When did foul, offensive language become not just acceptable, but laudable? I'm not just talking about swearing, I'm referring also to just plain ugliness. I was in the grocery store last evening and as I was browsing the produce, a woman and a young man (maybe her son?) of about 16 or so were likewise shopping for veggies. I had the pleasure of listening to this kid "jokingly" berate his mother (?) saying things like "dumb-a**" and calling her fat (her whole body was as big as one of my thighs). And she is just laughing, half-heartedly telling him to cut it out. Then she pulls out her cell phone to call someone about their stock of potatoes at home and says something about how she shouldn't have brought Vincent because he's just abusing her, and laughs.
I agree, not only should he have been left home, but she should have asked him to go sit outside in 15 degrees until she was done, unless he chose to knock it off (if you act like a child, expect to be treated like one). Seriously, I avoid taking my kids to the store because of their occasional behavior issues, but they got nothing on this kid and would have been taken outside in a cool minute.
Then he started saying something about killing and maiming her in horrible ways while they both laughed. I nearly said something, maybe I should have, but the best I could muster was a dirty look and a move to another part of the store. I think he just laughed at me and made a joke as I walked away. I did consider reporting them to management, but frankly, I just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. Perhaps my ignoring it is as much to blame as his mother's tolerance. Later as I doubled back to grab something I forgot, from the next aisle over I heard the kid drop a couple of f-bombs. I again considered saying something to the store personnel as I headed for check out. But, the two kids running the register looked younger than this kid, and I then noticed Mr. potty-mouth heading out of the store on his phone saying something about he should have remembered to take his meds. Ya think?
I remember when I was engaged and noticed that it was common practice amongst my in-laws to "tease" each other in really cruel ways. To this day, I regret not saying something the day I heard someone "jokingly" call his daughter "thunder-thighs". Really, don't we have enough constant barrage of negativity to face without expecting it from those who claim to love us the most? But that is another post entirely.
I'm not a prude--I experimented a bit in my youth with offensive language, and I have to admit that there are some times I've heard a bit of foul language used in a very effective way. And, occasionally in moments of stress, I have been known to slip a colorful word in. But generally, it just makes people (me included) sound uneducated and makes those around us uncomfortable. Maybe that's the point.
As my children discover language, we've had this conversation quite a bit. "Mom, is XXXX a bad word?" "Well, not technically, but it certainly isn't a very polite word, so we should try not to use it."
I heard someone describe foul (and I'll include rude and crude) speech as useless, unnecessary words. Really, cut to the chase. Let's quit wasting our time on the pointless and rude and strive for the purposeful and eloquent.
Seriously, who am I to talk about unnecessary words after the birth epics I just posted . . . sheesh!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
On Having a Baby
Part 1C of my self-indulgent trip down memory lane: Really Committed
(I just realized that anybody tuning in at this point may have the mistaken impression that I've recently given birth again . . . let's clear that right up. This is the conclusion to my long ramblings about my first baby's birth. I still have only two. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll post Part 2. Though Elliot's birth was somewhat less exciting, thankfully.)
My hospital stay began with a bit of an attitude. I felt fine. My pregnancy had been fine. Really, I'm sure my high reading was due to me vacuuming my car on an overly warm spring day. Can I please just go home now?
I think my nonchalance about the whole predicament contributed to the decision to keep me there.
Finally a nurse had to get blunt with me: Last week we had a woman come in fully eclamptic. She and her baby both died. I'm not telling you this to scare you, but you need to realize how serious your condition is.
I began to adjust my attitude. After the first night of watching infomercials (good thing Matt took my wallet home), I started to wrap my brain around the fact that I would be here until the baby was born. Hopefully, that would be at least two weeks. I realized I could either spend that time in utter frustration and boredom, or I could embrace my role as incubator, and enjoy a couple of weeks of being taken care of prior to my future role as caregiver. I opted for the latter. It took some deep thought, some prayer and wonderful friends who dropped by books and movies and a laptop. There were still tense moments like when for a couple of days Matt thought he was losing his job. But all in all, It wasn't so bad.
I don't know what y'all know about pre-eclampsia (I still don't quite understand), but the gist is, your blood pressure goes up, your organs begin to shut down, your body goes into protective mode and can reject the baby. Eclampsia is when you have a seizure and your organs do shut down. It can indeed, if not caught soon enough, be fatal to mother or baby, or both. If they catch it early enough, and if it doesn't onset too early in the pregnancy, it can usually be controlled with bedrest until the baby is healthy enough to be born. If it doesn't respond to bedrest, they will deliver prematurely in hopes of saving both mother and baby. The cure for pre-eclampsia is childbirth. Once the baby is born, symptoms generally disappear. (Though I can say I have had problems with my blood pressure ever since, though not before). The cause is unknown, though there are some factors that increase your risk. (Including being overweight . . . hmmm).
In my case, they caught it early, it wasn't too advanced, and I was well along in my pregnancy. They hoped to keep the baby in me for another two weeks, and planned, once I reached "full term" at 38 weeks, to induce me. Possibly earlier if tests indicated the baby could handle it. Begin week one of hospital stay.
What tests you ask? How about an amniocentesis? If you don't know, this procedure involves a very, very long needle (my distorted memory would say it was about 18 inches long). They stick the needle in your belly and suck out amniotic fluid. Then they analyze the fluid to tell if the baby's lungs are ready for the outside world. The dangers of an amnio are that it can induce labor (more of a danger early in pregnancy) and inadvertently poking the baby (more of a danger later in pregnancy when the baby is bigger). I noticed no one is too concerned about poking the mother. The interesting thing I didn't realize is that they do the amnio while they're doing an ultrasound--this is how they attempt to not poke the baby. They just look around with the ultrasound until they find a pocket large enough to stick the needle. Highly scientific. After that whole involved procedure, the results showed my baby's lungs were borderline, meaning that he might be ready, he might not. Thank you Captain Obvious.
I hunkered down to wait another week to do another amnio. Despite my best efforts at being an incubator, I was beginning to go a little stir crazy. I'd been moved to one of the larger rooms reserved for us long-term residents. I considered myself lucky when they told me the woman across the hall (with the do not disturb sign on the door) had been there about three months. It was about this time that I began to forget what the outdoors smelled like. I was allowed to get up only to go to the bathroom, and to shower occasionally. Once a day I also got an exciting wheelchair ride down to be hooked up to the monitor.
My sweet husband successfully petitioned the doctor to take me on one 10-minute wheelchair ride every afternoon--my daily treat (in addition to the hospital cuisine--thank heavens for friends and take out Taco Del Mar.)
One day shy of 38 weeks, I went in for another amnio. The baby had gotten so much bigger and the fluid level had decreased so much that they were unable to find a safe pocket to poke me. They gave me the option of waiting 24 hours and trying again or waiting 24 hours and just starting the induction--assuming that having hit the magic 38 week number, baby's lungs would be fine. I praised the Lord and chose induction.
I will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved two doses (full 24 hours) of cervical ripener, (which just is not fun), lots of walking and stair climbing after being immobile for 2 full weeks, pitocin, the breaking of my water with a big knitting needle, an epidural which worked in every place but the important one, a second epidural to remedy that situation, a midnight encounter between my nether regions and a gentleman OB I had never before met, a near vacuum extraction, an episiotomy, a hefty dose of magnesium sulfate and a catheter.
But, there was also a lovely, healthy, large baby boy. At 8 pounds 11 ounces, I'm very glad we didn't wait another two weeks, because really, I don't need to birth a 10 pound baby to make me feel complete. We named him Ethan Asher, and he was beautiful.
My ugly baby fears were completely unfounded (lie to me if I'm deluded).
I was wheeled back to my room amidst applause from the nurse's station--we were all old friends by then--as I waved like Miss America--on dope. You see, by then I was fully into the truck-running-over-me effect of the magnesium sulfate. They give you mag after a pre-eclampsia induction to prevent seizure. You can apparently still seize shortly after birth. It prevents seizure by relaxing EVERY muscle in your body. You cannot stand up (hence the catheter), or really move much at all. You are also not allowed eat. So, given the 24 hours or so pre-delivery fast, the energy-sucking birth experience and the 24 hour post-delivery fast, all I did was drool over MickeeDees commercials in my darkened hospital room. I cannot remember what I ate at the end of those, the longest 48 hours of my life, but it was delicious. I was not allowed visitors (or lights) for those 24 hours, so I recall Matt wheeling the baby out to greet guests in the waiting room. It's all a sort of weird, hazy memory.
Here I am, under the influence
Ethan was a bit beat after the ordeal himself
We spent another 24 hours in the hospital and brought our precious baby home on Easter Sunday. I'll save you the breast-feeding fiasco that ensued and the long days filled with diapers, baby talk and the mamma baby code, but it was quite the ride. Friends wondered if I'd ever have another given the traumatic experience and all the courage I had to muster up in the first place. What they didn't realize is that the whole thing was far, far less traumatic than the scenarios I had imagined.
Through all this, I've realized a few things about myself. One is that God understands me far better than I can begin to understand myself--and He understands what will make me happiest, far better than I. I hope you don't read from these posts that somehow my children were unwanted. Quite the opposite. I had to choose to have these children. I had to overcome my fears and inadequacies, and put my faith in my Heavenly Father--to trust that He could make more of my life than I could ever on my own. And it's been quite the adventure. Parenting is not my forte, but I'm so glad I chose it. And I'm getting better at it. Slowly. By the time they're adults, I just might be very good at it.
(I just realized that anybody tuning in at this point may have the mistaken impression that I've recently given birth again . . . let's clear that right up. This is the conclusion to my long ramblings about my first baby's birth. I still have only two. Maybe in a few weeks, I'll post Part 2. Though Elliot's birth was somewhat less exciting, thankfully.)
My hospital stay began with a bit of an attitude. I felt fine. My pregnancy had been fine. Really, I'm sure my high reading was due to me vacuuming my car on an overly warm spring day. Can I please just go home now?
I think my nonchalance about the whole predicament contributed to the decision to keep me there.
Finally a nurse had to get blunt with me: Last week we had a woman come in fully eclamptic. She and her baby both died. I'm not telling you this to scare you, but you need to realize how serious your condition is.
I began to adjust my attitude. After the first night of watching infomercials (good thing Matt took my wallet home), I started to wrap my brain around the fact that I would be here until the baby was born. Hopefully, that would be at least two weeks. I realized I could either spend that time in utter frustration and boredom, or I could embrace my role as incubator, and enjoy a couple of weeks of being taken care of prior to my future role as caregiver. I opted for the latter. It took some deep thought, some prayer and wonderful friends who dropped by books and movies and a laptop. There were still tense moments like when for a couple of days Matt thought he was losing his job. But all in all, It wasn't so bad.
I don't know what y'all know about pre-eclampsia (I still don't quite understand), but the gist is, your blood pressure goes up, your organs begin to shut down, your body goes into protective mode and can reject the baby. Eclampsia is when you have a seizure and your organs do shut down. It can indeed, if not caught soon enough, be fatal to mother or baby, or both. If they catch it early enough, and if it doesn't onset too early in the pregnancy, it can usually be controlled with bedrest until the baby is healthy enough to be born. If it doesn't respond to bedrest, they will deliver prematurely in hopes of saving both mother and baby. The cure for pre-eclampsia is childbirth. Once the baby is born, symptoms generally disappear. (Though I can say I have had problems with my blood pressure ever since, though not before). The cause is unknown, though there are some factors that increase your risk. (Including being overweight . . . hmmm).
In my case, they caught it early, it wasn't too advanced, and I was well along in my pregnancy. They hoped to keep the baby in me for another two weeks, and planned, once I reached "full term" at 38 weeks, to induce me. Possibly earlier if tests indicated the baby could handle it. Begin week one of hospital stay.
What tests you ask? How about an amniocentesis? If you don't know, this procedure involves a very, very long needle (my distorted memory would say it was about 18 inches long). They stick the needle in your belly and suck out amniotic fluid. Then they analyze the fluid to tell if the baby's lungs are ready for the outside world. The dangers of an amnio are that it can induce labor (more of a danger early in pregnancy) and inadvertently poking the baby (more of a danger later in pregnancy when the baby is bigger). I noticed no one is too concerned about poking the mother. The interesting thing I didn't realize is that they do the amnio while they're doing an ultrasound--this is how they attempt to not poke the baby. They just look around with the ultrasound until they find a pocket large enough to stick the needle. Highly scientific. After that whole involved procedure, the results showed my baby's lungs were borderline, meaning that he might be ready, he might not. Thank you Captain Obvious.
I hunkered down to wait another week to do another amnio. Despite my best efforts at being an incubator, I was beginning to go a little stir crazy. I'd been moved to one of the larger rooms reserved for us long-term residents. I considered myself lucky when they told me the woman across the hall (with the do not disturb sign on the door) had been there about three months. It was about this time that I began to forget what the outdoors smelled like. I was allowed to get up only to go to the bathroom, and to shower occasionally. Once a day I also got an exciting wheelchair ride down to be hooked up to the monitor.
My sweet husband successfully petitioned the doctor to take me on one 10-minute wheelchair ride every afternoon--my daily treat (in addition to the hospital cuisine--thank heavens for friends and take out Taco Del Mar.)One day shy of 38 weeks, I went in for another amnio. The baby had gotten so much bigger and the fluid level had decreased so much that they were unable to find a safe pocket to poke me. They gave me the option of waiting 24 hours and trying again or waiting 24 hours and just starting the induction--assuming that having hit the magic 38 week number, baby's lungs would be fine. I praised the Lord and chose induction.
I will not go into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved two doses (full 24 hours) of cervical ripener, (which just is not fun), lots of walking and stair climbing after being immobile for 2 full weeks, pitocin, the breaking of my water with a big knitting needle, an epidural which worked in every place but the important one, a second epidural to remedy that situation, a midnight encounter between my nether regions and a gentleman OB I had never before met, a near vacuum extraction, an episiotomy, a hefty dose of magnesium sulfate and a catheter.
But, there was also a lovely, healthy, large baby boy. At 8 pounds 11 ounces, I'm very glad we didn't wait another two weeks, because really, I don't need to birth a 10 pound baby to make me feel complete. We named him Ethan Asher, and he was beautiful.
My ugly baby fears were completely unfounded (lie to me if I'm deluded).I was wheeled back to my room amidst applause from the nurse's station--we were all old friends by then--as I waved like Miss America--on dope. You see, by then I was fully into the truck-running-over-me effect of the magnesium sulfate. They give you mag after a pre-eclampsia induction to prevent seizure. You can apparently still seize shortly after birth. It prevents seizure by relaxing EVERY muscle in your body. You cannot stand up (hence the catheter), or really move much at all. You are also not allowed eat. So, given the 24 hours or so pre-delivery fast, the energy-sucking birth experience and the 24 hour post-delivery fast, all I did was drool over MickeeDees commercials in my darkened hospital room. I cannot remember what I ate at the end of those, the longest 48 hours of my life, but it was delicious. I was not allowed visitors (or lights) for those 24 hours, so I recall Matt wheeling the baby out to greet guests in the waiting room. It's all a sort of weird, hazy memory.
Here I am, under the influence
Ethan was a bit beat after the ordeal himself
We spent another 24 hours in the hospital and brought our precious baby home on Easter Sunday. I'll save you the breast-feeding fiasco that ensued and the long days filled with diapers, baby talk and the mamma baby code, but it was quite the ride. Friends wondered if I'd ever have another given the traumatic experience and all the courage I had to muster up in the first place. What they didn't realize is that the whole thing was far, far less traumatic than the scenarios I had imagined.
Through all this, I've realized a few things about myself. One is that God understands me far better than I can begin to understand myself--and He understands what will make me happiest, far better than I. I hope you don't read from these posts that somehow my children were unwanted. Quite the opposite. I had to choose to have these children. I had to overcome my fears and inadequacies, and put my faith in my Heavenly Father--to trust that He could make more of my life than I could ever on my own. And it's been quite the adventure. Parenting is not my forte, but I'm so glad I chose it. And I'm getting better at it. Slowly. By the time they're adults, I just might be very good at it.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Why I Like Snow Days
I have not left the house in three days. I did finally shower though. No, the snow wasn't too bad here--about 10 inches (as far as I can tell from the window). I love a good excuse to stay home (as if I needed one). A friend called today to see if I wanted to go shopping with her in her SUV. Um, no thanks. I despise shopping on a nice day, let's not ruin a good snow day.
Some of the day's accomplishments:
Made pancakes for breakfast.
Light saber battles.
Talked to Matt who's stuck in Maryland under several feet of snow.
Made and hung curtains (including sawing some mounting wood and using the drill to mount it--very exciting.)
Jedi face-offs.
Folded laundry.
Worked a few hours.
Jedi fighter battles
Bundled up for playing in the snow (30 minutes).
Played in the snow (15 minutes--not me, I stayed inside).
Unbundled and made hot chocolate (20 minutes)
Watched maintenance plow the driveway (love my life).
Wondered when Matt will get a flight home.
Thought about getting the mail. Maybe tomorrow.
Made Valentines.
Made yummy pasta.
Read Star Wars books.
Talked to Matt--maybe he'll get home Friday.
I love my life. Unfortunately it seems Ethan's cold has come back and will require a trip to the doctor tomorrow. I'm a bit disappointed because I was thinking I wouldn't need to go anywhere until I pick up Matt from the airport Friday (or Saturday, maybe Sunday). But alas, it looks like I'll have to put on my boots and warm up the car. Oh well, snow days can't last forever.
The pictures in the previous post were not from this storm, but were taken earlier this winter. I could have taken similar ones today, but that would have required leaving the house.
I have not forgotten the birth epic saga, but I thought I'd give you another breather before I dive back in. Besides, I obviously had too much else to do today . . .
Some of the day's accomplishments:
Made pancakes for breakfast.
Light saber battles.
Talked to Matt who's stuck in Maryland under several feet of snow.
Made and hung curtains (including sawing some mounting wood and using the drill to mount it--very exciting.)
Jedi face-offs.
Folded laundry.
Worked a few hours.
Jedi fighter battles
Bundled up for playing in the snow (30 minutes).
Played in the snow (15 minutes--not me, I stayed inside).
Unbundled and made hot chocolate (20 minutes)
Watched maintenance plow the driveway (love my life).
Wondered when Matt will get a flight home.
Thought about getting the mail. Maybe tomorrow.
Made Valentines.
Made yummy pasta.
Read Star Wars books.
Talked to Matt--maybe he'll get home Friday.
I love my life. Unfortunately it seems Ethan's cold has come back and will require a trip to the doctor tomorrow. I'm a bit disappointed because I was thinking I wouldn't need to go anywhere until I pick up Matt from the airport Friday (or Saturday, maybe Sunday). But alas, it looks like I'll have to put on my boots and warm up the car. Oh well, snow days can't last forever.
The pictures in the previous post were not from this storm, but were taken earlier this winter. I could have taken similar ones today, but that would have required leaving the house.
I have not forgotten the birth epic saga, but I thought I'd give you another breather before I dive back in. Besides, I obviously had too much else to do today . . .
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Snow
We interrupt the birth-posts in progress for a visual update on the previously born. We will return to regularly scheduled programming by next post.
There's been some complaint about the lack of photos on my blog (I'm technologically lazy).
Especially photos of my children.
Complain no longer.
Or at least for a little while longer.
Adorable aren't they?
There's been some complaint about the lack of photos on my blog (I'm technologically lazy).
Especially photos of my children.
Complain no longer.
Or at least for a little while longer.
Adorable aren't they?
Thursday, February 4, 2010
On Being Pregnant. . . And Freaked Out.
Part I-B: Committed
So, I was sitting on the toilet lid, the foster parenting paperwork in the magazine stand next to me, holding a p-stick and in a bit of shock.
Me: Well, I suppose I'll file the foster paperwork away for a bit.
Matt: Let's call our parents
Me: Seriously? Shouldn't we wait about 12 weeks to make sure it's all for real?
Matt: If we did that, I think my parents feelings would be hurt.
Me: Well if we tell your family now, and wait until a reasonable date to tell mine, then my parents will get their feelings hurt because we told your family so much sooner.
Apparently in my husband's family, it is traditional to call and make the announcement before the stick is even dry. So as a compromise, I think we waited like 6 hours and called them, asking them to please keep it under wraps for a while.
We also called my parents. Mom was thrilled. Dad, unsure why we called so soon replied: Well, it's going to be a long nine months.
And that was the biggest understatement of the year.
Did I mention I was freaked out? Did I mention I am not a happy pregnant person? I was having a very difficult time wrapping my brain around the whole idea. I didn't want to tell anyone, but at the same time I did. I wanted to tell certain people, and not others. I wanted only certain people to talk to me about being pregnant, I wanted others to just pretend I wasn't. I wasn't sure when I was planning on making it generally known, but I was certain that I wanted to be able to believe it myself, and also be able to tell people without crying, or hyperventilating.
I did end up, for a specific purpose, telling one individual--let's call her Leah, but told her that we were not telling people yet. I of course would have interpreted this to mean keep your yapper shut about it. But something was lost in the translation. The next evening I attended a baby shower for someone from church. I walked in a few minutes late and all the ladies stood up and congratulated me. I was dumbfounded, panicked and hyperventilating. I looked around and found Leah there, grinning at me, like she'd done me some kind of favor. I left the shower early and went home and had a panic attack--you think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. By Sunday I'd almost recovered. I went to church. I was asked to read something in Relief Society (the ladies' meeting) and the president got up and and said Now we'll hear from Jen, who I understand has an announcement to make!
I was MORTIFIED. I stood up, read my part. Said No Announcement. And sat back down. Then I went home and had another panic attack. I do not know why I was so panicked at the idea of making it public. The best I can figure is that I was so afraid of being pregnant and giving birth that I hadn't quite accepted the fact of it yet. Or I was in denial, and the longer I could avoid every one knowing, the longer I could deny it. I was also just a bit (okay, a lot) peeved at the presumtion of someone sharing my news for me--someone I didn't even know that well (obviously). Regardless, now everyone knew and there was no going back.
Except at work. I hadn't told anyone there yet. So I kept going to work every day. But that got harder too. Eight hours of sitting at a desk, trying not to vomit, is torture. Someone else at work was pregnant and they threw a baby shower. I went back to the conference room and tried to join in on the games. You know that baby shower game where they take different candy bars and melt them into diapers and everyone passes them around, scrutinizes and sniffs the diapers and guesses which candy bar was which? Yeah, that one. As the first diaper came my way, so did a tsunami of nausea. I ran for the bathroom, my coworkers wondering just what was wrong with me.
I hate throwing up. Like to a ridiculous point. This may have been God's little protection for me because, as a complete food addict, if I didn't mind throwing up, I would have made a great bulimic. So instead, I have been fat all my life. Like really fat. When I got married, I weighed 255, and I got pregnant, both times at 275. I needed to gain baby weight like a hole in the head. I also had not vomited since I got my tonsils out in the 6th grade. Until I got pregnant.
I get carsick, but until I got pregnant, I never got carsick WHILE I WAS DRIVING. I remember one evening leaving work. Less than a mile from the office, I had to pull over and vomit. I started keeping bags in the car. I was commuting over an hour each way, every day in thick Seattle traffic. Attempting to not crash and/or pull off the freeway in rush hour traffic to puke was not enjoyable.
White foods were okay. I brought little baggies of instant potatoes, instant oatmeal and saltine crackers to work. I would fill up a cup of hot water at the coffee machine, stir in my instant goodies and suck down a little pastiness every couple of hours in a vain attempt to quell the queasiness. Meetings were hard. I would sit there with my little pile of white foods, nibbling the whole meeting while my coworkers looked at me askance. I did eventually tell them.
But I could have held out longer. The beauty and curse of being tall and fat is that baby has a lot of room to hide. I mostly just looked like I was getting fatter. Which I was. When I was pregnant, I didn't get a lot of belly-rubbing, or strangers asking about my pregnancy. People are nervous to ask a fat woman if she's pregnant--what if she's just fat? Fortunately I only gained about 15 pounds in the first 34 weeks of pregnancy--and another 10-15 when the pre-eclampsia hit at the end (I'll get to that).
But obvious or not, I FELT pregnant. Well, without previous experience, I suppose I just felt weird. I felt like something else had taken over my body. Which it had. People looked horrified when I referred to the baby as a parasite. Which, according to the evidence, it was. It had taken up residence inside me and was feasting on the energy and nourishment of it's host organism--me. I tried to explain that I was a willing host to this parasite (most days), but it was behaving like a parasite, so I described our relationship as consensually parasitical. I figured it was my job to say it like it is--to say the things most people think, but won't say. My husband just says my filter is broken.
Like this one. One night, I asked my husband what would happen if we had an ugly baby. What if our baby was so ugly, I couldn't love it. You know you've all thought it--you've seen those ugly babies out there. The mothers have to know their baby is ugly don't they? Maybe not. Maybe that's the beauty of it--the mother has no idea how ugly her baby is. It's like some sort of mental trick like the anorexic who looks in the mirror and sees a fat person, the mother looks at the ugly baby and sees beauty. But, what if I didn't have that magic ability? What if I looked at my baby and saw ugly baby. Could I still love it? Am I really that shallow? (don't answer that). It was a difficult thought for me. But I was pregnant, my hormones were all out of whack, so let's just excuse my insensitivity alright?
Let's talk about those hormones. You know when you hit puberty and suddenly you had no idea who's body you were in? It wasn't until my late twenties that I really started feeling comfortable in my own skin. I really liked who I was, I really didn't care so much what other people thought, I was finally just me. Then, at 29, I got pregnant. It was like puberty all over again. Hormones flying, body changing--oh the emotion! Seriously, puberty. I had to do all that getting comfortable with myself all over again. I was a little bit angry about that.
Did you ever think about plus-sized maternity clothes? No? Well neither did the clothing manufacturers. I avoided wearing maternity clothes for the better part of my pregnancy--again a little bit of denial. Like, once I start wearing maternity clothes it will be obvious that I'm not just fat, but pregnant, which is good on the one hand, but on the other hand, it'll make me look ENORMOUS. But the real problem was finding plus sized maternity clothes at all. I sat and cried in many a dressing room. You can occasionally find plus sizes--they have a couple at JCPenny, a couple of more in the catalog. They have a few items at Motherhood outlets, but not in the normal stores. And forget cute maternity clothes. Plus sized maternity clothes are not cute. Of course, in fairness, a 5 foot 9, 285 pound pregnant woman isn't cute either. So really, why bother? Which they didn't. So I mostly tried to find loose clothing with elastic wastes. And I butchered a couple of my own pair of jeans to sew in a stretchy front panel because nobody makes decent plus sized maternity jeans. Did I mention that I was not a happy pregnant person?
A woman in my ward at the time mentioned how much she just loved being pregnant. I found this very hard to believe, and being me, I called her on it.
Me: Seriously?
Her: Yes! I love thinking about that life I'm nourishing and--
Me: I understand the baby at the end of the tunnel thing, but tell me, if there wasn't a baby at the end, if you just felt pregnant all the time, you would choose that over how you're feeling right now?
Her: Well, no, I suppose not.
Me: I thought not.
One morning Matt found me sitting on the toilet lid, looking at my feet and crying. No, they weren't swollen and ugly (yet), but I was down to being able to comfortably wear to work only a couple of large, loose skirts and pantyhose was out of the question. Yet, I had no knee-highs without holes to wear under that skirt. It was January and all I really wanted was to put on my sandals and go to work. But I felt silly wearing sandals in January. I was torn. I was crying over socks. Matt carefully stifled his laugh and managed a serious, concerned look and suggested I either wear the sandals or stop somewhere on the way to work and buy some socks. I love that man.
It was about this time that I started having nightmares. Although I made it pretty clear to the in-laws that they were not invited into the delivery room, I'm not sure they believed me. My father-in-law kept making comments about my mother-in-law's talent for videoing such occasions from tasteful angles. Um, no thanks. Besides, I don't even want to watch. I don't particularly want to be in the room. Could I wait outside and you'll call me in when it's over?
What they didn't quite understand is that it's not about my modesty--forget who sees my naughty bits, I really don't care. For me, I saw the birth experience as very very intimate, akin to the creation of that child. Not a spectator sport. I felt like attendance should be limited to those who had a necessary role to play--and videographer did not make the short list. Doctor, check, nurse, check, someone to hold each leg, check check. But it's a beautiful thing and you could watch it over and over and show your child his birth some day . . . Um, creating a child is a beautiful thing, but most people don't film that and invite the kid to watch it one day. I'm just saying. I think it's a bit wierd.
Back to my nightmares. I had one where I was in the ladies room doing my bidness when a man walked in yapping away on his cell phone. I exited the stall and laid into him.
EXCUSE ME! What do you think you're doing? This is the LADIES ROOM. It is not the men's room, nor is it a phone booth. Get out! Git! Git! Git!
And I chased him out of the room. I had another one about a video camera in an inappropriate situation--I can't remember the details. But what I do remember is being absolutely sure that I was having these dreams as an outlet for my fear of and disconcert with the idea of spectators and electronic media present at my childbirth.
My 32nd week check-up, things were honky-dory. My health had been fine throughout the pregnancy, no complications, no blood pressure issues, nothing. I was to have my 36 week check up on a Monday morning. That weekend prior I was planning to install the carseat, pack a hospital bag and all that, just in case. Late in the week, I noticed my hands and feet were swelling. I started occasionally losing feeling in my hands at work. It freaked me out a bit, but I looked it up, and figured out that the swelling was probably causing a bit of carpal tunnel. But I also read a few things about pre-eclampsia. No one had said much to me about high blood pressure in pregnancy, probably because my bp had been just fine. But I was was a little spooked as my feet swelled a bit more. Friday on my lunch hour I went to the carwash and vacuumed out my car so I could install the baby seat on Saturday. That afternoon I sat at my desk and was feeling very uneasy. What could possibly be wrong that can't wait until Monday? I asked myself. My doctor and the hospital were only 10 minutes from my office, but an hour from my home. I thought perhaps I'd just call and see if I could swing by after work and check my bp or something. I felt a little silly, but a friend at work convinced me to call anyway (thanks Amy--I owe you).
Me: Hi, I was wondering if maybe I could come have my blood pressure checked this afternoon?
Nurse: Let me check with the doctor real quick . . . she wants you to come in right now.
Me: Okay.
I left my computer on, my current project up, figuring I'd be back within the hour, and drove to the doctor. The nurse brought me in and took my bp.
Nurse: Why don't you lay down, on your left side. Are you feeling alright?
Me: Um, fine. Why, was it high?
Nurse: Yes. I'll be right back.
I noticed she didn't tell me how high. She came right back and carefully moved me to another room with low lights and offered me juice as I lay on my left side. The doctor came in.
Doctor: Your blood pressure was quite high. I'd like to have you taken over to the hospital for observation.
Nurse: Do you want to call your husband?
Me: I'll call him when we get over there. He's probably still teaching.
Nurse: Why don't you call him now?
Me: Um, Okay.
So I called Matt.
Me: Matt, I'm at the doctor, my blood pressure was high, they're taking me to the hospital for observation.
Matt: Are you alright? I can come right over.
Me: I'm fine, I don't know that it's that serious, why don't you hold off and I'll call you when I know more.
Nurse: Tell him to come now.
Me: I guess you should come now.
I was a little freaked out at this point. They took me to the hospital, laid me on my side, hooked me to a bp monitor and a baby monitor. Ethan was happy as a clam, moving around like crazy, oblivious to the chaos around him. I peed in a cup, which, along with my elevated bp, was evidence enough that I was indeed pre-eclamptic. I was told it was very unlikely I would be going home before the baby was born. And if, by some miracle I was released, I would not be going back to work, unless I could lie on a sofa at work, on my left side, and not do any work.
I called work, asked someone to shut down my computer and told them that it appeared I was starting my maternity leave--now. And I spent that first day or two at the hospital wrapping my brain around my new full time job as an incubator.
And this concludes the overly long part 1-B of my birth stories. Again, if you made it this far, not only are you to be congratulated and given a cookie, your endurance is to be commended and you're surely up for part 1-C, the conclusion.
Spoiler alert: There's a baby at the end of it.
So, I was sitting on the toilet lid, the foster parenting paperwork in the magazine stand next to me, holding a p-stick and in a bit of shock.
Me: Well, I suppose I'll file the foster paperwork away for a bit.
Matt: Let's call our parents
Me: Seriously? Shouldn't we wait about 12 weeks to make sure it's all for real?
Matt: If we did that, I think my parents feelings would be hurt.
Me: Well if we tell your family now, and wait until a reasonable date to tell mine, then my parents will get their feelings hurt because we told your family so much sooner.
Apparently in my husband's family, it is traditional to call and make the announcement before the stick is even dry. So as a compromise, I think we waited like 6 hours and called them, asking them to please keep it under wraps for a while.
We also called my parents. Mom was thrilled. Dad, unsure why we called so soon replied: Well, it's going to be a long nine months.
And that was the biggest understatement of the year.
Did I mention I was freaked out? Did I mention I am not a happy pregnant person? I was having a very difficult time wrapping my brain around the whole idea. I didn't want to tell anyone, but at the same time I did. I wanted to tell certain people, and not others. I wanted only certain people to talk to me about being pregnant, I wanted others to just pretend I wasn't. I wasn't sure when I was planning on making it generally known, but I was certain that I wanted to be able to believe it myself, and also be able to tell people without crying, or hyperventilating.
I did end up, for a specific purpose, telling one individual--let's call her Leah, but told her that we were not telling people yet. I of course would have interpreted this to mean keep your yapper shut about it. But something was lost in the translation. The next evening I attended a baby shower for someone from church. I walked in a few minutes late and all the ladies stood up and congratulated me. I was dumbfounded, panicked and hyperventilating. I looked around and found Leah there, grinning at me, like she'd done me some kind of favor. I left the shower early and went home and had a panic attack--you think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. By Sunday I'd almost recovered. I went to church. I was asked to read something in Relief Society (the ladies' meeting) and the president got up and and said Now we'll hear from Jen, who I understand has an announcement to make!
I was MORTIFIED. I stood up, read my part. Said No Announcement. And sat back down. Then I went home and had another panic attack. I do not know why I was so panicked at the idea of making it public. The best I can figure is that I was so afraid of being pregnant and giving birth that I hadn't quite accepted the fact of it yet. Or I was in denial, and the longer I could avoid every one knowing, the longer I could deny it. I was also just a bit (okay, a lot) peeved at the presumtion of someone sharing my news for me--someone I didn't even know that well (obviously). Regardless, now everyone knew and there was no going back.
Except at work. I hadn't told anyone there yet. So I kept going to work every day. But that got harder too. Eight hours of sitting at a desk, trying not to vomit, is torture. Someone else at work was pregnant and they threw a baby shower. I went back to the conference room and tried to join in on the games. You know that baby shower game where they take different candy bars and melt them into diapers and everyone passes them around, scrutinizes and sniffs the diapers and guesses which candy bar was which? Yeah, that one. As the first diaper came my way, so did a tsunami of nausea. I ran for the bathroom, my coworkers wondering just what was wrong with me.
I hate throwing up. Like to a ridiculous point. This may have been God's little protection for me because, as a complete food addict, if I didn't mind throwing up, I would have made a great bulimic. So instead, I have been fat all my life. Like really fat. When I got married, I weighed 255, and I got pregnant, both times at 275. I needed to gain baby weight like a hole in the head. I also had not vomited since I got my tonsils out in the 6th grade. Until I got pregnant.
I get carsick, but until I got pregnant, I never got carsick WHILE I WAS DRIVING. I remember one evening leaving work. Less than a mile from the office, I had to pull over and vomit. I started keeping bags in the car. I was commuting over an hour each way, every day in thick Seattle traffic. Attempting to not crash and/or pull off the freeway in rush hour traffic to puke was not enjoyable.
White foods were okay. I brought little baggies of instant potatoes, instant oatmeal and saltine crackers to work. I would fill up a cup of hot water at the coffee machine, stir in my instant goodies and suck down a little pastiness every couple of hours in a vain attempt to quell the queasiness. Meetings were hard. I would sit there with my little pile of white foods, nibbling the whole meeting while my coworkers looked at me askance. I did eventually tell them.
But I could have held out longer. The beauty and curse of being tall and fat is that baby has a lot of room to hide. I mostly just looked like I was getting fatter. Which I was. When I was pregnant, I didn't get a lot of belly-rubbing, or strangers asking about my pregnancy. People are nervous to ask a fat woman if she's pregnant--what if she's just fat? Fortunately I only gained about 15 pounds in the first 34 weeks of pregnancy--and another 10-15 when the pre-eclampsia hit at the end (I'll get to that).
But obvious or not, I FELT pregnant. Well, without previous experience, I suppose I just felt weird. I felt like something else had taken over my body. Which it had. People looked horrified when I referred to the baby as a parasite. Which, according to the evidence, it was. It had taken up residence inside me and was feasting on the energy and nourishment of it's host organism--me. I tried to explain that I was a willing host to this parasite (most days), but it was behaving like a parasite, so I described our relationship as consensually parasitical. I figured it was my job to say it like it is--to say the things most people think, but won't say. My husband just says my filter is broken.
Like this one. One night, I asked my husband what would happen if we had an ugly baby. What if our baby was so ugly, I couldn't love it. You know you've all thought it--you've seen those ugly babies out there. The mothers have to know their baby is ugly don't they? Maybe not. Maybe that's the beauty of it--the mother has no idea how ugly her baby is. It's like some sort of mental trick like the anorexic who looks in the mirror and sees a fat person, the mother looks at the ugly baby and sees beauty. But, what if I didn't have that magic ability? What if I looked at my baby and saw ugly baby. Could I still love it? Am I really that shallow? (don't answer that). It was a difficult thought for me. But I was pregnant, my hormones were all out of whack, so let's just excuse my insensitivity alright?
Let's talk about those hormones. You know when you hit puberty and suddenly you had no idea who's body you were in? It wasn't until my late twenties that I really started feeling comfortable in my own skin. I really liked who I was, I really didn't care so much what other people thought, I was finally just me. Then, at 29, I got pregnant. It was like puberty all over again. Hormones flying, body changing--oh the emotion! Seriously, puberty. I had to do all that getting comfortable with myself all over again. I was a little bit angry about that.
Did you ever think about plus-sized maternity clothes? No? Well neither did the clothing manufacturers. I avoided wearing maternity clothes for the better part of my pregnancy--again a little bit of denial. Like, once I start wearing maternity clothes it will be obvious that I'm not just fat, but pregnant, which is good on the one hand, but on the other hand, it'll make me look ENORMOUS. But the real problem was finding plus sized maternity clothes at all. I sat and cried in many a dressing room. You can occasionally find plus sizes--they have a couple at JCPenny, a couple of more in the catalog. They have a few items at Motherhood outlets, but not in the normal stores. And forget cute maternity clothes. Plus sized maternity clothes are not cute. Of course, in fairness, a 5 foot 9, 285 pound pregnant woman isn't cute either. So really, why bother? Which they didn't. So I mostly tried to find loose clothing with elastic wastes. And I butchered a couple of my own pair of jeans to sew in a stretchy front panel because nobody makes decent plus sized maternity jeans. Did I mention that I was not a happy pregnant person?
A woman in my ward at the time mentioned how much she just loved being pregnant. I found this very hard to believe, and being me, I called her on it.
Me: Seriously?
Her: Yes! I love thinking about that life I'm nourishing and--
Me: I understand the baby at the end of the tunnel thing, but tell me, if there wasn't a baby at the end, if you just felt pregnant all the time, you would choose that over how you're feeling right now?
Her: Well, no, I suppose not.
Me: I thought not.
One morning Matt found me sitting on the toilet lid, looking at my feet and crying. No, they weren't swollen and ugly (yet), but I was down to being able to comfortably wear to work only a couple of large, loose skirts and pantyhose was out of the question. Yet, I had no knee-highs without holes to wear under that skirt. It was January and all I really wanted was to put on my sandals and go to work. But I felt silly wearing sandals in January. I was torn. I was crying over socks. Matt carefully stifled his laugh and managed a serious, concerned look and suggested I either wear the sandals or stop somewhere on the way to work and buy some socks. I love that man.
It was about this time that I started having nightmares. Although I made it pretty clear to the in-laws that they were not invited into the delivery room, I'm not sure they believed me. My father-in-law kept making comments about my mother-in-law's talent for videoing such occasions from tasteful angles. Um, no thanks. Besides, I don't even want to watch. I don't particularly want to be in the room. Could I wait outside and you'll call me in when it's over?
What they didn't quite understand is that it's not about my modesty--forget who sees my naughty bits, I really don't care. For me, I saw the birth experience as very very intimate, akin to the creation of that child. Not a spectator sport. I felt like attendance should be limited to those who had a necessary role to play--and videographer did not make the short list. Doctor, check, nurse, check, someone to hold each leg, check check. But it's a beautiful thing and you could watch it over and over and show your child his birth some day . . . Um, creating a child is a beautiful thing, but most people don't film that and invite the kid to watch it one day. I'm just saying. I think it's a bit wierd.
Back to my nightmares. I had one where I was in the ladies room doing my bidness when a man walked in yapping away on his cell phone. I exited the stall and laid into him.
EXCUSE ME! What do you think you're doing? This is the LADIES ROOM. It is not the men's room, nor is it a phone booth. Get out! Git! Git! Git!
And I chased him out of the room. I had another one about a video camera in an inappropriate situation--I can't remember the details. But what I do remember is being absolutely sure that I was having these dreams as an outlet for my fear of and disconcert with the idea of spectators and electronic media present at my childbirth.
My 32nd week check-up, things were honky-dory. My health had been fine throughout the pregnancy, no complications, no blood pressure issues, nothing. I was to have my 36 week check up on a Monday morning. That weekend prior I was planning to install the carseat, pack a hospital bag and all that, just in case. Late in the week, I noticed my hands and feet were swelling. I started occasionally losing feeling in my hands at work. It freaked me out a bit, but I looked it up, and figured out that the swelling was probably causing a bit of carpal tunnel. But I also read a few things about pre-eclampsia. No one had said much to me about high blood pressure in pregnancy, probably because my bp had been just fine. But I was was a little spooked as my feet swelled a bit more. Friday on my lunch hour I went to the carwash and vacuumed out my car so I could install the baby seat on Saturday. That afternoon I sat at my desk and was feeling very uneasy. What could possibly be wrong that can't wait until Monday? I asked myself. My doctor and the hospital were only 10 minutes from my office, but an hour from my home. I thought perhaps I'd just call and see if I could swing by after work and check my bp or something. I felt a little silly, but a friend at work convinced me to call anyway (thanks Amy--I owe you).
Me: Hi, I was wondering if maybe I could come have my blood pressure checked this afternoon?
Nurse: Let me check with the doctor real quick . . . she wants you to come in right now.
Me: Okay.
I left my computer on, my current project up, figuring I'd be back within the hour, and drove to the doctor. The nurse brought me in and took my bp.
Nurse: Why don't you lay down, on your left side. Are you feeling alright?
Me: Um, fine. Why, was it high?
Nurse: Yes. I'll be right back.
I noticed she didn't tell me how high. She came right back and carefully moved me to another room with low lights and offered me juice as I lay on my left side. The doctor came in.
Doctor: Your blood pressure was quite high. I'd like to have you taken over to the hospital for observation.
Nurse: Do you want to call your husband?
Me: I'll call him when we get over there. He's probably still teaching.
Nurse: Why don't you call him now?
Me: Um, Okay.
So I called Matt.
Me: Matt, I'm at the doctor, my blood pressure was high, they're taking me to the hospital for observation.
Matt: Are you alright? I can come right over.
Me: I'm fine, I don't know that it's that serious, why don't you hold off and I'll call you when I know more.
Nurse: Tell him to come now.
Me: I guess you should come now.
I was a little freaked out at this point. They took me to the hospital, laid me on my side, hooked me to a bp monitor and a baby monitor. Ethan was happy as a clam, moving around like crazy, oblivious to the chaos around him. I peed in a cup, which, along with my elevated bp, was evidence enough that I was indeed pre-eclamptic. I was told it was very unlikely I would be going home before the baby was born. And if, by some miracle I was released, I would not be going back to work, unless I could lie on a sofa at work, on my left side, and not do any work.
I called work, asked someone to shut down my computer and told them that it appeared I was starting my maternity leave--now. And I spent that first day or two at the hospital wrapping my brain around my new full time job as an incubator.
And this concludes the overly long part 1-B of my birth stories. Again, if you made it this far, not only are you to be congratulated and given a cookie, your endurance is to be commended and you're surely up for part 1-C, the conclusion.
Spoiler alert: There's a baby at the end of it.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
On Getting Pregnant . . .
Birth Story Part I-A
'cause there's just way too much back story to my first pregnancy to tell it all at once.
This is also A Commitment Story . . . (as in, she should be committed.)
I'm done with subtitles now--for reals.
In my life, I have struggled with commitment, as evidenced by my engagement story (which, being a prequel to this post, I'll share at some point as well). But, as I was reading MommyJ's birth stories, I felt compelled to share my own.
Having been raised Mormon, I was always taught that families can be together forever--that our family relationships will continue beyond death. While this sounds great to most people, those of us who change our minds like we change our shoes, find the smell of commitment in this doctrine to be a bit overwhelming. I mean really, it took some doing for me to commit to the whole married-for-eternity thing, now you're telling me I'm going to be a parent forever? What if I don't like it? What if I don't like my kids? What if they don't like me? What if I screw up and am a terribly terrible mother? Oh, what's that you say? Does it always have to be about me? Well, is there anybody else?
But here's the thing. Having been raised Mormon, with a huge extended Mormon family, and having lived and traveled a myriad of places inside and outside of Utah, I could not help but notice something. On the whole, married people with children are the happiest people I know. No, that does not mean that every married couple and family live in un-ending bliss. There are plenty of married parents who are miserable and have apparently been failed by or failed in either their marriages, or family lives or both (I'll get to that). But, the happiest people I know, the people who have had the biggest influence for good on my life, have, for the most part, been married parents. So, in contemplating this evidence against the principle of "God's great plan of Happiness", I could not but draw the conclusion that it is indeed a true principle.
So, I took a huge leap of faith, and I got married, and was immeasurably pleased that I did (prequel forthcoming). And, after a couple of years, we began to consider having a baby and again I contemplated faith and commitment. I enjoyed being single. I also enjoyed being married without children. There is a lot of freedom in both. A baby, obviously would cut seriously into my freedom. But, again, and here's the kicker--all the people I knew who'd seriously pursued their own personal happiness in commitment-free childlessness, appeared to me to be empty. Sure, they looked like they were having fun, but it also looked like they were desperately trying to fill some hole in their lives with that fun. And that somehow the fun was never enough, and the fun was never deep, nor satisfying. Whereas the happiest and most satisfied people I knew drew deeply from life and we're filled. And they were parents. No, they didn't travel much, nor have a lot of stuff, but they were full.
But that fun sure looked, well, fun. And, here's the other thing (I said I'd get to it) not everyone who was married with children, was satisfied like that. Some of them were really miserable. Some of them really screwed up their kids and their marriages. So, what if I ended up one of them--miserably married and stuck with kids who daily reminded me of how much I failed them. Wouldn't it be better to be childless, empty and having fun? And pregnancy didn't sound like a cakewalk either.
Let me digress momentarily--I realize that there are so many women out there who have wanted motherhood so badly it soaks into their soul, and for that I feel deep sympathy. But I cannot pretend to feel empathy--I have never longed to be pregnant. I have never longed for parenthood. My longing and my challenges were very different. Perhaps easier, perhaps not. Perhaps more shallow, perhaps not. God was teaching me in a different way--things that I needed to learn. Lessons about learning to want what God wants for me. And if I am to share my experiences, I need to be honest about all the emotion, particular to me, that I felt. Maybe someone else has felt the same, maybe not.
So why not just wait you might ask? And so I'll answer with way too much personal detail. I was married at the ripe old age of nearly 27. In mormon years, this is well into old-maidenhood. Most of the people I went to school with married in their early twenties and have teenagers at present. So, a couple of more years into marriage and I was pushing 30. I refused to intentionally raise an only child, so I knew I'd have to be in for more than one. I also knew that all the women on my mother's side went through menopause around the age of 35. So, if I wanted kids, I had to get crackin'. My other big fear was, what if I put off motherhood so long that suddenly, when I wanted it, it was too late? Not to mention that having babies in your thirties is very different then having babies in your twenties--or so I'm told, and have observed.
To begin my quest, I surveyed all the mothers I knew. Why did you decide to have a baby? What I found was many versions of the same two answers. 1) I really really wanted a baby and knew it was time. 2) It was not really planned. No one it seemed had, or would cop to getting pregnant solely because they felt like they should. So, since I couldn't work up a big desire to get pregnant, I started hoping for an "accident" and I prayed for guidance and to help me understand God's will for me. The lesson I learned from God, was that, as usual, He wanted me to choose--to choose to do this, of my own free will. He wasn't going to let me off the hook with an accident.
Matt and I discussed adoption. I was coming to terms with the idea of parenthood, but was still really struggling with the idea of childbirth. Really struggling. He really liked the idea of fostering. We talked and talked. Matt tried to help me overcome my fears. He was very very patient. One day he reminded me that when we were married, were commanded to multiply and replenish--not seek out and raise other people's children--not that this wasn't noble and worthwhile, but he felt that in our case, maybe God wanted us to at least see if we could have our own first. I realized he was right. So, I took a huge leap of faith, and we started trying to get pregnant. A few months passed. Every month that I wasn't pregnant, I contemplated dropping the whole idea. We requested a foster parenting application.
It was about this time that his sister-in-law was due to have a baby. I was driving home from work and Matt called--
Rhi is in the hospital in labor.
Okay.
Everyone is there already and I'm stuck and can't come up.
You mean your whole family is in attendance at the hospital?
Yes.
Oh, um, should stop by? I was going biking, but I'm driving past the hospital right now.
Would you?
Okay. I suppose.
So I went to the hospital and found 3 of Matt's sisters, his brother and I believe his parents (or maybe they were out of town--distraught to be missing the whole thing) and his sister-in-law, the guest of honor. My memory is a bit hazy here, I can't remember if Matt and I discussed prior to this event, or as a direct result of this event, the fact that the only people invited to my childbirth (should I ever have one) are HIM and MY MOTHER (only because Matt is likely to pass out, and somebody ought to be coherent enough to help). And no, NO VIDEO TAPING ALLOWED! But, that is another post altogether.
I came in the hospital room, said my hellos and sat down because I was feeling a bit faint at the whole idea--I don't think any of them knew that we were trying ourselves to get in on this whole gig, and the whole thing was hitting a bit close to home. I asked when they would take her into delivery and she said that we were there. The baby would be born IN THAT VERY ROOM. Watching all color drain from my face, my sister-in-law--the woman in labor--asked if I was alright. I said I need to go for a bike ride, but I'd check back in later, after the baby was born. You see, in my family, couples go to the hospital, have babies, then call their family to tell them the important details--they don't come to the hospital. But perhaps that's only because I am the only daughter in my family and my brothers and their wives all lived in different states. In Matt's family, it's apparently a family field trip event.
So I left, and biked long and hard. I went home and pulled out the foster parenting application and contemplated going back on the pill. I also prayed a lot. I decided to stick it out a little bit longer. And within a couple more months, my fretting about whether I should quit trying or not was moot. I was pregnant. And freaked out about it.
Okay, way too long post I know, but if you made it this far, tune in next time for Birth Story Part 1-B, On Being Pregnant . . .
'cause there's just way too much back story to my first pregnancy to tell it all at once.
This is also A Commitment Story . . . (as in, she should be committed.)
I'm done with subtitles now--for reals.
In my life, I have struggled with commitment, as evidenced by my engagement story (which, being a prequel to this post, I'll share at some point as well). But, as I was reading MommyJ's birth stories, I felt compelled to share my own.
Having been raised Mormon, I was always taught that families can be together forever--that our family relationships will continue beyond death. While this sounds great to most people, those of us who change our minds like we change our shoes, find the smell of commitment in this doctrine to be a bit overwhelming. I mean really, it took some doing for me to commit to the whole married-for-eternity thing, now you're telling me I'm going to be a parent forever? What if I don't like it? What if I don't like my kids? What if they don't like me? What if I screw up and am a terribly terrible mother? Oh, what's that you say? Does it always have to be about me? Well, is there anybody else?
But here's the thing. Having been raised Mormon, with a huge extended Mormon family, and having lived and traveled a myriad of places inside and outside of Utah, I could not help but notice something. On the whole, married people with children are the happiest people I know. No, that does not mean that every married couple and family live in un-ending bliss. There are plenty of married parents who are miserable and have apparently been failed by or failed in either their marriages, or family lives or both (I'll get to that). But, the happiest people I know, the people who have had the biggest influence for good on my life, have, for the most part, been married parents. So, in contemplating this evidence against the principle of "God's great plan of Happiness", I could not but draw the conclusion that it is indeed a true principle.
So, I took a huge leap of faith, and I got married, and was immeasurably pleased that I did (prequel forthcoming). And, after a couple of years, we began to consider having a baby and again I contemplated faith and commitment. I enjoyed being single. I also enjoyed being married without children. There is a lot of freedom in both. A baby, obviously would cut seriously into my freedom. But, again, and here's the kicker--all the people I knew who'd seriously pursued their own personal happiness in commitment-free childlessness, appeared to me to be empty. Sure, they looked like they were having fun, but it also looked like they were desperately trying to fill some hole in their lives with that fun. And that somehow the fun was never enough, and the fun was never deep, nor satisfying. Whereas the happiest and most satisfied people I knew drew deeply from life and we're filled. And they were parents. No, they didn't travel much, nor have a lot of stuff, but they were full.
But that fun sure looked, well, fun. And, here's the other thing (I said I'd get to it) not everyone who was married with children, was satisfied like that. Some of them were really miserable. Some of them really screwed up their kids and their marriages. So, what if I ended up one of them--miserably married and stuck with kids who daily reminded me of how much I failed them. Wouldn't it be better to be childless, empty and having fun? And pregnancy didn't sound like a cakewalk either.
Let me digress momentarily--I realize that there are so many women out there who have wanted motherhood so badly it soaks into their soul, and for that I feel deep sympathy. But I cannot pretend to feel empathy--I have never longed to be pregnant. I have never longed for parenthood. My longing and my challenges were very different. Perhaps easier, perhaps not. Perhaps more shallow, perhaps not. God was teaching me in a different way--things that I needed to learn. Lessons about learning to want what God wants for me. And if I am to share my experiences, I need to be honest about all the emotion, particular to me, that I felt. Maybe someone else has felt the same, maybe not.
So why not just wait you might ask? And so I'll answer with way too much personal detail. I was married at the ripe old age of nearly 27. In mormon years, this is well into old-maidenhood. Most of the people I went to school with married in their early twenties and have teenagers at present. So, a couple of more years into marriage and I was pushing 30. I refused to intentionally raise an only child, so I knew I'd have to be in for more than one. I also knew that all the women on my mother's side went through menopause around the age of 35. So, if I wanted kids, I had to get crackin'. My other big fear was, what if I put off motherhood so long that suddenly, when I wanted it, it was too late? Not to mention that having babies in your thirties is very different then having babies in your twenties--or so I'm told, and have observed.
To begin my quest, I surveyed all the mothers I knew. Why did you decide to have a baby? What I found was many versions of the same two answers. 1) I really really wanted a baby and knew it was time. 2) It was not really planned. No one it seemed had, or would cop to getting pregnant solely because they felt like they should. So, since I couldn't work up a big desire to get pregnant, I started hoping for an "accident" and I prayed for guidance and to help me understand God's will for me. The lesson I learned from God, was that, as usual, He wanted me to choose--to choose to do this, of my own free will. He wasn't going to let me off the hook with an accident.
Matt and I discussed adoption. I was coming to terms with the idea of parenthood, but was still really struggling with the idea of childbirth. Really struggling. He really liked the idea of fostering. We talked and talked. Matt tried to help me overcome my fears. He was very very patient. One day he reminded me that when we were married, were commanded to multiply and replenish--not seek out and raise other people's children--not that this wasn't noble and worthwhile, but he felt that in our case, maybe God wanted us to at least see if we could have our own first. I realized he was right. So, I took a huge leap of faith, and we started trying to get pregnant. A few months passed. Every month that I wasn't pregnant, I contemplated dropping the whole idea. We requested a foster parenting application.
It was about this time that his sister-in-law was due to have a baby. I was driving home from work and Matt called--
Rhi is in the hospital in labor.
Okay.
Everyone is there already and I'm stuck and can't come up.
You mean your whole family is in attendance at the hospital?
Yes.
Oh, um, should stop by? I was going biking, but I'm driving past the hospital right now.
Would you?
Okay. I suppose.
So I went to the hospital and found 3 of Matt's sisters, his brother and I believe his parents (or maybe they were out of town--distraught to be missing the whole thing) and his sister-in-law, the guest of honor. My memory is a bit hazy here, I can't remember if Matt and I discussed prior to this event, or as a direct result of this event, the fact that the only people invited to my childbirth (should I ever have one) are HIM and MY MOTHER (only because Matt is likely to pass out, and somebody ought to be coherent enough to help). And no, NO VIDEO TAPING ALLOWED! But, that is another post altogether.
I came in the hospital room, said my hellos and sat down because I was feeling a bit faint at the whole idea--I don't think any of them knew that we were trying ourselves to get in on this whole gig, and the whole thing was hitting a bit close to home. I asked when they would take her into delivery and she said that we were there. The baby would be born IN THAT VERY ROOM. Watching all color drain from my face, my sister-in-law--the woman in labor--asked if I was alright. I said I need to go for a bike ride, but I'd check back in later, after the baby was born. You see, in my family, couples go to the hospital, have babies, then call their family to tell them the important details--they don't come to the hospital. But perhaps that's only because I am the only daughter in my family and my brothers and their wives all lived in different states. In Matt's family, it's apparently a family field trip event.
So I left, and biked long and hard. I went home and pulled out the foster parenting application and contemplated going back on the pill. I also prayed a lot. I decided to stick it out a little bit longer. And within a couple more months, my fretting about whether I should quit trying or not was moot. I was pregnant. And freaked out about it.
Okay, way too long post I know, but if you made it this far, tune in next time for Birth Story Part 1-B, On Being Pregnant . . .
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Faking It
Considering we were all ill most of the Fall, I'm happy to report we've been reasonably healthy this winter. Last time I took Ethan in to the doctor to check out a sore throat situation, I had her check Elliot too, even though I thought he was faking it to try and steal his big brother's attention. Nope. All three of us had strep throats and double ear infections.
Last night Ethan started coughing and today I kept him home, gave him medicine and told him to rest. Elliot of course starts coughing and complaining of a sore throat. So, I dutifully gave him a little medicine and told him to rest.
At the request of the sickies, we made chicken noodle soup for breakfast. I handed out the children's vitamins, with which I'm not overly consistent--partly due to my own inconsistent nature, and partly due to the complaints and refusals by Elliot. Today, however, I pulled out the vitamins and said we all need to take them to get better. Elliot's response:
No mom, I think I'm just faking.
Nice. At least he's honest.
Last night Ethan started coughing and today I kept him home, gave him medicine and told him to rest. Elliot of course starts coughing and complaining of a sore throat. So, I dutifully gave him a little medicine and told him to rest.
At the request of the sickies, we made chicken noodle soup for breakfast. I handed out the children's vitamins, with which I'm not overly consistent--partly due to my own inconsistent nature, and partly due to the complaints and refusals by Elliot. Today, however, I pulled out the vitamins and said we all need to take them to get better. Elliot's response:
No mom, I think I'm just faking.
Nice. At least he's honest.
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