, to boost my supply) became thrice daily grinds in a cold file room. I was all of a sudden struggling to pump enough and my boobs started aching. I could feel clogs forming. I went from 15 minutes on the pump to 20 plus 5 minutes of hand expressing, ie. milking myself like a goat. Big thanks to The Farm in Door County, Wisconsin for teaching me proper milking technique. Milking oneself is shockingly similar to milking a goat. 5 more minutes of cleanup and milk storage and I'd spent 30 minutes away from my desk. An hour and a half a day where I really struggled to work - invoice review, phone calls - and pump. Feeling as though I was begging for a nasty bout of mastitis, I called a lactation consultant. During our phone consult, she determined that I was a "poor responder" to pumping. My baby sucks that milk out like a champ; the pump, not so much. Leftover milk was sitting there all day, sticking in my ducts and causing horribly painful spasms. Oh, the glamour. </div>
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Semi-solution: a hospital grade pump. I got a prescription for this bowling ball bag sized contraption and I keep it in the file room for all my coworkers to admire. "Jealous much?" I ask. Yes, yes they are. The upside of the turbo milk machine is that I pump more effectively during my morning pump when the old storage facilities on my chest are rather full. It's easier to get closer to some semblance of "empty." I still need to hand express at times. Plus, I don't want my 4-H skills to get rusty. I will win that blue ribbon for livestock management, by God! Another plus to Big Bertha is that it feels a lot less like its ripping off my nipples. So that's a win. Pump time hasn't really gone down but I'm more comfortable and better at keeping up with Henry's intake at daycare. Another huge help from the lactation consultant - <i>I feel certain that you have either stopped reading already and/or have spontaneously become lactose intolerant</i> - take Lethicin supplements to prevent clogged ducts. It really, really worked. I started taking them a week before Big Bertha hit the scene and pain be gone. <u style="font-style: italic;">Why are you still reading</u>.<br />
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If I ever really figure this whole corporate pumping thing out, I'm going to write a book or perhaps a pamphlet (let's be realistic) entitled "Pumping at Work: Why It Doesn't Have to be a Let Down." Ha! Anyone else with me on the breastmilk jokes? </div>
2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-15413466503932250232014-06-20T07:33:00.001-07:002014-08-13T10:45:58.178-07:00Baby on a Plane!This has been a week of big firsts, soon to be followed by more firsts. Last Saturday we did what some would consider criminally insane: J and I boarded not one but two airplanes with a ten-week old baby. The looks one gets when one flies with an infant are priceless. You either get "bless-your-heart-look-at-that-sweet-baby-it's-hard-to-be-a-parent-good-luck!" or "I'd-rather-deal-with-snakes-on-a-plane-with-Samuel L. Jackson-than-your-screaming-child." There is no middle path. Fortunately, Henry was a model citizen and did very little vocalizing in the air. Breastfeeding mamas, when in doubt, stick a boob in it. Works like a charm.<div><br></div><div>Our two flights brought us to Asheville, North Carolina. J's mom and stepdad picked us up from the airport and drove us to their vacation rental an hour and 45 minutes southwest in Highlands, NC. So, 2 plane rides, 2 airports, and 1 winding drive through the mountains later, we arrived with very little drama. We only had to pull over once so that I could stick a boob in it. </div><div><br></div><div>You may "put a bird on it," Portlandia, but Chicago sticks a boob in it.</div><div><br></div><div>Our trip here has been lovely. First, it's ridiculously gorgeous. Lush green mountains, waterfalls, placid mountain lakes and a charming main street. We've taken H on his first two real hikes. The trails have been lined with rhododendrons and flame azaleas. We have gotten great photo ops of me breastfeeding Henry on the top of mountains (out of necessity, not to mark my mountain mama territory) and changing his diaper on the trail (baby carriers make excellent changing pads). This week, Henry has come out of his little cocoon and is discovering the world right in front of his face. Literally. On Sunday evening, he found his hands. Mind blown. He stared cross-eyed at his fists and tried repeatedly to bring them to his mouth, instead slowly bumping them into his nose and cheeks. He can suck on his hands no problem when operating by Braille but hand-eye coordination is a son of a bitch. I know; I seriously can't throw or catch a ball with any degree of accuracy. Just beyond his hands, he found the trees and sky so fascinating on our hikes. His little face looked up from the carrier in total awe as we climbed. He's also becoming more vocal. His coos and squeals are getting louder and he is clearly delighted when he hears himself. He is the smiliest baby. Yesterday night at dinner, my favorite thing happened: he discovered my face. He's looked at my face, or some blurry version of it, since the moment he was put on my chest when he was born. But last night he reached out and touched it repeatedly. He flapped his hands on my lips and chin over and over. Maybe my heart-meltiest moment yet. God, I love this boy. My love for him overwhelms me to the point of aching sadness sometimes. I can't describe the manic range of emotions.</div><div><br></div><div>Tomorrow we fly back to Chicago with this newly adventurous, curious boy. New toys for the plane ride include hands, improved vocal chords and Mama's face. J goes back to guilt/volunteer work/obligation at the cluster$#%* of a family business I'm impatiently waiting for him to extricate himself from. I will try to savor my last few days of maternity leave. I either want to go to brunch, lunch and coffee with my mom friends every single day or stay at home, never shower, and stare at Henry's face. I go back to the office on Friday, June 27th. I know it will be fine. I am telling myself that daily. I'm not worried about Henry. He's going to do so well at hippie daycare. Just worried about me, my angst over work, pumping in a file room, missing my boy, resenting my superiors, yada yada yada. The usual bullshit plus lactation and the haunting feeling that I should be rocking someone.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU_aQhXdEWgKV7RBukA_2jH7plCnG44jpORSjFeJjPuHpm9iNuG40CTC-40h_uyTjtP1FvEQ-m4ufAIS0ozZXapnp744p3jT54rEV5f9m53OvY_n6jv8Lv_awOKs45WpHPuJpnE3y4FJ4/s640/blogger-image-461461585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU_aQhXdEWgKV7RBukA_2jH7plCnG44jpORSjFeJjPuHpm9iNuG40CTC-40h_uyTjtP1FvEQ-m4ufAIS0ozZXapnp744p3jT54rEV5f9m53OvY_n6jv8Lv_awOKs45WpHPuJpnE3y4FJ4/s640/blogger-image-461461585.jpg"></a></div><br></div>2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-16784244331262645272014-06-03T14:49:00.002-07:002014-08-13T10:45:32.795-07:0010 Week Update<div>A week ago, my friend urged me to update my blog and keep writing for the good of all humanity and my family of infertile turtles. I was all, "Oh, you don't understand. See, it's very difficult finding time to write and do all the things when you have a baby." She then narrowed her eyes, stared into my soul and, without words, reminded me that in the three years between the birth of her daughter and this very moment she has written, published and promoted a book, maintained a blog, and worked a regular job. #shamed into writing. Note to self, find less ambitious friends.</div><div><br></div><div>Henry is now 10 weeks old and I can completely objectively say that he is the cutest baby that has ever lived. Now, that's a hard thing to write because most of you either want babies, are pregnant, or have babies and you now have to come to grips with the fact that your future and/or current child pales in comparison to mine in the looks department. This is undoubtedly a difficult time for you. H has crazy, spiky reddish-blond hair, giant blue eyes and the sweetest grin. He looks like a baby orangutan in the best way possible. Also, my parents feel strongly that he could be an ear model which I am told is quite lucrative. Behavior-wise he is very much like a standard issue human baby which is to say <u><i>irrational</i></u>. He can be utterly charming and happy happy happy one moment and then will collapse into sad wails and tears. Nothing will have happened. No change. Just done with whatever activity he was doing. After 10 weeks, I can sort things out for him quickly. Alert but fussy? Carry him slung over my shoulder and chat with him. Tired and fussy? Swaddle, pacifier, bounce on the yoga ball. Generally broken baby? Again, yoga ball. Lots of yoga ball. Evenings are a lot harder. He's out of his normal eat-play-sleep cycle because he's more tired and more hungry more often. These are the dreaded witching hours and they are no joke. I am told he will grow out of it by the time he's 18. I don't want time to fly by too fast - it already is - but I dream of an evening where I eat at a leisurely pace without an infant attached to my nipple or without J staring at me while he jiggles said infant and silently wills me to eat faster.</div><div><br></div><div>Speaking of time speeding by, I go back to work in 2 weeks. That prospect fills me with agitated dread. In part because I don't exactly adore my job. If I'm going to give up staring at my bean day in and out, I'd like to go back to something I like a little more. I don't know exactly what I want to be when I grow up so I don't yet hope for a job I love. Looking for contentment. I can see the upside to, say, wanting a cup if coffee and then drinking it while it's still warm. I'm trying to focus on the emotional and intellectual balance that working and being a mom could give me. The other part of why I'm not aching to get back to the office is the obvious: I'm obsessed with Henry. He's growing like a weed, picking up new skills constantly, and is more of a person and less a fetus every day. I want to keep watching that happen. Leaving him makes my heart ache. BUT, I found a great daycare for him. They are hilariously obsessed with organic <i>everything</i>. I too enjoy the granola lifestyle but when budget and ease get in the way, I tend to take the synthetic way out. The daycare director made sure to tell me that all carpeting in the facility was made from organic natural fibers. That's...wonderful. Possibly unnecessary but appreciated. She also informed me that as toddlers, outdoor field trips go beyond the park to libraries and fire stations so that the kids can be "integrated into the community." H is going to be far better integrated than I am and don't we all dream of better than we has for our children?</div><div><br></div><div>Last post I promised to address two things: breastfeeding and the emotional wake following my FIL's death. I don't have much on either topic. Breastfeeding is good, a boring update. There is sufficient milk, not excessive. I mostly love feeding Henry and greatly appreciate that it came pretty easy for us. Pumping is a son of a bitch but such is life. No one likes pumping. Oh, you do? You're lying. I hope to be able to pump enough so as not to supplement with formula when he's at daycare but if it doesn't happen everyone will live, nay thrive. </div><div>The tumolt surrounding my FIL's death and the fallout of a family business has been devastating. It has rocked my marriage to its core in a way that we never thought possible. We have not gotten to relish our early months as a family as I dreamed we would. But, all that said, we love each other and our son so very much. We're stumbling and figuring it out. I don't want to go in to too much detail because I still can't sort the situation into words. It's exceedingly hard but I have faith we'll make through with flying colors. It is, as they say, the bestest ever of times (I'm looking at you, Hank Dog) and the worst of times. </div><div><br></div><div>Let's end on a high note.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXfUBH-nZeERdOQQfUj9bAcCxkOn5WfNO1IBPpkZiEf6PeNy4IU931LOXgCfOWw2DRD2kfdQiwe4sb9D3CSfqU_2cGBVuR3QKv4DJT1GyyXgr765pGGUxCShyphenhyphenpM86_wH8KuupTpEDtOY/s640/blogger-image--1337998373.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXfUBH-nZeERdOQQfUj9bAcCxkOn5WfNO1IBPpkZiEf6PeNy4IU931LOXgCfOWw2DRD2kfdQiwe4sb9D3CSfqU_2cGBVuR3QKv4DJT1GyyXgr765pGGUxCShyphenhyphenpM86_wH8KuupTpEDtOY/s640/blogger-image--1337998373.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39Gnbt6F8JX_dCf4498XqhG-qatL-1wBo3X-RVNGngqZSVEYmuS4YlL5orrIOM5hmCcCkHAIl_NFPfxcb3ZEGl_qYFz9rV2lR9ZGi12L9-Td2M_R413LydJIpoJKF9bF0pOPcrV8LACA/s640/blogger-image--1782592814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39Gnbt6F8JX_dCf4498XqhG-qatL-1wBo3X-RVNGngqZSVEYmuS4YlL5orrIOM5hmCcCkHAIl_NFPfxcb3ZEGl_qYFz9rV2lR9ZGi12L9-Td2M_R413LydJIpoJKF9bF0pOPcrV8LACA/s640/blogger-image--1782592814.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5X2iAjzTywTzQurPhPs8YKyexdFcEmknm0LLjP66xfU4vN5R1D8GrZPhxjtxDOYzbbWEDpouoq-GLVR0qYTKdkDEyP5JQNqurd6Yc3lCYsMsLyNnOzC_6oDuOuCCNqvctYF5VKByPNM/s640/blogger-image-1597459038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5X2iAjzTywTzQurPhPs8YKyexdFcEmknm0LLjP66xfU4vN5R1D8GrZPhxjtxDOYzbbWEDpouoq-GLVR0qYTKdkDEyP5JQNqurd6Yc3lCYsMsLyNnOzC_6oDuOuCCNqvctYF5VKByPNM/s640/blogger-image-1597459038.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>Taken within minutes of each other. </i></span></div><div><i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Sir, you are being irrational</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">.</span></div> 2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-40195760894230279992014-05-06T07:06:00.002-07:002014-06-12T21:10:02.194-07:004 Weeks In - A Complete (mis)Guide to InfancyThis is momentous. I am sitting at my laptop for the first time since Henry was born. 4 weeks of relying on my iPhone for basically everything. If that thing dispensed breast milk, I'd have been set. When Henry was a newborn lump (weeks 1 - 3), I could stash him in his swing, turn that sucker on and sit on the adjacent upholstered chair staring at the television, listing the things that probably should get done but definitely would not. That chair was previously known as "the pregnancy chair." Now it is known as "the breast feeding chair." Also, "Frank's chair" because I have to fight my dog for it. I don't blame him. It's that comfortable and yet completely attractive. <br>
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In the past week, Henry has become this very alert small monkey that does not enjoy being put down. Where my inability to get things accomplished before was due to sheer exhaustion, I now couple the excuse with a lack of operable limbs. I am holding the baby. Always holding the child. Typically while bouncing on a yoga ball. He is obsessed and immediately soothed by bouncing on this thing. I paid about $35 for it on Amazon. Had I known how completely crucial it would become in my life, I would have paid $8 zillion dollars and lived out of a cardboard box. Me, my baby and my yoga ball. No problem. Oh yeah, and that chair. Last night I took out the Moby wrap because I was finding it really difficult to eat, drink, and otherwise function with a single cramped hand. I had tried the Moby before and Smallpox here absolutely did not enjoy the experience of being smashed against me. Now, however, he finds it quite relaxing provided I bounce on the ball for about 10 minutes while balancing a pacifier in his mouth. Then I am free to go about my business. Guys, I could pee if I wanted to. Sometimes I make coffee. And now I'm on the computer writing my second blog post in 6 weeks. Feeling super accomplished.<br>
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Having Henry has been: amazing, fun, exhausting, scary, sad, weird, overwhelming, exhausting, frustrating, warm-gooey-lovey and most other adjectives. He is a really good baby. For a newborn, he's not so horrible at sleeping. I mean, nights don't resemble anything from the past but, based on what I hear, they're not too bad. At 4 weeks, H sleeps for one 3-4 hour stretch and then for a few 2 hour stretches (except for this morning when as of 2:30 he decided it was an every hour affair and we had to be up permanently at 5:30. Watch me weep - oh wait, I can't, I'm too tired to make my tear ducts function). Here's what H will NOT tolerate: his bassinette. Lying flat on his back is his least favorite thing in the world. He screamed this at us ad nauseum when we brought him home from the hospital. On repeat for several nights until I had a breakdown and put him in our bed. No pillows, no covers, all by "safe" co-sleeping rules. It also helps to lie there in half-awake being terrified of being yelled at by your pediatrician for putting your new child at risk of <em>everything</em>. New parent shame. Then my cousin loaned me her Fisher Price Rock n' Play, we revisited tight, snug swaddling a la <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Happiest-Baby-Block-Crying-Newborn-ebook/dp/B000SEI6L8/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382193&sr=1-1&keywords=happiest+baby+on+the+block" target="_blank">The Happiest Baby on the Block</a>, and Henry started for real sleeping. I, of course, had to spend the first night standing over him making sure he was breathing but, after that first night, I allowed myself to sleep too. It's been a revelation. Rock n' Plays are a small step up from co-sleeping according to many pediatricians and hoards of terrible fear-mongering mothers on the internet but, since never sleeping ever again didn't seem like a great option, I'm going to ride it out. I have total faith that since he's figured out what night sleeping is supposed to look like, I'll be able to transition him to the bassinette and crib soon. <br>
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I have great plans to write a post on breast feeding once I figure that one out. All things considered, it's going very well. He's gaining like a champ. In the past 2 weeks, though, latch has become occasionally quite painful. Not always, but sometimes. I then break his latch, reposition, and half the time it solves the problem and half the time does not. I plan on going to a granola lactation support group for some guidance. Then I'll write about how I've aced it, am becoming a board-certified lactation consultant, and am committed to breast feeding at least through his freshman year of college. After that, we'll play it by ear.<br>
I'm also going to write more about the emotional side of being a new mom coupled with the fact that my husband is still, obviously and understandably, reeling from his father's untimely death. That has been excruciatingly hard. I need to get my mind wrapped around that a little more. It's still too fresh, still too much of a daily clusterfuck.<br>
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I've mentioned several thin<span id="goog_1486505911"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_1486505912"></span>gs that I feel have helped get me through the first month and that I forsee using a lot in the months to come. I'm not advertising for these companies (advertising to the mini handful of readers? I don't think Fisher Price cares) but for those of you who will be having a baby soon or ever, I do feel like these have helped out significantly.<br>
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<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Happiest-Baby-Block-Crying-Newborn-ebook/dp/B000SEI6L8/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382193&sr=1-1&keywords=happiest+baby+on+the+block" target="_blank"><strong>The Happiest Baby on the Block</strong></a> - This lived on my nightstand for a long time and then I read it out of desperation. Try actually reading it before you lose your mind. I imagine that would be quite effective. I thought my baby didn't like being swaddled because he "needed his hands to soothe." The author assures me that newborns don't have the physical ability to coordinate this kind of action. Oh right. They're total spazzes with immature nervous systems. Swaddling, for us, has been a godsend for general calming and slumber inducement.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.miracleblanket.com/" target="_blank"><strong>The Miracle Blanket</strong></a> - Do you suck at swaddling as much as I do? Don't worry! There are 78 different products at your disposal! I happened to register for 2 of these and have found them quite handy. Henry, while a supremely advanced infant, cannot break out of this. Also, because the bottom is a flap, you can change a diaper at night without completely unswaddling your baby and unleashing the fury of hell.</li>
<li><a href="http://lillebaby.com/" target="_blank"><strong>Lillebaby</strong></a> - So you say you'd like to leave the house! Good for you. Good luck with that. Actually, I had great luck right away with the Lillebaby carrier. There are tons of carriers out there. I love this one because it has shitloads of lumbar support and the other carriers don't. I know, I tried them all. Ergo has upper back support but it's the lower back that aches granny over here. I feel like I could lug a preteen in this carrier without pain. Henry is really content riding in this. And by that I mean he nods off to sleep pretty quickly while I walk the dogs, go to the pharmacy, get a cup of coffee, what have you.</li>
<li><strong>Yoga ball</strong>. Any exercise ball will do. Hands down my single most fantastic purchase. I am bouncing as I type this sentence.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.fisher-price.com/en_US/brands/babygear/products/51903" target="_blank"><strong>Rock n' Play</strong></a> - Turns out lots of babies are uncooperative like mine and don't appreciate how wonderfully granola the co-sleeper bassinette is that you bought him. My baby will sleep in a Rock n' Play. Sleep is amazing. Don't get one with the fuzzy insert because it's unnecessary and not terribly safe. Feel free to spazz out on me about this one. </li>
<li><strong>Any soft baby-wearing wrap.</strong> I have the Moby. My sister has the Kataan. I don't think it matters, any "hands-free device" will do. Just give yourself an option for walking around your apartment with both arms footloose and fancy free.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.target.com/p/gilligan-o-malley-reg-women-s-cotton-nursing-cami-assorted-colors-patterns/-/A-13793418" target="_blank"><strong>Target Nursing Tanks</strong></a> - If you choose to wear a shirt at all while breast feeding, try covering your tatas in one of these tanks. It's sort of like being topless.</li>
<li><a href="https://www.earthmamaangelbaby.com/breastfeeding-support/natural-nipple-butter.html" target="_blank"><strong>Earth Mama Angel Baby Nipple Butter</strong></a> - I found out the hard way ("OMG my nipples just caught on bloody fire!!!!) that I'm wildly allergic to lanolin, the key ingredient in many nipple ointments. I'm sure you won't be but regardless, this nip butter feels so ridiculously soothing. Sensitive-nipple-skin-en-fuego aside, I vastly prefer the feel of this to the more popular lanolin product.</li>
<li><strong>A full-time, live-in Nanny and/or Wet Nurse</strong> - I don't have one of these, I just imagine it would be highly convenient. </li>
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I promise to start writing more now that I have life completely figured out. Or have occasional use of my hands. I am reading your blog updates however I am reading them on the Bloglovin app on my phone while breast feeding. That stupid app doesn't give you the option of commenting.<br>
In closing, Henry is so fucking adorable you'd die if you saw him in person. Together, we are figuring this all out.2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-69043502382900908262014-04-11T06:23:00.001-07:002014-04-27T08:39:50.484-07:00Welcome to the World, Henry!I always get (unjustifiably) annoyed when one of my beloved bloggers gives birth and then neglects to post the announcement and full birth story in then ten minutes after they deliver the placenta. So, lesson learned, it is kind of hard to function in the world and get anything done with a newborn. I have had a day or two where I haven't brushed my teeth. Disgusting. <div><br></div><div>Three weeks ago, on the night of 4/4/14 (neato, number nerds!), Henry made his escape from the Grand Science Experiment's Uterine Detention Center, a warm, dark mobile facility located primarily in Chicago. It's so nice to follow up my last sad post with something so incredibly joyous. I did start a follow-up but went into labor before I got around to finishing. A half-written blog post can feel real stale after the intervention of few major life events.<div><br></div><div>I personally am a birth story junky so I'll share the gory details. Feel free to become bored out of your mind and skip to the end where I assure you everyone ends up healthy and happy. </div><div><br></div><div>During week 37 of the Long Gestation, I was essentially crossing my legs to ensure the baby did not fall out during my father-in-law's wake and funeral. The shock of his death and the swirl of hormones that ensued brought on two solid days of Braxton Hicks. Fortunately, the batter was not totally cooked yet and little man stayed put. Once the formalities were over and we were back home, J and I felt desperate for our baby to come. More than ever, we needed a huge hit of happy after the horrible events of the past week. Also, I was feeling so huge and uncomfortable. As confirmed by my OB, the baby's head was very low. She had to move his head to check my cervix (sounds crazy and is but I've learned this is typical of a still posterior cervix and descending baby). I had the distinct feeling of a bowling ball dropping into the northern regions of my vagina whenever I walked. Super pleasant. I thought this meant he might eventually just fall out and I could skip the whole labor thing. It did not. I went to acupuncture on Monday (38w2d). The acupuncturist encouraged me to gorge on eggplant to get things moving. Another patient recommended I google "eggplant babies" for a famous eggplant parmesan recipe. Doing so, I found out that this restaurant Scalini's near Atlanta guarantees you'll go into labor within 48 hours of eating their parm. If you don't, you get a free meal or something. Not a great consolation prize. I made the eggplant parm, ate it for lunch and dinner for 2 straight days (because it was delicious) and labor started within that 48 hours. Granted I went into labor when I was 38 weeks and 5 days pregnant <i>so conceivably </i>it might have had something to do with my body just being ready but hell, it didn't hurt. Light action started Thursday evening after an afternoon of intense back pain. I thought it was my stupid unsupportive flats rather than a baby's head. Those early contractions weren't terribly painful, just different than anything is felt before. I ate Thai food with my bestie and her sister and then sent them home so I could lie on my couch and wonder if I was really in labor. </div></div><div>After an uncomfortable but not terribly painful night, I sent J to the grocery store for assorted sundries. Figured I needed some calories for the long day ahead. By the time he got back I basically told him to go &$@# himself with the tube of Grand's cinnamon rolls I had requested. Let's just say shit escalated in that 40 minutes. My doula, Saint Megan, came over around 10:30 and took over back-rubbing duties from my mom. During one of her back rubs, my wonderful mom asked if I wanted her to stay and keep rubbing or go back home with my dogs so she could be at the hospital when we checked in. Sensitive and kind princess that I was throughout labor, I told her that while it felt nice I didn't care if the corner store clerk took over for her. So sweet. </div><div>Water broke at 12:30 full of meconium. After that, my contractions went from super crazy shitty (technical term) to holy-fuck-kill-me-now-there-is-no-need-to-live-through-this. </div><div>The drive to the hospital took about 15 minutes tops. The second the car stopped I flung myself out and waddled into triage. A guard sang "Happy Birthday" to me as I poured sweat and paced. Turns out, his name was Henry. Two couples who looked as though they were waiting for scheduled c-sections were terrified of me and let J check me in ahead of them. </div><div>Once in the triage room, my sister Juice joined us. How things have changed. She said my moaning and expletives gave her PTSD from her labor 4 months ago. Throughout my pregnancy, I read Ina May Gaskin books, took a natural childbirth class, and sang the praises of the natural rush and immediate bonding that could only be achieved without medication. Nothing like legitimate labor to make you change your tune. My pleas for an epidural started during contractions in triage. Megan and J assured me I was doing a great job and could do it. I had a cervical check and was told I was 6 cm dilated. I realized I had probably at least 4 more hours of hard labor to get to 10 cm and hit a wall. I decided I didn't need a doula or husband, just a handsome anesthesiologist. I started begging between contractions. Once in the labor and delivery room, I got my wish (and got to keep my doula and husband). Sweet mother, that epidural saved me. It was amazing. I went from the worst pain I has ever experienced, worse than I possibly could have imagined, to total relief. I wasn't numb, I continued to contract and dilate, and I took a nap.</div><div>I am now more in awe of natural childbirth than ever. If epidural hadn't been available, I would have made it. But I didn't have to and I'm so grateful. My last words on epidural: if it wasn't in your birth plan and you succumb to her charms, you haven't failed. Labor is still very hard work. The epidural won't push your baby out for you. And the feeling of seeing and holding your baby for the first time us unbelievably incredible. It's not a narcotic, your heart, head and body are all still totally in it and you can feel. No regrets.</div><div><br></div><div>At 7 pm, I was 10 cm dilated and at +2 station. My parents were ushered out and we're told they'd be back to meet their grandson very soon. Famous last words. I pushed for FOUR HOURS. I'm sure that sounds awful. It wasn't the best ever but as it dragged on, the OB assured me that he was committed to my having a vagjnal birth and knew I could do it. I didn't want to have the wear and tear of pushing plus recovery from a c-section scar. </div><div>At the 4 hour mark, it was clear that our little guy had no plans of clearing my tailbone by himself. The OB used a vacuum to help him out. About 4 pushes and a whole lot of suctioning later, Henry came out sunny-side-up. Posterior occiput babies are born facing the ceiling. They can't tuck their heads and make the turns needed to clear the tailbone. It's somewhat rare. Fitting that he'd be a weirdo like his mama. </div><div><br></div><div>Because if the meconium, a pediatric team aspirated him and helped him pink up a but for a few minutes while J and I kissed and cried. He was only feet from us and was then brought right to my chest for skin-to-skin. Henry has lots of strawberry blond hair, beautiful lips that he hides all the time due to his lack of teeth, and gorgeous, inquisitive eyes. He weighed 6 lbs, 6 oz and was 20" long. We are ridiculously in love. </div><div><br></div><div>A year ago from the day he was born, I was actively miscarrying. Bleeding profusely and praying while my HCG betas bounced around wildly. And now, I have this sweet, perfect boy in my arms. I couldn't have imagined the emotional pain I'd go through in that year, nor the incredible joy. The journey is hardly over but Henry is such a triumph. I can hardly believe he's mine.</div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WXUPEJjeKkEj8XIzkGnxGCkeYeOP4eBLA_bGLIHZUQv_XgMAGYvL_i40jextkCXwBP6JApkmajZrOxUoFPbVnNlVAhuWyVrAimn__I-HbvF0QEuZONjRA73J8gmqv4qB9tMpNSHKXCA/s640/blogger-image--212285487.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WXUPEJjeKkEj8XIzkGnxGCkeYeOP4eBLA_bGLIHZUQv_XgMAGYvL_i40jextkCXwBP6JApkmajZrOxUoFPbVnNlVAhuWyVrAimn__I-HbvF0QEuZONjRA73J8gmqv4qB9tMpNSHKXCA/s640/blogger-image--212285487.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK9t0PMfyfKuBdFXd_tvR26HSMgq03xAkPchJu-wBEWdBgyWuR0do6O38GnylvOhQdCJjoNDR25yEoznIl2ZrHARAY2raqN-P275QsWOP2tj4L1MAd-lHElgAuKCAqyQ5JN2YjyTq4L5U/s640/blogger-image-158185362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK9t0PMfyfKuBdFXd_tvR26HSMgq03xAkPchJu-wBEWdBgyWuR0do6O38GnylvOhQdCJjoNDR25yEoznIl2ZrHARAY2raqN-P275QsWOP2tj4L1MAd-lHElgAuKCAqyQ5JN2YjyTq4L5U/s640/blogger-image-158185362.jpg"></a></div>2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-31163125231440381172014-03-22T08:23:00.001-07:002014-03-22T08:23:25.694-07:0037w0d - A LossGrowing up, I lost a lot of people I love. I had five grandparents in the world when I was born (one divorce and remarriage), and by my preteen years I only had one. I lost my beloved uncle in that interim, too. With each of those deaths, there was time. They were struck down by cruel cancer, Alzheimer's in one case, things you expect in old age. Watching a loved one suffer isn't easy - much harder than my parents, I was the kid, I kept on going to school and seeing my friends, normal life for most of my day - but by the time they pass, you've known. You've maybe prayed for the end. <div><br></div><div>My grandparents were old. Or, they felt old to me. My dad's parents were Holocaust survivors. They were of such a different generation. I look at my parents and in-laws and they seem so young, active, capable. Not the image of a grandparent I grew up with. </div><div><br></div><div>Yesterday, early afternoon, my husband called me sobbing. His dad died. Massive heart attack. Gone in an instant. He was in northern Wisconsin at his cabin, celebrating his 22nd anniversary with J's step-mom. They were snowmobiling. He turned, grimaced, and that was it. It was immediate. His step-mom and neighbor did CPR but it was too late. I don't think he could have known what was happening, or felt much pain. The suddenness and the fact that he was in a place he loved, doing what he loved, with a person he loved, are the blessings in this horrible situation. </div><div><br></div><div>J is lost, he's distraught. He wanted to see his dad hold his grandson. God knows we tried to make this happen sooner but now, 1-3 weeks before our boy is born, his grandfather is dead. What was such an exciting, anxiety ridden time is now so heart breaking. My husband hurts so badly and I can't make that go away. All I can do is hold him while cries, reassure him that no major decisions have to be made now. It sounds selfish, perhaps, but I hate the shadow of grief that is now hanging over the birth of our son. Of course we will be overjoyed, but J will be torn apart by love and longing for what absolutely should have been. </div><div><br></div><div>J's dad and I did not always see eye to eye. I don't think that changes anything. I loved him because J loved him so fiercely. He was his parent, his teacher, and his boss for many years. Their relationship was more complex than most father-son relationships. I wish J would have his dad around to look to while he navigated parenting. J deserves that. He doesn't deserve this horribly-timed heartache. </div><div><br></div><div>It's been less than 24 hours but it feels like it's been days. I am finding myself, at 9 months pregnant, more capable than I thought I was. While J has sweetly waited on me like an invalid in the past month or so, I have found the energy to take care of him. I am not worried about the activity, the hours, the throngs of family and friends descending. I welcome that for J. I dread the continued sadness. I didn't think we were there yet, the time where you start losing parents. We are becoming parents. Too much cycle of life. </div>2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-27521765937766182452014-03-13T11:34:00.002-07:002014-03-13T11:34:13.918-07:0035w5d - Sonographer Makes Mistake, Hilarity EnsuesYesterday was my first appointment with my regular OB since the "holy-shit-he's-tiny" ultrasound. The tone was decidedly less peppy than in my previous checkups. I got tested for Group B Strep a week early just in case they made the call for baby boy to make a slightly premature exit. We went over worst case scenarios and just "ok" case scenarios which, from my doc's perspective, seemed to be middle path we were headed down. No induction next week unless <i>absolutely necessary</i> but induction likely in the 38-39 week range. Basically normal except he'd be a small guy.<br />
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After we somewhat somberly went through everything, I asked to review the individual measurements taken at the ultrasound two weeks ago. Every time the sonographer took a measurement that afternoon - circumference of the head, abdomen and length of the femur - a corresponding gestational average would come up. I saw immediately that his abdomen circumference was lagging behind. The measurements for his head and femur, however, produced dates that were pretty much right on par with my dates. While lying on the ultrasound table with warm jelly smeared across my belly, I was reassured that at least those things were measuring at about average. When we met with an OB afterwards, she told us that his head had measured 6th percentile, his femur at 8th and his abdomen at 3rd. Somehow with the weight calculation he averaged to 17th percentile. I expressed my confusion, first on how 3, 6 and 8 average to 17 (I mean, I'm no math genius but still) and then as to why the head and femur measurements on the screen would show him to be at least close to average and then come back in the single digits. She explained that the algorithm used to determine the average percentile was complex and took into account many other measurements. I was too sad and worried to push the issue any farther. Usually, I'll press on until I fully understand but in this case, I felt that I just needed to go home and sit with my news. Or lie on my bed and groan feeling generally horrible which is what I actually did.<br />
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Yesterday, I had the wherewithal to dig into it more. I didn't want to perseverate on numbers, I explained to my regular OB, but I did want to understand and not feel like a passive patient. I told her what I had seen on the screen and that the numbers didn't make sense to me. She started to spout the same answer about the complex nature of the algorithm but I could see her questioning her words as she said them. Then she stopped and carefully re-read the chart. "Well, this is a potential game changer," she said. "The sonographer entered your due date as 4/02. Your actual due date is 4/12. I'm having them rerun these calcs immediately." Ten days is a big difference in fetal development. Three quarters of a pound, lots of lung development. Depending on where that delivery date falls, ten days can be the difference between going home the next day and a week in the NICU. <br />
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THIRTY EIGHTH PERCENTILE, bitches. That's where he's averaging right now. Not 17th. Not a belly at the 3rd percentile. He falls well within the "normal" range for fetal development. His abdomen is still a little small but not to the extent that they're concerned. My follow-up ultrasound was cancelled. I'm back on track to deliver when he's fully cooked, no more talk of early induction.<br />
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So that was a fun two weeks. We scrambled to get the nursery done for a potentially early arrival from our long-awaited roommate. I ate too much ice cream in an ill-advised attempt to force him to grow with the gentle coaxing of Ben & Jerry. Guess what? Still kinda lactose intolerant. It took a lot not to wallow in feeling like I was failing Parenting 101 by neglecting to feed my fetus. Oh, they need to eat? Like every day? Shoot. I was constantly kinda stressed, kinda sad, but still very hopeful. I felt in my bones that things would be ok, I just didn't know what our version of ok would look like. And now, total and utter relief. I should be more angry at the ultrasound tech but honestly, she made a really basic, human mistake. She entered "0" instead of "1." I'm pretty sure I do things like that on a daily basis. Now, my job doesn't have quite the stakes that hers has but I am understanding. Things could have spiraled into a lot of very unnecessary interventions but fortunately that didn't happen. I'm the one that <i>insisted </i> on human caregivers. 2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-73737084001304338992014-03-10T11:17:00.001-07:002014-03-10T11:17:44.298-07:0035w2d - Of Growth and UncertaintyOh ladies, it's been a little roller-coaster-y for the past two weeks. Things are still good but I'm facing my first hiccup of pregnancy. Ok, more than a hiccup potentially. I'll explain.<br />
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For those of you who are still in the trenches or haven't reached 20+ weeks, during the second half of your pregnancy your OB or midwife starts a highly technical measurement procedure where she takes a cloth measuring tape and, starting at the top of your pubic bone, stretches it over your bump to the top of your uterus. Supposedly, your measurement in centimeters should be approximately equivalent to your gestational week. As in, when you're 25 weeks, the measurement is 25 cm; 30 weeks, 30 cm. Give or take a couple of centimeters on either side. This is not hard science. I mean, it's done with sewing equipment for chrissakes. It does sorta-kinda-accurately give an idea of your rate of growth. In my case, it raised a flag.<br />
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At around 28+ weeks, I went from spot on measurements to lagging behind. My doc kept an eye on it for another appointment or two and then requested a fetal growth scan. Last week at the scan we found out that our kiddo is measuring at a measly 17th percentile. This was the second round of ultrasound measurements, this time by a supervisor. Our first round of measurements put him at 11th percentile, only 2 notches away from a diagnosis of IUGR (intrauterine growth restriction). We're taking 17th percentile and running with it. His abdomen measured particularly small which translates to him not getting all the nutrients he needs in utero. Fetuses, geniuses that they are, will funnel all of the nutrients to the brain and heart at the expense of building fat reserves if they need to. Why is this happening? They don't really know. Typically it's because the placenta stops working as efficiently as it should for this stage of pregnancy. The placenta slows its roll toward the end of the third trimester. Sometimes it doesn't make it quite so far. That<em> could</em> be happening with me. Not sure. Here's the plan: 3 weeks after the initial scan, I'll go in for another ultrasound. If baby boy has grown leaps and bounds, well then, aces. Let him keep cooking. If he hasn't grown sufficiently and there's more evidence that he's not getting enough nutrition from my placenta, then they may decide to induce with the thought that he'll be better off outside than in. At the point of that scan, I'll be close to 37 weeks. Almost full term, not quite. I hope that I'm able to cook him to term. If not, it will be because we're doing the best thing for him. Upside being I'll get to see that sweet face just a little sooner. However it needs to happen so that he comes into this world healthy is fine by me. The evening of the ultrasound I was a sad mess. I felt like I was failing my boy way too early. Now, bolstered by my incredible doula, a particularly therapeutic trip to the acupuncturist (approaching this from all side - western meds and eastern crunch), and the kind words of friends and family, I'm feeling very confident. No matter what happens, things are going to be ok. I have an awesome team taking care of me from OB, to doula, to a stellar NICU if, god forbid, it's necessary. Also on my side, I feel him moving all the time. He feels enormous. I know he's just a little guy but my god I feel like I'm going to explode. I've gone from ribs that, as of this Saturday evening, felt as though they were going to snap into crumbled bits. I think that wonder boy is starting to settle in lower as the rib pain, while not gone, is subsiding and has been replaced by near constant bladder pressure. For now, I prefer the latter.<br />
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That's the Six Flags part of the post. In utterly lovely news, I had my baby shower. It was so, so nice. Everything I wanted. No games, fabulous food, lots of friends and family. I woke up the morning of my shower and, on cue, baby boy was squirming around. "They're throwing a party for us today!" I told him, because I am a nerd and was overwhelmed. It occurred to me that morning how long I've waited, even within this pregnancy, to just celebrate the fact that our son is well on his way. It was so joyous. I loved it. I got some good loot too, I cannot lie. Baby gear is expensive. I am grateful for every scrap gifted to us. With the influx of <i>stuff</i>, J and I were forced to make some serious headway on the nursery. As of yesterday evening, we are nearly done with the exception of getting the artwork on the walls (on its way from Etsy) and getting a little bookshelf. We have a crib with clean sheets, a dresser filled with clean clothes, a changing table and a bassinet that, while still in its box, can be erected at absolutely any time. My mom herded me around Target and pointed out what I might need immediately to help him survive/stay clean/save upholstery. I'm stocked up newborn size diapers, wipes, gentle baby shampoo and wash, and am the proud owner of a breast pump. Everything is ready, you know, whenever.<br />
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The follow-up growth scan takes place a week from tomorrow and then we'll know a lot more. We'll either get an induction date or the thumbs up to keep cooking. Or, something in between. Shit is getting very real and I am getting impatient. I don't want to under-cook my baby boy but I am so anxious to meet him. The time span of when that meeting may occur is preposterously large right now: between 1 week+ and 7 weeks. So much for a cozy 4 week span of possibility.2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4355082394752703079.post-29371436282091802112014-02-07T10:01:00.004-08:002014-02-07T10:03:09.309-08:0030w6d - Physical Fitness FailMy God, I am full of good ideas. Full of reason, too. I've heard that you should exercise consistently through your pregnancy and so I've been to prenatal yoga three times, all during my second trimester. There's consistency for you. Any Google device or basic pregnancy book will tell you that you should not introduce any wildly new exercise regiments during your pregnancy and I think they might all read <em>"and especially not during your third trimester, genius</em>." But you know me, I'm all "fuck the establishment, I do what I want." (Ha, not really. Haven't touched a turkey sandwich or a fully caffeinated coffee since two lines showed up. The few times I've had a nip of delicious red wine, I've convinced myself of decreased fetal movement. Typically, j'adore rules.) <br />
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With my newfound damn-the-man attitude, I signed up for a class at the new Pure Barre studio. Pure Barre is like Bar Method or any of the other handful of ballet barre based exercise regimes. I didn't know what that meant but perhaps some of you do. The following thought synopsis explains why I chose to stomp through the snow to administer a little self-torture at 30 weeks.<br />
<ol>
<li>I need to get my ass in gear or I will die in childbirth like it's the Middle Ages. Buns, thighs, and a pelvic floor of steel can probably be achieved easily in the next 8 weeks with a simple and shockingly expensive workout routine.</li>
<li>I have no energy. I'll potentially have more energy if I start working out... <strong>NOW</strong>. (I optimistically signed up for a second class prior to taking the first. Promptly cancelled.)</li>
<li>I used to be a reasonably accomplished ballet dancer. Pure Barre will be just like ballet class and all the physical fitness and coordination I posessed when I was 16 will come flooding back. That happens. It's science. Especially during pregnancy.</li>
</ol>
So, I mean, I really thought this whole thing through. I thought we'd stand at the bar the whole time, listen to classical music or something new agey, and do ballet-like movements to burn our buns. Not at all, Bob, not at all. First off, the class was packed. Music starts and it is throbbing club music. We are in "da club" and I am visibly, awkwardly pregnant. I feel like a pregnant lady in an ill-fitting tank top in a club because basically, that's what I am. If you've seen Knocked Up, it was basically like that except for A) they let me in and B) I was wearing no makeup and the shabbiest stretchy clothes I could find that would fit over my ass, boobs and belly.* Class did not start at the barre. After a brief warm up, the teacher put us flat on our backs for abdominal work. Vena cava compression time. I half-assed the ab work and sat up frequently to ensure oxygenated blood flow to my fetus who, at this early point, was audibly saying "What. The. Fuck." I don't blame him. We've had such a good, relaxing and spacious run until I decided to compress him so that I could have a prego six pack. We eventually moved to the barre, all was good, and then moved right back to the floor for the continuation of the abdominal series. I asked ahead of time if it was fine for pregnant ladies to take the class. The owner assured me it was with a <em><u>few</u></em> obvious modifications that she rambled through in 10 seconds. Perhaps, had I been doing Pure Barre for my whole pregnancy, I would have been more comfortable with said modifications. Not the case. I took several self-imposed time outs where I sat cross legged on the floor and wondered why I had donated money to this ridiculous cause. What's wrong with a brisk walk and some prenatal yoga? Nothing. Nothing at all. <br />
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I survived. Fetus survived. We went home and complained a lot. Then, crazy me, I had a restless night of shitty dreams where I worried about baby boy. Really, you shouldn't compress a fetus like that. I'm sure of it. I know that abdominal work is safe and encouraged but by god there are limits.<br />
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I bet you kids do Pure Barre all the time. I bet you were doing squats at the barre while you gave birth. Good for you. I've gotten a D+ on physical fitness during this pregnancy. I've made a real effort to go on walks and, like I boasted, have made it to 3 whole prenatal yoga classes. Whatever. I'm cooking a baby. I'm busy. Cutting myself some slack now.<br />
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*I have been losing clothing - specifically my forgiving yoga pants - throughout pregnancy. I have blamed my husband on several occasions. This is obvious sabotage!!! He thinks I'm nuts and I say he's bad at laundry management (he has 43 individual socks and none of them match). We're both right.<br />
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Several of you requested a bump photo. I decided to hire the most expensive photographer and stylist I knew. Sadly, it all fell through. Here's a photo of me in my office bathroom earlier this week, wearing a clip art lucha libre mask. Little known fact: I am really good at doing my hair.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">30 weeks. Viva la lucha.</td></tr>
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2dognitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05247158356810025811noreply@blogger.com3