A postpartum montage of sexiness.

You're out in public, a few weeks after having your third baby in less than three years.  Feeling slightly exhausted, slightly frumpy, and just a teensy, weensy bit hormonal.  But you notice several passers-by checking out your robustly perky breasts, and for just a moment you mentally shout out "HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO YEAH!  YOU'VE STILL GOT IT, YOU SEXY BITCH!"

A moment later, you feel a sticky warmth against your belly.  You look down, only to be overtaken by the horrendous realization that while your cleavage might be swell, those passers-by were more likely checking out the massive and rapidly growing milk stains running down the front of your shirt and pooling attractively in your postpartum pooch.

***

Grocery store.  You've brought along your 16 year old mother's helper, because for the love of god, you learned your lesson the last time you tried to navigate the grocery store as the solo adult responsible for ensuring that nobody was left in the cereal aisle and now you're fairly certain that the store management is considering banning you for life.  So now you've brought reinforcements, and the travelling shit-show circus you run with has made it into the produce aisle.  You have two overflowing carts and the kale keeps falling on the floor and suddenly you've got company in the form of a creepishly swanky thirty-something.  He circles, and then circles again, and just as you're about to let loose on him a small tirade to the likes of FOR GOODNESS SAKE HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO WAVE MY WEDDING BAND IN YOUR FACE YOU CREEPY PRICK...you're saved by the realization that the wagon he's circling belongs not to you, but to the sitter.  And then he's asking her out in an eerily "To Catch a Predator" sort of way, and you casually fluff your sensibly short mom-hair and shoot him a look that he TOTALLY will know means, "I FIT THIS ASS INTO SIZE FOUR JEANS THIS MORNING AFTER KNOCKING OUT A BABY SEVEN WEEKS AGO, YOU SICK PEDOPHILE."

***

So you decide that an upcoming wedding will be your chance to get your swagger back.  You order a flirty little number online and buy some killer heels.  You buy spanx.  Gulp.  Cringe.  Spanx.

You try it all on.  You smile.  Hoooooooo yeah.

You slink down the hall to the kitchen to show your husband.  You spin around and ask, totally casually, "do you think this outfit will be okay for the wedding?"

You await and envision his response.  "WOW."  "You're stunning."  "HEY SEXY MAMA!"  "HOOOOOOOOOOOOO YEAH!"

He cocks his head to the side.  "Yeah.  That should work."  He turns back around to the sink.  

He will spend the next six weeks wondering why the OB suddenly "called" to advise that things are not healing well from the birth and will probably take at least another month or two.

***

You develop a new mantra, to cover all your bases:

I will embrace my maternal womanhood!  Hoooooo yeah!

I will age gracefully and no matter how tempting, I will not bleach my hair, tuck my tummy, or resort to pink lip gloss!  Hooooooooo yeah!

I will have my ass inappropriately pinched by a stranger at least once more in my life, even if I have to pay somebody to do it!  Hooooooooo yeah!

I will not say "Hoooooooooooooooo yeah!" out loud even though I use it in my writing to emphasize points, because it makes me sound like I'm seventy!  Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo yeah!

So many moments.  Pivotal moments, ordinary moments, moments that linger forever, and those that go by all too fast.

My pregnancy with Anwen was a series of interwoven moments I may have hoped for but never expected to have...learning I was unexpectedly pregnant, allowing myself to trust in my body's ability to carry a pregnancy to term, approaching labor and attempting a VBAC...

...Overcoming obstacles (breech presentation, going past my due date, heart decelerations) and succeeding at a VBAC.

Succeeding at a VBAC.

***

I woke up a week after my due date with a nagging feeling.  I hadn't felt Anwen move much (at all?) over night.  I tried to get her to move.  I drank orange juice, pushed on my belly, changed positions again and again.  Nothing.  Flashbacks to Rhys and Quin's birth started running through my mind.  We called the midwife, and her instructions were simple: "get here now."

At the hospital, we were relieved.  They found the baby's heartbeat.  They checked my fluid levels.  Everything looked good.  Except.  The baby was having some heart decelerations after contractions.  The midwife was afraid she wouldn't tolerate labor.  They couldn't let me go home, at 41 weeks pregnant, knowing I was having contractions, with a baby whose heart rate was dipping.  They could fit us in for a c-section at 3:00pm.

I cried.

I called our doula.  Instead of attending the birth, would she be willing to instead provide postpartum support?  She would.

The doctor came in.  She confirmed what the midwife had told us: a c-section was likely.  

But.

Would we like to try a trial of labor?  We'd be on a short leash - IV, constant monitoring, and a first class ticket to the OR at the first sign of distress - but she was willing to let us try a pitocin induction.

A window of opportunity.  

They started my pitocin around noon.  Early labor was lovely.  My pitocin dose was low (2 milliunits) and the contractions were bearable.  Kyle and I walked around the unit, we had tea, we listened to music.  (Live harp music, at that, from a musical therapist visiting the unit!)

At four the OB came in to check my progress.  A centimeter and a half.  We discussed having her break my water.  It would allow my body to kick in to help, and I was already on a time frame because of the induced VBAC.  I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Water broken.  Contractions coming in waves.  I felt suddenly disorganized and panicked.  Pain.  Relief.  Pain. Relief.  But instead of feeling like a rhythmic pattern, my contractions felt tangled up with each other, with my mind.  Kyle brought me a hot pack for my back.  Helped me get into a more comfortable position.  I regained composure, found a rhythm.

I lose track of time.

Pitocin up to six.  Want hot water.  Into the tub.  In a rhythm.  Waves of pain.  Relief.  Laughing.  Pain building.  Cresting.  Dissipating.  Hot water is amazing.  Again and again.  

The pauses between the waves get shorter and shorter.  Contractions build, peak, and dissipate...and build, peak, and dissipate.  Relief slips through my fingers before I can grasp it.  I feel panicked.  I had planned not to use any medical pain relief.  I also had planned not to use a medical induction.

"I want to talk about pain meds."  As I'd requested months earlier, Kyle and my doula try to talk me out of it. The doctor checks me.  I feel like I'm in transition, and yet I know, I KNOW, that I am nowhere near that point.  I tell Kyle and our doula, "if I'm seven centimeters I'll go on without meds".  I say seven.  I mean eight or nine.

The doctor checks me.  Almost three centimeters.  I am not discouraged.  I am relieved.  "Get me an epidural."  It's all I can say, again and again, until I'm laying in bed savoring sweet relief.  

Two hours later.  4 centimeters.  Okay.  It's okay.  I'm not in pain.

Two more hours pass.  It's time to push.  

At first I can't feel when to push.  The nurse has to cue me.  But then I can tell.  I'm not in pain.  But I can tell.  

I push for an hour.  The baby's heart rate starts getting low towards the end.  Into the sixties.  The midwife talks about the vacuum.  It doesn't scare me, just motivates.  We don't end up needing the vacuum.  Kyle is by my side, holding my hand.  We are doing this.  We are in the hospital, we've been induced, I have an epidural, but we are doing this!  The lights are dim.  We are surrounded by flameless candles and beautiful music.  The doctor is in the room next door, so we're back with the midwife.  Does Kyle want to help deliver the baby?

And then she's out.  Anwen.  She's tiny and warm and wet.  She has an amazing strong cry.  She's crawling up my belly and all I can see are her beautiful big eyes - blue and deep and so, so new.  She has matted dark hair and I'm already in love.

(Photos by Allison Connor, our wonderful doula)

Anwen Bay

4.9.11

6 lbs 15oz ~ 20.5 inches

Successful VBAC!!!

Details to come. 

After I change some diapers.  And get some sleep.  And nurse the baby.  And calm a tantrum.

She is bliss.

39 weeks.

I'm 39 weeks today. 

This is a weird feeling, considering my last pregnancy ended abruptly with the emergency delivery of Rhys and Quin at 33 weeks. 

As of my appointment with the midwife today, the baby is no longer breech...following a week that consisted of three visits with a chiropractor who specializes in the Webster technique, lots of DIY moxibustion, a heavy dose of Pulsitilla, hours of inversion, and a totally fast, painless, and successful version.  I'm so thankful that we're back on course for the VBAC, even if I am still reeling from the stress of the situation and dealing with it like an uninhibited ninety-year old woman with a knack for saying all the inappropriate things that cross her mind and no thoughts of apologies. 

Now we wait.

On the one hand, I love the waiting.  I have something awesome about to happen - I don't know when or how or what it will be like, but at this point birth is pretty much a guarantee.  Though I did see a TLC show once about a woman who had been pregnant for something like sixty years.  But that unfortunate woman aside, this kind of feels like when you have a box full of maple sugar candy in front of you and not even one has been nibbled yet, and you know you're about to go hide in a corner somewhere and just gorge yourself.  The delicious anticipation.  If you're not from a maple sugar candy area, I'm sorry.

And then on the other hand, there's the reality that the time between now and delivery may seem short to those who are not carrying an extra human being in their womb while chasing two toddlers around all day, but for those of us who happen to be in that boat, well, OH MY GOD HOW AM I GOING TO GET THROUGH NEXT WEEK BECAUSE THE DAYS ARE SOOOO LONG AND THERE IS STILL SNOW ON THE GROUND AND THE WEATHER ISN'T LOOKING LIKE WE'LL BREAK THE FORTY DEGREE MARK IN THE NEXT FIVE TO SEVEN DAYS.

And I want to see her.  I want to see her eyes, and whether or not she has hair, and if she looks like Rhys or Quin or Kyle or me or none of us...I want to experience this birth process that I've been fascinated with for as long as I can remember...

I'm so close and so far.  I try to settle in and remember that it's always more exciting to have the full box of maple sugar candy rather than just the empty wrappers with a few maple crumbs in the corner of the box, but then I remember that that's a terrible metaphor because in this case instead of empty wrappers I get an actual baby that I get to keep.

So there's that.

I thought writing might help me find a nice Zen place.  Instead I find that since I rarely write anymore, I'm rusty, which means my writing is 1. of poor quality and 2. hardly satisfying.

Instead of some nice Zen insight, I offer a crude summary:

• Baby is, at this point, head down. 
• VBAC plans are, at this point, a go. 
• I am, at this point, excited and anxious as shit.

38 Weeks.

Baby is breech.

VBAC plans in jeopardy.

This is not the update I'd hoped to be posting.

Letting Go.

First it is summer.  We are finally sleeping at night, we have time for us, we are in a routine.  Our babies are toddlers, and they are delightful.  We are the small family we always wanted to be.

In creeps this unfinished business.  Suddenly I feel like this IUD is exactly what it is - birth CONTROL.  I can't escape the thought that infertility taught me to let go and yet inside my body is something with CONTROL in the title.  I need to face the unknown.  Need to face possibility.  Need to test my strength now that I am where I wanted to be.

We talk.  We discuss.  Do we want to open ourselves to possibility?  We feel pretty balanced as we are.  Kyle worries I will end up where I once was.  Heartbroken.  Depressed.  Disappointed.  Desperate.  And I say, therapeutically, I need this.  I remind him that it wouldn't be about trying for a baby, but to just let life happen.  He listens. 

We decide together.  Ditch the IUD. 

I feel free.

We move on.

Within a month I am disappointed in myself.

I suddenly don't want to nurse the babies anymore.  Could I be pregnant?

A week later.  I still don't want to nurse.  I feel tired.  Am I?

I start craving spice.  I describe my favorite Vietnamese and Thai foods to friends and feel like crying in my desperation to eat it all, now.

I have a talk with myself.  You don't even want to be pregnant right now.  It terrifies you.  You're back at your old tricks...one sleepy afternoon and it MUST be pregnancy, huh?  You're psychotic.  You made a mistake, removing that IUD.  You weren't ready for the unknown.  Don't let Kyle know you're obsessing over this.  Just don't.  You promised him you wouldn't go back there. 

I decide I will take a test on the sly.  Clear the slate.  Confirm what I know must be true.  I am not pregnant but I am insane.  Move on. 

I don't buy a test.  There's no good time.  No good time?

I am tired.  I want spice.  I am peeing awfully frequently.

I fess up to Kyle, sheepish.  I am obsessed with this idea that I'm pregnant.  I can't shake it.  I'm so embarrassed.  I need to take a test, and then I will move on.

I have no idea what he thinks. 

He buys a test on his way home from work. 

Seven weeks have passed since my IUD was removed.

I tear off the cellophane wrapper and run into the bathroom.

I look forward to breathing again.

I pee.

I start to set the test on the counter when I see the blue plus sign.

A blue plus sign.

A blue plus sign.

A blue plus sign.

The symbol I dreamed about through three years of infertility.  The moment I coveted with every desperate cell of my being - casually taking a test, only to find that, indeed, I am pregnant.

The bubble.

Today the babies had their first shots.

I've held off on shots up until now because I think I'm smarter than the American Academy of Pediatrics and their "recommended vaccination schedule." Plus, since I'm not sleeping with all the drug companies who manufacture vaccines, I figure I have a much less biased view on what's really necessary.

And I've researched the issue. Beyond watching Jenny McCarthy on Oprah. Beyond word of mouth concerns about autism and mercury (incidentally, mercury is rarely used in vaccines these days). Beyond the popular conversations on vaccines is a lot of information that I find concerning. Like the fact that the FDA recommends an infant not receive more than 30 micrograms of aluminum in one day, yet most infant vaccines contain anywhere from 125-850 micrograms of it because the FDA doesn't regulate aluminum levels in vaccines. Although it has been established that aluminum can cause neurologic harm, aside from that we really don't know much about how toxic it really may be because it hasn't been thoroughly studied. So suffice to say, I don't feel all warm and fuzzy about injecting my sweet babies full of it. I also don't like the idea of injecting my babies with formaldehyde, MSG, human lung cells, or monkey kidney cells (to name just a few other savory vaccine ingredients). So.

We're lucky to have a fantastic doctor who is willing to customize a vaccination schedule that seems a little less in the pocket of drug companies. For instance, she agrees that our babies are at low risk for Hep B since it's mainly an STD and last I checked the babies aren't yet sexually active. So we're skipping that for now and waiting until they're a little more likely to get lucky.

Anyway, enough non-subtle harping. We are vaccinating, just at our own pace and only when it makes sense.

Today was time for their first shot. HIB, for those of you who are curious about which vaccine my high and mighty self deemed important enough to subject the babies to.

And ouch.

The way their little faces crumpled and their eyes formed tiny tears. The way they cried and then pulled themselves together. The way they fussed all afternoon. The way they refused to nurse. The way they cried without consolation every time they bumped their sore legs. Quin's little fever and swollen, red thigh. Rhys' insistence on continuing to play.

Maybe I'm a little overly dramatic. But they're my babies. And I chose this, knowing it would cause them pain but that it was for the greater good. So ouch. Ouch knowing that this was the first but certainly not the last time I will have to choose some bad with the good for them. Ouch because I can't protect them forever.

Ouch because a Hotwheels band aid and some infant Tylenol won't always fix it.

Ouch.

A Scathing Letter to Infant GERD

Dear Infant GERD,

We haven't spoken in a while. This is my fault as much as yours. I have been busy cleaning up projectile vomit and attempting to soothe my hysterical four month old, who seems to dislike your presence as much as myself.

This breakdown in communication is frankly unhealthy. I would appreciate some form of advance notice before you decide to make my child's life a living hell. Your drop in visits at 3am are pretty passive aggressive, and attacking a sleeping baby is totally unconscionable. My attempts to discreetly send you on your way have gone unnoticed. I douse you with Zantac, with Chamomilla, and yet you persist. Something needs to change.

Perhaps you're unaware of who you're messing with. This mama can get scrappy. Because seriously, GERD, I'm on like zero sleep and way too much sugar for me to take this any longer. Let me start by getting all up in your face with a little verbal assault.

GERD, you are a humongous asshole. When I finally get my exhausted hands on you, I will poke you in the eyeball with a splintered toothpick. Your whole family is ugly. You think you're so cool, but every time you leave the room everyone laughs at you. You know all that puking you cause my son to do? I'm saving that puke. In a plastic baggie tied up with an elastic band. And when I catch you, you're gonna drink it. And smile. You'll have no choice because I'll be holding a large meat cleaver to your head.

Meditate on that for a while, GERD. But keep coming on over, really. I look forward to the opportunity to put my splintered toothpicks to good use.

In the meantime, I suppose it's time to call the doctor.

Who took my map?

After living life for three years as an infertile, I have a confession to make. Four months ago, I would have cringed and threatened to slap myself across the face at such a confession. But I have no self control, so confess I will: I do not know how to be a pregnant person.

Infertility is the cruelest and most painful waiting game I know. Monthly reminders of the lack of conception. Waiting for the next test. The next set of stirrups. The next cycle to start. The next. The next. The next. Waiting to find out if you will ever become pregnant.

Oddly, I got pretty good at all that waiting. I would even say I found peace in it. I accepted the unknowns, not out of some beautiful zen moment, but out of the sheer reality that I had no other option. I embraced the idea that infertility, for me, was a journey. I often even felt lucky to have the opportunity to turn a painful experience into a time of growth, reflection, and acceptance.

And now I am pregnant. I start my fourteenth week today, and I am still in quite the state of shock. I am beyond excited. I feel blissful, lucky lucky lucky, and totally confused.

I don't quite know how to look back and make sense of this most recent development. For me, living infertility was a bit like being suspended in space and time. Becoming pregnant has launched me back into the real world. Living infertility was the most polarizing experience I've ever had with the rest of humanity. Even among my most beloved friends and family, I separated everyone into an "us" and them" sort of alignment: the fertiles vs. the infertiles. Where do I fit in now?

The infertility/fertility journey doesn't end at pregnancy. I never knew that before. I don't know if it ends at birth. My infertility induced clarity, acceptance, and balance seems to have at least momentarily been replaced with a gluttonous appetite for all things baby. I glide from peaceful moments of loving my pregnancy to impatient and frustrated longings to finally hold my babies and see their tiny faces.

And maybe this is really what it's all about. I have about six more months to reflect and sort things out. That's the same amount of time my babies have left to live in the safest and most sheltered environment they'll ever know. And then together they'll join this crazy world. I don't care if my babies grow up to be doctors or lawyers. I want my babies to know that life is beautiful and confusing. And once they know that, I want them to choose to jump right in, with wild and reckless abandon.

Sweet Babies...

Bunk beds...Baby B lounges on top of Baby A. (Look at those skinny little legs!)
Baby A looks like he's thinking. (Yup...Baby A has a penis...)

Baby B sucking his or her thumb.

Hello, second trimester. I'm going to be a mommy.

2WW=Guaranteed Insanity

I have developed multiple personalities.

I can't lie about that.

I can lie about that if I want to.

That's a lie.

What happened to my sandy-footed hope?

Maybe I should take a test. Maybe the test will be negative. If the test is negative, I'll be even crazier from now until Monday.

But maybe I should take a test. Maybe the test will be positive. If the test is positive, I'll be happy and glowing from now until Monday.

If it rains tonight, does that mean I'm pregnant?

Has the world shifted off its axis? Does our globe now rotate around me and my maybe-baby?

Damn my acupuncturist for taking a vacation. I'm an addict and I need a fix. I wonder if safety pins would do the trick...

Maybe I should pee on a stick.

I won't pee on a stick.

Relief

That Royal Jelly could have been the end of me. I could have choked while gagging and been found by my sweet husband crumpled on the floor in a pool of bee juice. Lucky for me, I have a friend who cares about me more than she cares about pretending I'm rational.

"I'm throwing this Royal Jelly away. It's making you sick."

"No! I need it to have a baby!"

"That's ridiculous. You can't even look at it without turning green. I'm throwing it away."

"No! It was expensive! And I need it to have a baby!"

(Picture said friend heading swiftly toward my garbage can.)

"No! No! No! I need it to have a baby!"

(Thwump. This is the sound of said friend ignoring me as she tosses the prized container in the trash.)

"Oh thank god." And a wash of relief.

I feel so free.