Breastfeeding is supposed to be a joyful bonding time for mom and baby but that's only what you see in Johnson and Johnson commercials. The reality is that it can be a painful and frustrating experience that leaves you wanting to find any excuse to get out of the house where no one will touch you for at least an hour.
I used to love having my boobs get lots of attention. Now I wish I could hang an out of order sign on them or a Do Not Disturb sign. "No moleste!" Every three hours, though, they are in high demand, a commodity greater than petroleum. As a potential "Milk Goddess," or one who produces enough milk to feed a community, my breast milk actually goes for $4.15 an ounce. I know this because the nurse at the hospital told me I was likely going to be a Milk Goddess because my milk came in fast and furious, so if I wanted to donate it to a community milk bank, I could.
Well that was before stress and ailments caused me to be occasionally pumping dry wells. It has not always been a bountiful oasis. From time to time, I have seen drought. Historically my left boob produces only about an ounce and a half at any given time by the pump. But it is also the one that suffers the most pain. Currently it feels like my daughter has the tongue of a cat, rubbing my nipple repeatedly with a sandpaper-like sensation. Most of the time my left boob has had a tough day.
The right does a little better and so we tend to favor it. At any rate, when I am wearing the cape of the Milk Goddess and having a productive day, I still struggle to get her to finish a feeding. She chronically falls asleep with my boob in her mouth, about half way through the process. It's as if my milk is cut with some sort of sedative. Because of this, I sit through a feeding in an uncomfortable position for at least a half an hour, poking my baby like some kind of playground bully.
Breastfeeding is messy, too. When I wake in the morning I find that my breast pads are saturated, my nightgown is drenched and there are large wet spots on the bed where I was laying. Every time I unleash my boobs from my straight jacket maternity bras, they drip and leak all over me. I have to wear a bra to bed every night, which is not too comfortable, and I have to pump regularly in order to avoid engorgement. Engorgement is painful. Your boobs are tender and sore and the slightest brush against them causes you to cringe.
Everyone in the house seems to be enjoying my product but me. The other night, I was watching the movie "Interview with a Vampire" and feeding the baby. It was then that I made a connection. When she is hungry, she viciously attacks my breast, snarling and snorting and then sucking loudly as if it is the last boob on earth. She is for all intents and purposes a vampire, an insatiable little milk sucker. But she is not the only one who has a taste for what I got cookin'. Maggie has taken to eating my saturated breast pads. I can't keep her away from them. If I throw them in the trash, she digs them out. If I leave them on the arm of the couch for just a second, she's up there feasting on them. One night I opened the room to the nursery, only to find that she had gotten herself locked in there by accident but entertained herself by feeding on the used pads I'd left on the bed during a 4am feeding.
Chris is obsessed with my huge boobs, too, needless to say. That really needs no further explanation. When I first became engorged he took one look at me and began to blush and couldn't stop giggling. He was like a 14 year old all over again. Now I occasionally catch him sneaking a peak when I'm pumping. He's curious for some strange reason and apparently wants to know what it looks like when a nipple gets sucked into a tube and milk comes shooting out of it.
The occasions when we get through a feeding seemlessly with enough milk, regular burps, minimal spit up, no puking afterwards and remaining fully conscious the whole time, are rare. At $4.15 an ounce, I should be keeping track of how much ends up in a burp cloth and then deducting it from her future allowance. Hell, at $4.15 an ounce, I ought to just stop buying dog food and let the dogs have at it. But in the end, it's a labor of love. The payoff is a healthy baby, and apparently a healthy dog, and after all I've been through recently, I should be happy I can breastfeed at all. Who cares if my boobs look like week-old party balloons or my nipples look like hot dogs hanging out of a grocery bag. I'm a Milk Goddess and this is probably the only time in my life when I will have any kind of divine status. Even if the status means you actually have no power and no control and that you are in reality a servant. The way I see it, breastfeeding, while not the blissful TV commercial, is still pretty miraculous. Humbling and painful, but miraculous. Now if only I could figure out a way to convince my daughter that I am also the Strained Peas Goddess, or the Brussels Sprouts Goddess, maybe someday even the Keys to the Car Goddess, or the Stay Out Past Curfew Goddess....
Monday, October 5, 2009
If Pregnancy Doesn't Kill You....
I have come to the conclusion that post-pregnancy is actually worse than the pregnancy itself. In fact, being pregnant was really a piece of cake, compared to the string of illnesses and problems I've had since I gave birth. About a week before I delivered, I developed a mysterious, itchy rash all over my legs and back. I thought it was poison ivy but Chris and my OBGYN both said no. I thought this because my brilliant husband was out in the yard one day pulling the evil plant with his bare hands and bragging, "Look honey, I never get poison ivy!" Later that evening he came in, "washed" his hands, and gave be a foot, leg and lower back rub. A day or so later, I was covered in a red, itchy rash. Hmm.....
But the OB said it was heat rash and prescribed a topical that is actually used for fungal infections. So I applied the cream to no avail. In addition, I continued my ivy topical treatments. Nothing happened. After two days in a hospital bed, post-delivery, the rash had spread and gotten worse. The nurses said it looked like a yeast infection and told me to apply lotrimin cream. I did that and nothing happened. Well it got worse. I went back to my OB who then prescribed an antihistamine pill. Still nothing. So then he prescribed a steroid pill treatment. Nothing. All the while, I'm trying desperately to breast feed and bond with my newborn. After the rash continued to get worse, my husband insisted I go to the hospital. So we went to the emergency room where the doctors said it was not poison ivy and took samples of the puss blisters on my leg to determine if it was a bacterial or viral infection. Then prescribed more meds that did nothing.
The tests came back negative and still the rash endured. Finally my OB sent me to a dermatologist who took three chunks of skin out of my legs for biopsy to find out if the rash was related to pregnancy. My OB still insisted that it was heat rash and was hormone related. After a few days of a hard core topical prescribed by the dermatologist and a continuation of ivy topicals, the rash finally started to die. And wouldn't you know, the test came back negative. The dermatologist then determined that it was in fact poison ivy.
After all that, I started having other problems. A bladder infection and gallstones that put me in the emergency room again, all night, in excruciating pain, a slight yeast infection and itchy stitches in my crotch, incredibly sore nipples from breastfeeding and a wart on my face. In the last month I've had my skin cut out and stitched, snipped, burned, scarred..... I'm at the point where I dread waking up in the morning because I don't trust that there will not be another pain or problem to endure that day. No one tells you that when you have a baby your body falls apart. They say it's hard on your body but they do not tell you all the crazy things that can happen. Now to be fair, the poison ivy was not caused by having a baby but there is a strong possibility that it was as bad as it was because my body was weak.
At one point I actually started thinking maybe someone was trying to convince me not to have any more children. Like the gods were saying, "We're going to torture you until you break. Do not reproduce again!" I also thought perhaps I was just not meant to breastfeed. Probably the most important thing to me as far as nurturing my child has been under threat since the day she was born due to all the meds I was being forced to take. In fact, there were several I refused to take because I was going to have to pump and dump my milk. When the dermatologist prescribed the high octane topical lotion, she told me that if it did not work, she would have to give me a high dose steroid for a month that would pretty much put my boobs out of commission. I was hell bent not to let that happen so I applied the cream with vigor and kept coaching myself under my breath not to let the rash beat me.
I cried a lot over the last few weeks out of pure frustration. Ironically, after everyone warned me of post-partum blues, it was the biblical phenomena that just about sent me over the edge. If not for all the bullshit, I probably would have come off my hormones without a hitch. Today, I am scarred but healed, no more itch. But I have survived my third gallbladder attack so far and now face a possible surgery to have it removed. I'm not really in the mood to lose an organ so I'm going to try a homeopathic purge to try to get rid of the stones but that involves drinking epsom salts and then sitting on the toilet all day while I shit myself. And so many women seem to worry about their figure after pregnancy as their first priority. Honestly. If my stretch marks were all I had to be concerned about right now, I'd be thrilled. Right now, I embrace them. They are my battle scars and proof that I have survived one hell of a beating, that in some form or another, just keeps coming back for more.
But the OB said it was heat rash and prescribed a topical that is actually used for fungal infections. So I applied the cream to no avail. In addition, I continued my ivy topical treatments. Nothing happened. After two days in a hospital bed, post-delivery, the rash had spread and gotten worse. The nurses said it looked like a yeast infection and told me to apply lotrimin cream. I did that and nothing happened. Well it got worse. I went back to my OB who then prescribed an antihistamine pill. Still nothing. So then he prescribed a steroid pill treatment. Nothing. All the while, I'm trying desperately to breast feed and bond with my newborn. After the rash continued to get worse, my husband insisted I go to the hospital. So we went to the emergency room where the doctors said it was not poison ivy and took samples of the puss blisters on my leg to determine if it was a bacterial or viral infection. Then prescribed more meds that did nothing.
The tests came back negative and still the rash endured. Finally my OB sent me to a dermatologist who took three chunks of skin out of my legs for biopsy to find out if the rash was related to pregnancy. My OB still insisted that it was heat rash and was hormone related. After a few days of a hard core topical prescribed by the dermatologist and a continuation of ivy topicals, the rash finally started to die. And wouldn't you know, the test came back negative. The dermatologist then determined that it was in fact poison ivy.
After all that, I started having other problems. A bladder infection and gallstones that put me in the emergency room again, all night, in excruciating pain, a slight yeast infection and itchy stitches in my crotch, incredibly sore nipples from breastfeeding and a wart on my face. In the last month I've had my skin cut out and stitched, snipped, burned, scarred..... I'm at the point where I dread waking up in the morning because I don't trust that there will not be another pain or problem to endure that day. No one tells you that when you have a baby your body falls apart. They say it's hard on your body but they do not tell you all the crazy things that can happen. Now to be fair, the poison ivy was not caused by having a baby but there is a strong possibility that it was as bad as it was because my body was weak.
At one point I actually started thinking maybe someone was trying to convince me not to have any more children. Like the gods were saying, "We're going to torture you until you break. Do not reproduce again!" I also thought perhaps I was just not meant to breastfeed. Probably the most important thing to me as far as nurturing my child has been under threat since the day she was born due to all the meds I was being forced to take. In fact, there were several I refused to take because I was going to have to pump and dump my milk. When the dermatologist prescribed the high octane topical lotion, she told me that if it did not work, she would have to give me a high dose steroid for a month that would pretty much put my boobs out of commission. I was hell bent not to let that happen so I applied the cream with vigor and kept coaching myself under my breath not to let the rash beat me.
I cried a lot over the last few weeks out of pure frustration. Ironically, after everyone warned me of post-partum blues, it was the biblical phenomena that just about sent me over the edge. If not for all the bullshit, I probably would have come off my hormones without a hitch. Today, I am scarred but healed, no more itch. But I have survived my third gallbladder attack so far and now face a possible surgery to have it removed. I'm not really in the mood to lose an organ so I'm going to try a homeopathic purge to try to get rid of the stones but that involves drinking epsom salts and then sitting on the toilet all day while I shit myself. And so many women seem to worry about their figure after pregnancy as their first priority. Honestly. If my stretch marks were all I had to be concerned about right now, I'd be thrilled. Right now, I embrace them. They are my battle scars and proof that I have survived one hell of a beating, that in some form or another, just keeps coming back for more.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Pre-Partum Blues
I have been pregnant forever. In fact, life before pregnancy is nothing but a vague, distant memory. If it weren't for my trip to China last summer, I'm not sure there would be anything significant enough to remind me of the person I used to be. But I know there was a different person before me. I'm sure of it. For instance, I never was a person who had to deal with constipation. Seriously, I was textbook regular most of my life. Now, though, I have to pop two stool softeners a night just to keep myself out of the emergency room with unbearable pressure and cramps.
The last time I had a bout of this "crappy" condition, I found myself in the bathroom contorted into any position on the toilet that would give me some leverage. My wonderful husband who has tried to be supportive even in these moments where he never thought he would ever be, stood outside the door saying, "Honey, practice your breathing. Hee, hee, hoo, hoo! Think of it like a practice baby!"
Lately, I've been waiting miserably as the last few days have ticked by counting down to my due date. The pressure, bloating, stretching, cramps, the pushing on my bladder and other battered and beaten organs, has gotten unbearable and yet she won't come out. Chris said she just doesn't want to come out. She likes it in there, he says. "She's probably got her arms stretched out, holding on and refusing to come out. You know like when you try to shove a cat in a toilet."
I'm starting to lose hope. Maybe I actually will carry this baby for the rest of my life. I honestly can't believe she will ever come out. The day will never come and I will be miserably uncomfortable for the rest of my life. One thing is for sure. I'm really not the person I used to be and I never will be again.
Addendum: As it turns out, this was written about three hours before I went into labor. I wrote this entry on the night of September 5 and went into labor at 2am on September 6, a Sunday. Mariella Joan Siemer was born at 8:45am on Sunday, September 6, 2009, weighing 8 pounds, 9 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.
The last time I had a bout of this "crappy" condition, I found myself in the bathroom contorted into any position on the toilet that would give me some leverage. My wonderful husband who has tried to be supportive even in these moments where he never thought he would ever be, stood outside the door saying, "Honey, practice your breathing. Hee, hee, hoo, hoo! Think of it like a practice baby!"
Lately, I've been waiting miserably as the last few days have ticked by counting down to my due date. The pressure, bloating, stretching, cramps, the pushing on my bladder and other battered and beaten organs, has gotten unbearable and yet she won't come out. Chris said she just doesn't want to come out. She likes it in there, he says. "She's probably got her arms stretched out, holding on and refusing to come out. You know like when you try to shove a cat in a toilet."
I'm starting to lose hope. Maybe I actually will carry this baby for the rest of my life. I honestly can't believe she will ever come out. The day will never come and I will be miserably uncomfortable for the rest of my life. One thing is for sure. I'm really not the person I used to be and I never will be again.
Addendum: As it turns out, this was written about three hours before I went into labor. I wrote this entry on the night of September 5 and went into labor at 2am on September 6, a Sunday. Mariella Joan Siemer was born at 8:45am on Sunday, September 6, 2009, weighing 8 pounds, 9 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Huntress
My dog Mandie has not always been the fastest gun in the West and she is most definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Although we love her dearly, she has a slow speed which she downshifts into both mentally and physically for the largest portion of the day. She moseys to the door laboring with every step, causing the cool air to leave the house and the flies to enter as I stand there holding it open for her....waiting. She spends most of the day laying lopped to the side like a beached whale, occasionally switching rooms for a change of scenery. She's lovingly referred to as a "foot stool" or a "dog skin rug" by me and my husband. She's just in no way, shape, or form remotely in a hurry to do anything......except to eat. That she does with record speed.
I wouldn't even call it eating, really. It's more like an inhalation of solid particles, much like a Dustbuster. There is no chewing, no tasting, no pleasure. It is purely utilitarian. She's like a professional food-eating contest champion, always in training. But that's really where it ends. Everything else is slow and deliberate. Of course because of her ho-hum attitude and her remedial intelligence level, we never pegged her for much of a huntress. Most of the time when we drop something on the floor we have to point directly at it, almost touching it and wait at least 30 seconds for her to gear up and arrive at it from across the kitchen. Most often if we don't guard it for her, Maggie snatches it up with a "you snooze, you lose," sort of approach.
So, many times we've had the conversation that if the world were to end as we know it and humans were wiped from the face of the earth, Mandie would be dead inside of a week. Of course her storage of body fat may keep her going for a little longer, but not by much. Without a human to stand next to a deer carcass or an overturned garbage can and point at it for her, Mandie would surely perish.
Well, this is what we believed until we discovered Mandie's bloodlust. Recently, we've started walking in the city park just for a change of pace. The park is fairly large, complete with a pond for ducks and fish, a walking path, many recreational areas and a grassy, tree area. Now, it is important to visualize Mandie to truly appreciate this shocking display of behavior which we have witnessed. Mandie is a Corgie-Sheltie mix. This means she is long with very short stubby legs, a big head and large pointy ears. She's got longer hair and a mane like a Sheltie, a stub where her tail used to be and she weighs in at about 43 pounds.
So, one afternoon as we took our daily exercise in the city park, Mandie noticed squirrels. Suddenly, with a sound like someone was repeatedly backing over her with a car, she screeches and starts tugging furiously at her leash. I learn quickly that my "foot stool" has a very low center of gravity and can pull me down pretty easily if she wanted to. I've walked Pitbulls with less force, to be totally honest. Taken completely by surprise, I struggled desperately to hold on to her and keep myself upright at the same time but she was foaming at the mouth at this point.
Charging like she is carrying an Inuit family of four on a sled in the Iditarod, Mandie fought me to get at this stunned little squirrel. I think the rodent had Fatty identified as a low threat grazer, but was shocked to find out he was now being pursued with the passion of brides-to-be at an annual wedding gown clearance sale. So, interested in seeing this play out of course, I drop her leash. And like a greyhound she's off. I couldn't believe my eyes. My morbidly obese, sloth of a dog moved faster than anything I'd ever seen. Now, she did not get the squirrel of course because she cannot climb trees, although she tried. Her adrenaline got the best of her and she screeched to a halt and leaped onto the trunk, just missing the tail end of the squirrel.
Nevertheless, I was amazed and so proud. To this day, I can't believe it so every day now we go to the park hunting for squirrels so I can see with my own eyes that I was not dreaming. And a couple of times since, we've been lucky to find a few helpless little guys caught totally off guard by my champion squirrel hunter. It's awesome and it's become my new sport.
Well, since the opening of this new door, Mandie has become quite the little killer-on-rails. During our recent trip to the cottage in the woods in Amish Country, we went for a few hikes. On the first one, we came up out of the woods into a farmer's field to find an oil pump teetering slowly back and forth. From a distance, Mandie spotted it on the horizon and like Don Quixote charging the windmills, Mandie let her rip and tore after the pump. Upon her approach, though she realized how big this horse-like figure was so she put on the breaks hard and fast. But it didn't stop her from harassing it. From about three feet away she taunted it furiously barking and bearing her teeth.
Of course Chris and I were on the ground crippled with laughter over this ridiculous behavior. We concluded that her legs can be wound up but apparently not her brain. She's still not too smart. Anyway, we reeled Slugger back in and got her back to the cottage. The next day we did an experiment to see if she would fall for her own blunder again and she did not disappoint. She tore after the defenseless pump and cussed it up one side and down the other, from a safe distance of course.
Our most recent episode with our aggressive little beast happened the other day. And we're sure now it most likely will not be the last. Apparently Mandie has been reborn. Anyway, last weekend I woke up and stumbled into the kitchen to make breakfast. As I turned toward the refrigerator I saw a horrific sight on the floor. Mandie had caught a mouse. It's lifeless body was placed right next to her food dish. Now we've had a minor mouse problem in this house for some time and have even discussed getting a cat because our two dogs had proven themselves useless in this profession. But on that day, to my great surprise, our Mandie caught her first mouse. It's her first official kill and I think after this she is really going to develop a taste for it.
So, let the bloodlust begin. And have mercy on the city park squirrels. Mandie the Fat and Slow has morphed into Mandie the Fast and Furious. Don't get me wrong, she still holds down the floor boards like a paperweight and will only come upstairs at night if I promise her a cookie, but given the right motivation, she changes like a super hero and takes on her new persona with a zeal that is unrivaled in our household. Not even Maggie's vicious kamikaze guarding of her spot on the couch or her persistent investigation of the trash can has as much enthusiasm as our Mandie's pursuit of random victims. She is our new little pride and joy, our champion warrior, and we have a new found respect.
I wouldn't even call it eating, really. It's more like an inhalation of solid particles, much like a Dustbuster. There is no chewing, no tasting, no pleasure. It is purely utilitarian. She's like a professional food-eating contest champion, always in training. But that's really where it ends. Everything else is slow and deliberate. Of course because of her ho-hum attitude and her remedial intelligence level, we never pegged her for much of a huntress. Most of the time when we drop something on the floor we have to point directly at it, almost touching it and wait at least 30 seconds for her to gear up and arrive at it from across the kitchen. Most often if we don't guard it for her, Maggie snatches it up with a "you snooze, you lose," sort of approach.
So, many times we've had the conversation that if the world were to end as we know it and humans were wiped from the face of the earth, Mandie would be dead inside of a week. Of course her storage of body fat may keep her going for a little longer, but not by much. Without a human to stand next to a deer carcass or an overturned garbage can and point at it for her, Mandie would surely perish.
Well, this is what we believed until we discovered Mandie's bloodlust. Recently, we've started walking in the city park just for a change of pace. The park is fairly large, complete with a pond for ducks and fish, a walking path, many recreational areas and a grassy, tree area. Now, it is important to visualize Mandie to truly appreciate this shocking display of behavior which we have witnessed. Mandie is a Corgie-Sheltie mix. This means she is long with very short stubby legs, a big head and large pointy ears. She's got longer hair and a mane like a Sheltie, a stub where her tail used to be and she weighs in at about 43 pounds.
So, one afternoon as we took our daily exercise in the city park, Mandie noticed squirrels. Suddenly, with a sound like someone was repeatedly backing over her with a car, she screeches and starts tugging furiously at her leash. I learn quickly that my "foot stool" has a very low center of gravity and can pull me down pretty easily if she wanted to. I've walked Pitbulls with less force, to be totally honest. Taken completely by surprise, I struggled desperately to hold on to her and keep myself upright at the same time but she was foaming at the mouth at this point.
Charging like she is carrying an Inuit family of four on a sled in the Iditarod, Mandie fought me to get at this stunned little squirrel. I think the rodent had Fatty identified as a low threat grazer, but was shocked to find out he was now being pursued with the passion of brides-to-be at an annual wedding gown clearance sale. So, interested in seeing this play out of course, I drop her leash. And like a greyhound she's off. I couldn't believe my eyes. My morbidly obese, sloth of a dog moved faster than anything I'd ever seen. Now, she did not get the squirrel of course because she cannot climb trees, although she tried. Her adrenaline got the best of her and she screeched to a halt and leaped onto the trunk, just missing the tail end of the squirrel.
Nevertheless, I was amazed and so proud. To this day, I can't believe it so every day now we go to the park hunting for squirrels so I can see with my own eyes that I was not dreaming. And a couple of times since, we've been lucky to find a few helpless little guys caught totally off guard by my champion squirrel hunter. It's awesome and it's become my new sport.
Well, since the opening of this new door, Mandie has become quite the little killer-on-rails. During our recent trip to the cottage in the woods in Amish Country, we went for a few hikes. On the first one, we came up out of the woods into a farmer's field to find an oil pump teetering slowly back and forth. From a distance, Mandie spotted it on the horizon and like Don Quixote charging the windmills, Mandie let her rip and tore after the pump. Upon her approach, though she realized how big this horse-like figure was so she put on the breaks hard and fast. But it didn't stop her from harassing it. From about three feet away she taunted it furiously barking and bearing her teeth.
Of course Chris and I were on the ground crippled with laughter over this ridiculous behavior. We concluded that her legs can be wound up but apparently not her brain. She's still not too smart. Anyway, we reeled Slugger back in and got her back to the cottage. The next day we did an experiment to see if she would fall for her own blunder again and she did not disappoint. She tore after the defenseless pump and cussed it up one side and down the other, from a safe distance of course.
Our most recent episode with our aggressive little beast happened the other day. And we're sure now it most likely will not be the last. Apparently Mandie has been reborn. Anyway, last weekend I woke up and stumbled into the kitchen to make breakfast. As I turned toward the refrigerator I saw a horrific sight on the floor. Mandie had caught a mouse. It's lifeless body was placed right next to her food dish. Now we've had a minor mouse problem in this house for some time and have even discussed getting a cat because our two dogs had proven themselves useless in this profession. But on that day, to my great surprise, our Mandie caught her first mouse. It's her first official kill and I think after this she is really going to develop a taste for it.
So, let the bloodlust begin. And have mercy on the city park squirrels. Mandie the Fat and Slow has morphed into Mandie the Fast and Furious. Don't get me wrong, she still holds down the floor boards like a paperweight and will only come upstairs at night if I promise her a cookie, but given the right motivation, she changes like a super hero and takes on her new persona with a zeal that is unrivaled in our household. Not even Maggie's vicious kamikaze guarding of her spot on the couch or her persistent investigation of the trash can has as much enthusiasm as our Mandie's pursuit of random victims. She is our new little pride and joy, our champion warrior, and we have a new found respect.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Pregnancy is a Disorder
I have a veritable pharmacy in my bed. Since Chris has been living out of hotels in Dayton during the week for the last two months, due to his new job in our future hometown, I have inherited the king bed all for myself. And since I have developed an extremely obnoxious and unbearable case of snoring due to my pregnancy, even when he is home on the weekends, he ends up in the bed down the hall. So, for all intents and purposes, the king bed is mine all mine. And since this is the case, I have chosen to fill it with all the items that have become near and dear to my heart..... my pregnancy survival kit, if you will.
I have the following sundries in my bed with me: tylenol, cough drops, gas relief chewable tablets and pills, palmer's cocoa butter lotion for stretch marks, powder, tums antacids and a box of tissues. In addition to the pharamceutical needs, I have also chosen to include my cell phone, the remote control, a pen and notepad, a water bottle, hair ties and dog biscuits to lure the dogs in to my room at night. Everything is neatly lined up beside me where my husband used to lay.
Why don't I just use the bedside stand, you ask? Well, because since I have commandeered the bedroom, I moved the night stand to the foot of the bed and dragged the spare tv into the room to place on it, against my husband's "sleep hygiene" policy, so that I might be entertained while my child kicks the crap out of me all night. Besides, it's so convenient to have everything right next to me. I don't even have to roll over. And since I'm usually engrossed in an old re-run episode of the Golden Girls or Will and Grace, I have learned to find everything by touch. I don't even have to look to find what I need. It's bliss, really.
So, even though I have all the supplies I need to survive my long, often sleepless, nights, I have come to the conclusion that I am suffering from a disorder. The snoring for one thing could wake the dead. It doesn't wake me of course, but the dead, yes, I'm sure they take issue with it. According to Chris, the dogs are restless all night because of the ogre-like sounds that eminate from the caverns of my body, and we have decided that the baby must surely believe that she was swallowed by a monster.
This past weekend we escaped away to a cottage in the woods in Amish Country to have some R&R before the baby poop hits the fan. Because the weather was so perfect, we left all the windows open and slept amidst cool breezes. Of course, my husband ended up in the bedroom downstairs and left me alone upstairs to inhale anything not nailed down. But he said that as he lay there, he could hear me through his window. "No wonder there's no wildlife around," he says to me over breakfast. "You've scared them all away."
In addition to the snoring problem, I have now acquired an embarrassing appetite. It's not that I gorge food as if I were about to be discovered in a closet clutching a bag of Oreo's, it's more like I'm just always hungry. But I'm trying to control it by being reasonable and making healthy choices. Chris is not helping. He encourages me to eat even when it's not healthy. It's a sweet gesture that comes from a good place but I swear to God if I said a bucket of lard sounded appetizing Chris would run and get me a spoon.
That morning at breakfast in the cottage, Chris made a glorious breakfast for us. And breakfast is not breakfast without bacon. As we argued over who should eat the last piece, each insisting the other take it, Chris says to me, "Honey, I'm just making poop. You're making a baby. You take it." Feeling there is really no way to argue with this logic, I conceded and ate it. Besides, it's useless to argue with a man who wishes to nurture his baby. He doesn't have an umbilical cord, so his only option is to force feed me. It's really sweet, if you think about it.
At any rate, pregnancy is a disorder and symptoms include overeating and uncontrollable snoring. Symptoms also include not being able to bend over in the shower when you drop the soap, a constant re-supplying of toilet paper, an obsession with germs, getting stuck in the couch, an inability to reach and tie your shoes, and apparently, hoarding things in your bed like a muskrat so you don't have to repeatedly get up in search of them.
I have the following sundries in my bed with me: tylenol, cough drops, gas relief chewable tablets and pills, palmer's cocoa butter lotion for stretch marks, powder, tums antacids and a box of tissues. In addition to the pharamceutical needs, I have also chosen to include my cell phone, the remote control, a pen and notepad, a water bottle, hair ties and dog biscuits to lure the dogs in to my room at night. Everything is neatly lined up beside me where my husband used to lay.
Why don't I just use the bedside stand, you ask? Well, because since I have commandeered the bedroom, I moved the night stand to the foot of the bed and dragged the spare tv into the room to place on it, against my husband's "sleep hygiene" policy, so that I might be entertained while my child kicks the crap out of me all night. Besides, it's so convenient to have everything right next to me. I don't even have to roll over. And since I'm usually engrossed in an old re-run episode of the Golden Girls or Will and Grace, I have learned to find everything by touch. I don't even have to look to find what I need. It's bliss, really.
So, even though I have all the supplies I need to survive my long, often sleepless, nights, I have come to the conclusion that I am suffering from a disorder. The snoring for one thing could wake the dead. It doesn't wake me of course, but the dead, yes, I'm sure they take issue with it. According to Chris, the dogs are restless all night because of the ogre-like sounds that eminate from the caverns of my body, and we have decided that the baby must surely believe that she was swallowed by a monster.
This past weekend we escaped away to a cottage in the woods in Amish Country to have some R&R before the baby poop hits the fan. Because the weather was so perfect, we left all the windows open and slept amidst cool breezes. Of course, my husband ended up in the bedroom downstairs and left me alone upstairs to inhale anything not nailed down. But he said that as he lay there, he could hear me through his window. "No wonder there's no wildlife around," he says to me over breakfast. "You've scared them all away."
In addition to the snoring problem, I have now acquired an embarrassing appetite. It's not that I gorge food as if I were about to be discovered in a closet clutching a bag of Oreo's, it's more like I'm just always hungry. But I'm trying to control it by being reasonable and making healthy choices. Chris is not helping. He encourages me to eat even when it's not healthy. It's a sweet gesture that comes from a good place but I swear to God if I said a bucket of lard sounded appetizing Chris would run and get me a spoon.
That morning at breakfast in the cottage, Chris made a glorious breakfast for us. And breakfast is not breakfast without bacon. As we argued over who should eat the last piece, each insisting the other take it, Chris says to me, "Honey, I'm just making poop. You're making a baby. You take it." Feeling there is really no way to argue with this logic, I conceded and ate it. Besides, it's useless to argue with a man who wishes to nurture his baby. He doesn't have an umbilical cord, so his only option is to force feed me. It's really sweet, if you think about it.
At any rate, pregnancy is a disorder and symptoms include overeating and uncontrollable snoring. Symptoms also include not being able to bend over in the shower when you drop the soap, a constant re-supplying of toilet paper, an obsession with germs, getting stuck in the couch, an inability to reach and tie your shoes, and apparently, hoarding things in your bed like a muskrat so you don't have to repeatedly get up in search of them.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Pregnancy Symptoms
Everything I've ever been told about pregnancy I was always sure would never happen to me. I was wrong. I thought these symptoms were for the weak, the wusses. Surely I, with my iron will and sturdy body can avoid or overcome any malfunction, ache or pain that would come my way. Again, I was sorely mistaken. The first thing to go has been my memory.
So far, I have let ATM machines eat my cards, I have driven away with my drinks on the top of my car, I have left my purse at home and have had to return for it, I have parked and after spending five minutes digging quarters from the bottom of my purse, have gotten out of the car and simply walked away from the meter. I have missed many, many appointments even though I write them down in three different places, I have forgotten to pay my bills even though I get email messages reminding me to pay them, mailed hard copies of the bill, and online bill pay. I have driven all the way to the store to return items only to get there and realize I left the items at home. Oh yes, and this is only the tip of the iceberg.
Of course it was only a matter of time, that the next thing to go would be my looks. Like Stretch Armstrong, my body has been pulled and twisted into a sorry blob. To combat this and to make myself feel a little more attractive, I recruited the help of Frederick's of Hollywood. Naively I thought this would spice up my life and boost my confidence. Oh, I have so much to learn. After spending at least an hour searching their website to find something that pregnant ladies can wear, I managed to pick two babydoll outfits. When they arrived, I couldn't wait to try them on. The first one, well, it fit. Let's just leave it at that. But the other one was a disaster. In theory, it was sexy. It had open cups for a more revealing experience. But the problem was that my boobs have gotten completely out of control. They are huge. When I put it on, instead of giving a peak, my boobs literally pushed through the holes and hung out the front. It was horrific. I mean it was like squeezing play dough through a tube. So yeah, sexy is out.
The third thing to go now is the rest of my body. Things just no longer function properly. I pee literally every ten minutes, I have constant heartburn, I suffer from restless leg syndrome every single night, I have a new pain in my back every few days, I get winded just getting up off the couch, I'm hungry every two hours, my hands and feet are swollen and sometimes my left hand will tingle a bit. I can't wear any of my pretty shoes because they are now too tight. I got my wedding ring on but it ain't comin' off. But last night I hit an all time low.
I have had a cough over the last few days and occasionally I will wake up in the middle of the night hacking my head off. Usually I'll just reach for a cough drop and after a few minutes, I quiet down and go back to sleep. Not last night. Last night, I woke up coughing so hard I almost threw up. Then it happened. I coughed so hard that I peed myself. I peed. In the bed, down my leg, it was everywhere. Still half asleep, I hobbled to the bathroom where I coughed the rest of it out and cleaned myself up.
So, I don't know what's next but at this point I'm prepared for just about anything and nothing would surprise me. If I can pee the bed just by coughing, then I now believe that my body is capable of just about anything, especially now that I'm getting bigger by the day. So much for "that will never happen to me." Been there, done that. I peed the bed. I think I have earned the right to play the pregnancy card once in awhile.
So far, I have let ATM machines eat my cards, I have driven away with my drinks on the top of my car, I have left my purse at home and have had to return for it, I have parked and after spending five minutes digging quarters from the bottom of my purse, have gotten out of the car and simply walked away from the meter. I have missed many, many appointments even though I write them down in three different places, I have forgotten to pay my bills even though I get email messages reminding me to pay them, mailed hard copies of the bill, and online bill pay. I have driven all the way to the store to return items only to get there and realize I left the items at home. Oh yes, and this is only the tip of the iceberg.
Of course it was only a matter of time, that the next thing to go would be my looks. Like Stretch Armstrong, my body has been pulled and twisted into a sorry blob. To combat this and to make myself feel a little more attractive, I recruited the help of Frederick's of Hollywood. Naively I thought this would spice up my life and boost my confidence. Oh, I have so much to learn. After spending at least an hour searching their website to find something that pregnant ladies can wear, I managed to pick two babydoll outfits. When they arrived, I couldn't wait to try them on. The first one, well, it fit. Let's just leave it at that. But the other one was a disaster. In theory, it was sexy. It had open cups for a more revealing experience. But the problem was that my boobs have gotten completely out of control. They are huge. When I put it on, instead of giving a peak, my boobs literally pushed through the holes and hung out the front. It was horrific. I mean it was like squeezing play dough through a tube. So yeah, sexy is out.
The third thing to go now is the rest of my body. Things just no longer function properly. I pee literally every ten minutes, I have constant heartburn, I suffer from restless leg syndrome every single night, I have a new pain in my back every few days, I get winded just getting up off the couch, I'm hungry every two hours, my hands and feet are swollen and sometimes my left hand will tingle a bit. I can't wear any of my pretty shoes because they are now too tight. I got my wedding ring on but it ain't comin' off. But last night I hit an all time low.
I have had a cough over the last few days and occasionally I will wake up in the middle of the night hacking my head off. Usually I'll just reach for a cough drop and after a few minutes, I quiet down and go back to sleep. Not last night. Last night, I woke up coughing so hard I almost threw up. Then it happened. I coughed so hard that I peed myself. I peed. In the bed, down my leg, it was everywhere. Still half asleep, I hobbled to the bathroom where I coughed the rest of it out and cleaned myself up.
So, I don't know what's next but at this point I'm prepared for just about anything and nothing would surprise me. If I can pee the bed just by coughing, then I now believe that my body is capable of just about anything, especially now that I'm getting bigger by the day. So much for "that will never happen to me." Been there, done that. I peed the bed. I think I have earned the right to play the pregnancy card once in awhile.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Shopping with Daddy
Last weekend Chris and I decided to spend the weekend just hanging out, something we have not done since we realized we were going to have to move to Dayton. But both of us desperately needed some down time so we indulged with lunch out and some light shopping. After soup and sandwiches at Panera, we meandered into Old Navy. As luck would have it, they were having a sale. We headed straight for the maternity and baby section to shop for the largest and smallest items the store had to offer.
We giggled over the ridiculous size of the tops and dresses I'm finding myself fitting into these days and bonded over the teeny little outfits our daughter will soon be wrestled into. "This is the first time we've done this," I said realizing that since we found out I was pregnant we had not had any time to enjoy preparing for this exciting change that was barreling our way. "I know," he said as he held up a onesie marked with a cartoon crustacean and the phrase, "Daddy's favorite shrimp." "It's kind of fun."
After piling ourselves with a mound of outfits, we headed for the fitting room so that I could try on my mommy gear. Old Navy has always been fairly accommodating in their fitting area with comfortable benches outside for people to sit and wait but this time, there was something new. Just outside the entry there was a long table set up with crayons and coloring books and a father and son looking to be very much in the zone of their artistic endeavors.
The father was meticulously coloring in the leaves of some prehistoric plant in a dinosaur coloring book while his son added the final touches to a monster truck. They were both bent over their projects, intensely focused on making masterpieces.
I smiled and turned to Chris, handing him all the cute pink little outfits and said, "Okay honey, you go color and be sure to play nice with the other daddies."
"Very funny," he said.
"Hey, don't knock it," said the dad, overhearing us. "It's fun. The last time I worked really hard on one but I didn't get to finish it. I hope at least this time I'll get to take this one home."
"Dad, hand me the red."
"Sure, buddy."
He was dead serious and apparently very proud of his work.
"Here, this is a good one," he said trying to hand a coloring book to Chris and offering him a place at the table.
"Uh, no thanks," Chris said as he threw the pink onesies over a rack of men's shirts and took a masculine stance. "I'll just wait for her to try her stuff on."
"Suit yourself," said the dad and went back to his goal of completing the picture before his wife came out of the fitting room.
I giggled about this until I tried on my first outfit and realized that he was not the only one to feel humbled and maybe a little embarrassed. My belly and my boobs pressed against the fabric of several tops and I looked like I was trying to shoplift produce. It really didn't seem fair that the little culprit causing this expansion gets to have a square foot of fabric when I have to suffer with three yards of it.
Anyway, our shopping trip was a fun bonding experience and a relief from the chaos of our lives. Afterwards we went to Borders to look at books of baby names. Since "Daddy's favorite shrimp" is obviously trademarked, we were going to have to come up with something else. Of course for now, and for a little while, it works. We like it anyway. She can be the shrimp and I'll be the whale. But only for now.
We giggled over the ridiculous size of the tops and dresses I'm finding myself fitting into these days and bonded over the teeny little outfits our daughter will soon be wrestled into. "This is the first time we've done this," I said realizing that since we found out I was pregnant we had not had any time to enjoy preparing for this exciting change that was barreling our way. "I know," he said as he held up a onesie marked with a cartoon crustacean and the phrase, "Daddy's favorite shrimp." "It's kind of fun."
After piling ourselves with a mound of outfits, we headed for the fitting room so that I could try on my mommy gear. Old Navy has always been fairly accommodating in their fitting area with comfortable benches outside for people to sit and wait but this time, there was something new. Just outside the entry there was a long table set up with crayons and coloring books and a father and son looking to be very much in the zone of their artistic endeavors.
The father was meticulously coloring in the leaves of some prehistoric plant in a dinosaur coloring book while his son added the final touches to a monster truck. They were both bent over their projects, intensely focused on making masterpieces.
I smiled and turned to Chris, handing him all the cute pink little outfits and said, "Okay honey, you go color and be sure to play nice with the other daddies."
"Very funny," he said.
"Hey, don't knock it," said the dad, overhearing us. "It's fun. The last time I worked really hard on one but I didn't get to finish it. I hope at least this time I'll get to take this one home."
"Dad, hand me the red."
"Sure, buddy."
He was dead serious and apparently very proud of his work.
"Here, this is a good one," he said trying to hand a coloring book to Chris and offering him a place at the table.
"Uh, no thanks," Chris said as he threw the pink onesies over a rack of men's shirts and took a masculine stance. "I'll just wait for her to try her stuff on."
"Suit yourself," said the dad and went back to his goal of completing the picture before his wife came out of the fitting room.
I giggled about this until I tried on my first outfit and realized that he was not the only one to feel humbled and maybe a little embarrassed. My belly and my boobs pressed against the fabric of several tops and I looked like I was trying to shoplift produce. It really didn't seem fair that the little culprit causing this expansion gets to have a square foot of fabric when I have to suffer with three yards of it.
Anyway, our shopping trip was a fun bonding experience and a relief from the chaos of our lives. Afterwards we went to Borders to look at books of baby names. Since "Daddy's favorite shrimp" is obviously trademarked, we were going to have to come up with something else. Of course for now, and for a little while, it works. We like it anyway. She can be the shrimp and I'll be the whale. But only for now.
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