Thursday, August 25, 2011
Ppl Who Type Lyk Dis.
Guess what, world - that resume you're going to have to submit at some point? You don't have to limit the number of characters like Twitter. "U" is not "you". Same with "ur" and "your." Want to argue a credit card statement? Good luck being taken seriously when you present your case with purposely misspelled slang: "I didn't buy dat." Do I speak that way? Heck yes. I grew up with a wonderfully diverse background, and the angrier I get, the more incorrect my King's English becomes. But when I sit at a keyboard, it honestly takes MORE energy for me to purposefully type out "I luv all muh peeps an da lil bebes in muh lyf." What does this have to do with pregnancy, you ask? I'm taking prentatal vitamins and cutting out certain foods so that my baby can have a well-developed brain and grow into a smart, contributing member of society. I am NOT giving up Pepsi so that my child can one day text me "I luh yoo, Mamas." Plus, being pregnant makes us cranky, and it just bothers us. How exhausting must it be to have to type in one language at school, and come home and speak fluent HUH? on Facebook. No one is in such a hurry that "Where u at?" will make the difference between life and death. If cutting the "y" and "o" out of the word will, indeed, save a life, then stop texting and call 911. This is why I have resisted Twitter for so long - I'm obviously of the long-winded persuasion, and anything that will limit my thoughts to the point of intentional typos is nothing I want to be a part of. Come on, people... type it OUT!
AFP Tests.
Before I go off on too much of a rant, let me first state my appreciation for modern medicine. Thanks to advances in science and medicine, countless complications have been caught long before they could become devastating surprises. Parents have been prepared. Babies have been saved. So I get it, and I like it. EXCEPT for when a little bit of knowledge causes a whole lotta trouble.
Many of you pregnant women have undergone the AFP screen. It's a simple little blood test that the doctor doesn't make a big deal out of, just a vial and you're done. The screen looks for hormones and secretions and uses math and averages to determine whether or not your unborn baby has an increased risk for certain genetic or chromosomal disorders and syndromes, as well as things like spina bifida and other scary-named stuff. Most of the time, everything comes back normal. Having had two normal screens in the past, I didn't think a thing of it when it came time to do it again. Then I got The Call.
I've been somewhat absent lately. My posts haven't been funny. My Facebook has gone unattended. Even texts are stacking up, unanswered. I've been in hiding. It's how I cope with stuff. Anyways, I got the call just over a week ago that my AFP screen had some back abnormal. Like any normal person, I sobbed and moaned and snotted before I ever even called the doctor back. I was picturing what I thought was the worst case scenario and mourning before I even knew the facts. When I finally got ahold of my doctor, it was way worse than what I had even pictured - the chromosomal disorder my baby had shown an increased risk for was fatal, a death sentence. Before I go any further, it's important to note that the AFP (or tri-, quad-, or quint-) screen is NOT a diagnosis. It merely shows odds that a given baby will be born with these disorders, shows that there's a CHANCE your baby COULD have this. As soon as I hung up the phone, I took to Google, as anyone would, but that didn't help much. The more I learned about the particular syndrome my baby was at risk of, the harder I cried. The kind of cry where your head has to explode to rid itself of the pressure. Where you have to wash the pillow cases the next day. My mom came and picked up my boys so I could sob in solitutde, as is my custom. After I'd napped and fed myself, I was calm enough to Google again, but not trisomies. This time I Googled the AFP test. We all have friends who've had friends who got an abnormal test back, and their babies turned out just fine. It turns out that the reason we all have those friends of friends is because of the 6% of women who get abnormal test results back, approximately 95% of them have perfectly healthy babies. That's pretty insane. That's the VAST majority. That's nearly an A+ in school. THAT'S the reason that many practitioners don't even offer the screen anymore - because there are SO MANY false "positives" that do nothing but scare the crap out of expectant parents. And you know what else? Of the further testing that's available to the 6% of women who need it, sonograms can't rule out or confirm disorders (and only catch 80% of abnormalities), and amniocentesis carries up to a 1 in 100 chance of miscarriage. So if you're told that something MIGHT be wrong with your baby, your options are to a) MAYBE find out more but potentially leave knowing nothing more, or b) risk the life of your baby with only a 5% chance that something was ever even wrong in the first place. Or both. Not only that, but the screen only has an 80% chance of catching something in the first place - so there's still a chance of delivery room surprises. These statistics have been gleaned from all over, and of course there are going to be different numbers from different sources, but the consensus is all the same - MOST babies are fine, and the test is imperfect.
That dang AFP screen causes so much stress and worry and anxiety - none of which are healthy to a pregnancy. What should be one of the most exciting moments in the 10 months of pregnancy is tainted - sure, you find out what you're having, but under the cloud of fear and the question of whether you can truly celebrate. You're too busy craning your neck to check for markers to get excited. Suddenly gender doesn't matter when you're looking for cysts and omphalaceles. You go through one of the most terrifying interviews you'll ever experience, a meeting with a genetic counselor. You sit FOREVER in a waiting room with other mommies-to-be who are just as scared as you are. You do some rough math and wonder which one of you will be the statistic, the one to get the bad news. All the Zantac, Tums, and Mylanta in the world can't settle your stomach. Once we got The Call, many of my friends offered up that they don't even participate in the screening, that they refuse it because of the number of false "positives". This being our last baby, I can't make such a noble stand next time. My own doctor told me that he gets about 5 abnormal test results a week, and in 20 years has had only 6 babies actually have something wrong. I hesitate to use the word "wrong", because each baby is a miracle itself, just as much of a blessing whether they have 10 toes or 5, smooth lip or cleft palate. Whether they get 80 years or 8 hours, a baby is a life and has a purpose.
After a week of stress, tears, fear, insomnia, and being unsure of how much we could celebrate our coming baby girl, we finally made it into the specialists office and onto the sonogram table. Praise God, we were on the majority side of the numbers and there are no signs at all on ultrasound of the disorder in question for our baby. But it took a week to hear that. And some parents wait longer. And go through more tests. And SOME parents don't get the same good news at all.
I'm sure that the roughly 5% of parents who do end up getting bad news that something has gone awry are deeply grateful to the tests that warned them. It takes a certain call and heart to be a genetic counselor, to sit across from terrified parents and attempt to explain to them what could go wrong. I am so thankful for the wonderful doctor performing the sonogram, who puts herself in the messenger's shoes and has to be the one to tell parents when she sees something that shouldn't be there... or doesn't see something that should. It's a dark, lonely, scary side of obstetrics that not everyone sees... but thanks to the AFP test, many, MANY more women than should do see it. Don't get me wrong, I am so glad that medicine has advanced to the point of being ABLE to detect such anomalies. I just think that if it's to the point where we can pee on a Dollar Tree stick and find out our lives are about to be changed, can't that test be improved on a LITTLE BIT?
I was too stressed to eat, to sleep... and that's saying A LOT.
Many of you pregnant women have undergone the AFP screen. It's a simple little blood test that the doctor doesn't make a big deal out of, just a vial and you're done. The screen looks for hormones and secretions and uses math and averages to determine whether or not your unborn baby has an increased risk for certain genetic or chromosomal disorders and syndromes, as well as things like spina bifida and other scary-named stuff. Most of the time, everything comes back normal. Having had two normal screens in the past, I didn't think a thing of it when it came time to do it again. Then I got The Call.
I've been somewhat absent lately. My posts haven't been funny. My Facebook has gone unattended. Even texts are stacking up, unanswered. I've been in hiding. It's how I cope with stuff. Anyways, I got the call just over a week ago that my AFP screen had some back abnormal. Like any normal person, I sobbed and moaned and snotted before I ever even called the doctor back. I was picturing what I thought was the worst case scenario and mourning before I even knew the facts. When I finally got ahold of my doctor, it was way worse than what I had even pictured - the chromosomal disorder my baby had shown an increased risk for was fatal, a death sentence. Before I go any further, it's important to note that the AFP (or tri-, quad-, or quint-) screen is NOT a diagnosis. It merely shows odds that a given baby will be born with these disorders, shows that there's a CHANCE your baby COULD have this. As soon as I hung up the phone, I took to Google, as anyone would, but that didn't help much. The more I learned about the particular syndrome my baby was at risk of, the harder I cried. The kind of cry where your head has to explode to rid itself of the pressure. Where you have to wash the pillow cases the next day. My mom came and picked up my boys so I could sob in solitutde, as is my custom. After I'd napped and fed myself, I was calm enough to Google again, but not trisomies. This time I Googled the AFP test. We all have friends who've had friends who got an abnormal test back, and their babies turned out just fine. It turns out that the reason we all have those friends of friends is because of the 6% of women who get abnormal test results back, approximately 95% of them have perfectly healthy babies. That's pretty insane. That's the VAST majority. That's nearly an A+ in school. THAT'S the reason that many practitioners don't even offer the screen anymore - because there are SO MANY false "positives" that do nothing but scare the crap out of expectant parents. And you know what else? Of the further testing that's available to the 6% of women who need it, sonograms can't rule out or confirm disorders (and only catch 80% of abnormalities), and amniocentesis carries up to a 1 in 100 chance of miscarriage. So if you're told that something MIGHT be wrong with your baby, your options are to a) MAYBE find out more but potentially leave knowing nothing more, or b) risk the life of your baby with only a 5% chance that something was ever even wrong in the first place. Or both. Not only that, but the screen only has an 80% chance of catching something in the first place - so there's still a chance of delivery room surprises. These statistics have been gleaned from all over, and of course there are going to be different numbers from different sources, but the consensus is all the same - MOST babies are fine, and the test is imperfect.
That dang AFP screen causes so much stress and worry and anxiety - none of which are healthy to a pregnancy. What should be one of the most exciting moments in the 10 months of pregnancy is tainted - sure, you find out what you're having, but under the cloud of fear and the question of whether you can truly celebrate. You're too busy craning your neck to check for markers to get excited. Suddenly gender doesn't matter when you're looking for cysts and omphalaceles. You go through one of the most terrifying interviews you'll ever experience, a meeting with a genetic counselor. You sit FOREVER in a waiting room with other mommies-to-be who are just as scared as you are. You do some rough math and wonder which one of you will be the statistic, the one to get the bad news. All the Zantac, Tums, and Mylanta in the world can't settle your stomach. Once we got The Call, many of my friends offered up that they don't even participate in the screening, that they refuse it because of the number of false "positives". This being our last baby, I can't make such a noble stand next time. My own doctor told me that he gets about 5 abnormal test results a week, and in 20 years has had only 6 babies actually have something wrong. I hesitate to use the word "wrong", because each baby is a miracle itself, just as much of a blessing whether they have 10 toes or 5, smooth lip or cleft palate. Whether they get 80 years or 8 hours, a baby is a life and has a purpose.
After a week of stress, tears, fear, insomnia, and being unsure of how much we could celebrate our coming baby girl, we finally made it into the specialists office and onto the sonogram table. Praise God, we were on the majority side of the numbers and there are no signs at all on ultrasound of the disorder in question for our baby. But it took a week to hear that. And some parents wait longer. And go through more tests. And SOME parents don't get the same good news at all.
I'm sure that the roughly 5% of parents who do end up getting bad news that something has gone awry are deeply grateful to the tests that warned them. It takes a certain call and heart to be a genetic counselor, to sit across from terrified parents and attempt to explain to them what could go wrong. I am so thankful for the wonderful doctor performing the sonogram, who puts herself in the messenger's shoes and has to be the one to tell parents when she sees something that shouldn't be there... or doesn't see something that should. It's a dark, lonely, scary side of obstetrics that not everyone sees... but thanks to the AFP test, many, MANY more women than should do see it. Don't get me wrong, I am so glad that medicine has advanced to the point of being ABLE to detect such anomalies. I just think that if it's to the point where we can pee on a Dollar Tree stick and find out our lives are about to be changed, can't that test be improved on a LITTLE BIT?
I was too stressed to eat, to sleep... and that's saying A LOT.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Kit Kat Commercials.
You know the ones. Those Kit Kat commercials that think they're so clever by using people's chews to barely resemble their decades-old jingle. The first round of commercials, I was so distracted by how gross they were that I couldn't hear the melody. Now they've revamped their ads, but I still have to listen to people chew. If I'm going to hear someone taking a bite out of anything, especially chocolate, it's going to have to be me. At least if I'm going to enjoy myself. This is why my husband boycotts Golden Corral - too much audible chewing. Since I barely make it to the table before I start munching, I don't see what the problem is there. Especially with those rolls. Drool. But sitting on my couch, trying to watch Teen Mom, and someone decides I need to hear them enjoy their candy bar? Nope. Homey don't play that. I'll stick to my Snickers and silence, thank you.
Monday, August 22, 2011
When Folks Be Nosy.
This one comes at the suggestion of a special friend! I, personally, am an open book who never knows when to shush, so I can't relate. Much.
"Oh, congratulations. Was it an accident?" "When did you conceive?" "Did you conceive naturally?" "Are you going to breastfeed?" "When was the last time you pooped?" "How are those hemorrhoids treating you?"
Pregnancy is fascinating to people. It turns a mere mortal into a super hero. Her body does what no man's can. Her girth is massive. Her moods are plenty. Her appetite is otherworldly. She grows PEOPLE. Bearing children makes women inadvertent rockstars, human conversation pieces. People like me who blog about the whole thing just feed the hunger that laypeople feel for any scrap of knowledge they can devour about someone's pregnancy. Gestation only lasts for so long, so there's a crunch for time to squeeze out every drop of information, like Final Jeopardy. But don't worry, everyone. Upon baby's arrival entirely new places to stick your noses are born.
Again, I can't completely empathize, since I tend to over-share. But for the sake of those whose bodies can blush, maybe think twice about the questions you ask... and ask yourself why on EARTH you want to know what a newborn's poop looks like.
"Oh, congratulations. Was it an accident?" "When did you conceive?" "Did you conceive naturally?" "Are you going to breastfeed?" "When was the last time you pooped?" "How are those hemorrhoids treating you?"
Pregnancy is fascinating to people. It turns a mere mortal into a super hero. Her body does what no man's can. Her girth is massive. Her moods are plenty. Her appetite is otherworldly. She grows PEOPLE. Bearing children makes women inadvertent rockstars, human conversation pieces. People like me who blog about the whole thing just feed the hunger that laypeople feel for any scrap of knowledge they can devour about someone's pregnancy. Gestation only lasts for so long, so there's a crunch for time to squeeze out every drop of information, like Final Jeopardy. But don't worry, everyone. Upon baby's arrival entirely new places to stick your noses are born.
Again, I can't completely empathize, since I tend to over-share. But for the sake of those whose bodies can blush, maybe think twice about the questions you ask... and ask yourself why on EARTH you want to know what a newborn's poop looks like.
People's Assumptions that "Pregnant" = "Idiot".
"Oh, you're pregnant? You know, it gets hot over the summer." "Congratulations! Labor hurts!" "You know, the baby eats everything you eat." "You're not going to be able to fit into those jeans for long!"
You announce your big news, and suddenly everyone is Bill Nye the Science Guy. They're all geniuses who studied under Dr. Spock himself and hold graduate degrees in sonography and fetal development. And you threw out all brain cells when you welcomed your fetus. What is it about a protruding belly that screams "I don't know any better" to everyone? This being my fourth pregnancy, I kind of know what to expect. I know I'm going to be emotional. I know about stretch marks. I know about vomiting. Heck, I even know about the c-section that will bring this journey to an end. Been there, done that folks. But you can't convince them.
People assume that an announcement (or appearance) of pregnancy is a cry for help, an open call for advice. I'm very glad that castor oil worked for you, but I'd prefer not to poop myself, thank you. I can read. I DO read. It's a little-known fact that expectant mothers, regardless of the number of children they've had, soak up every bit of pregnancy literature they can and have at least 4 pregnancy apps on their phones. We keep watching A Baby Story, even though we've seen them all. We know what to expect when we're expecting, but we still keep that giant book in the bathroom. Well, maybe not Michelle Duggar, but I can't be sure. She does have an iPhone.
So please give us pregnant gals the benefit of the doubt. We do have momnesia. We are scatter-brained. We are sleep-deprived. And we're most likely hungry. But we're not dumb. We're aware of the temperature. We've heard about gravity. Even the food pyramid rings a bell. The best kind of advice is the advice that's asked for. Now go save someone else, Captain Obvious.
You announce your big news, and suddenly everyone is Bill Nye the Science Guy. They're all geniuses who studied under Dr. Spock himself and hold graduate degrees in sonography and fetal development. And you threw out all brain cells when you welcomed your fetus. What is it about a protruding belly that screams "I don't know any better" to everyone? This being my fourth pregnancy, I kind of know what to expect. I know I'm going to be emotional. I know about stretch marks. I know about vomiting. Heck, I even know about the c-section that will bring this journey to an end. Been there, done that folks. But you can't convince them.
People assume that an announcement (or appearance) of pregnancy is a cry for help, an open call for advice. I'm very glad that castor oil worked for you, but I'd prefer not to poop myself, thank you. I can read. I DO read. It's a little-known fact that expectant mothers, regardless of the number of children they've had, soak up every bit of pregnancy literature they can and have at least 4 pregnancy apps on their phones. We keep watching A Baby Story, even though we've seen them all. We know what to expect when we're expecting, but we still keep that giant book in the bathroom. Well, maybe not Michelle Duggar, but I can't be sure. She does have an iPhone.
So please give us pregnant gals the benefit of the doubt. We do have momnesia. We are scatter-brained. We are sleep-deprived. And we're most likely hungry. But we're not dumb. We're aware of the temperature. We've heard about gravity. Even the food pyramid rings a bell. The best kind of advice is the advice that's asked for. Now go save someone else, Captain Obvious.
When Something's Wrong.
Even before we begin thinking about conception, most mommies-to-be start worrying. Myself and a good friend both had the immeasurable joy of being pregnant while taking a college course on human development, which of course is basically a list of things that can go wrong. Pregnant women constantly have things in the back of their mind - How much caffeine have I had? Which side did I sleep on? How hot is my bath water? Did that dream that I delivered a goldfish baby MEAN anything? (True story.) We worry about disorders, imbalances, too much, too little, and the awful M-word. Not being able to SEE the baby is terrifying sometimes. Did you do your kick counts today? Did that dessert contain aspartame? Does he have a tail?
Most of the time everything is fine. But sometimes it's not. AFP tests, sonograms, and trips to the ER sometimes come back with heartbreaking results. This is hard enough. We've all had friends who have been through this, some of us ourselves have experienced it. It's HARD. There's absolutely nothing anyone can say, right? Then why do people TRY?!
Almost two years ago, we lost a baby. It was hard. We put our faith in God and His perfect will, regardless of how ugly or difficult it might be. We made it through. We, like most parents who experience loss, never expected it. You know what else we didn't expect? The dumb things people say. "That's okay, you weren't that far along anyway." "Let's hope that one wasn't a girl!" "You must not have prayed hard enough." "At least you know you can get pregnant." "Let me tell you about MY miscarriage..." None of that was helpful. I'm sure you're reading this and either have your mouth agape at the insensitivity of people, or are recalling the dumb stuff someone said to you. I've had friends go through heart-wrenching experiences with genetics and choromosomes and the absolute inability to carry a child. It's all hard. And you know what works? Hugs and prayers. Not advice. Not jokes. Not stories about what you went through. Hugs and prayers. Have a friend going through something? Hug her and pray for her. Going through something? Accept those hugs and prayers. God is in control. He's not always visible, He's not always vocal, but He's never taken by surprise, and He has a perfect will that is at work. Hugs.
Most of the time everything is fine. But sometimes it's not. AFP tests, sonograms, and trips to the ER sometimes come back with heartbreaking results. This is hard enough. We've all had friends who have been through this, some of us ourselves have experienced it. It's HARD. There's absolutely nothing anyone can say, right? Then why do people TRY?!
Almost two years ago, we lost a baby. It was hard. We put our faith in God and His perfect will, regardless of how ugly or difficult it might be. We made it through. We, like most parents who experience loss, never expected it. You know what else we didn't expect? The dumb things people say. "That's okay, you weren't that far along anyway." "Let's hope that one wasn't a girl!" "You must not have prayed hard enough." "At least you know you can get pregnant." "Let me tell you about MY miscarriage..." None of that was helpful. I'm sure you're reading this and either have your mouth agape at the insensitivity of people, or are recalling the dumb stuff someone said to you. I've had friends go through heart-wrenching experiences with genetics and choromosomes and the absolute inability to carry a child. It's all hard. And you know what works? Hugs and prayers. Not advice. Not jokes. Not stories about what you went through. Hugs and prayers. Have a friend going through something? Hug her and pray for her. Going through something? Accept those hugs and prayers. God is in control. He's not always visible, He's not always vocal, but He's never taken by surprise, and He has a perfect will that is at work. Hugs.
Army Men.
I love conspiracy theories. Area 51, the JFK assassination, Brangelina... I eat that stuff up. I watch the History Channel late at night and wonder, just maybe...
However, I do not enjoy when conspiracies are designed to affect me. Movie theater popcorn (you buy a bucket, and you HAVE to buy a drink), moms who say that c-sections are fun (we've been over that one), and now, army men. Not the kind who devote their lives and safety to protecting the ideals of our country. The plastic kind. The ones you're probably staring in their dead, plastic eyes right now, not suspecting a thing. Yeah, those...
Since we have boys, we have lots of these guys. In various colors and sizes. It's like a melting pot of armed forces figurines around here. Being boys, my kids love to play aggressively with them. Shooting, hunting, chasing, jumping, policing, warring, mooing... they'll play any game with them. Loudly. And they usually spit a lot. But my boys are not at the center of this conspiracy. Oh no, they're none the wiser. It's the army men.
Once the games are over and the kids are in bed, the army men gather 'round and come up with their plan. I know this, because it's always a different plan. They lay out their strategy maps and speak in grunts too low to be heard from the master bedroom. Once a plan of action has been agreed upon, they set it into motion.
You wake up at some point, either to pee or to respond to the cries of a child. You stumble through the dark, disoriented, disheveled... barefoot. You can't hear it, but this is when Alpha Team gives the go signal. A small, dark, hard, pointy army man is dispatched to a location never before known to be indigenous to their kind. The hall, the carpet, the bathroom... Once everything is in place, all that remains is your contribution - your bare, unsuspecting foot.
You bounce off of hallway walls as though being tossed by waves on a rocking boat, too tired to walk a straight line... or turn on a light. And then it happens. The most softest of places within the arch of your feet comes down, hard, with all of your weight, on that evil little army man. Everyone's sleeping, so you can't scream. It's not bleeding, so you can't get sympathy the next day. But dear GOD it hurts. You can kick the army man if you want, try to get your revenge on him. But he's plastic. And it'll only anger him for the next time.
And now that we've found out we're expecting a girl, I can only assume that Barbie and her tiny accessories wreak the same kind of havoc.
However, I do not enjoy when conspiracies are designed to affect me. Movie theater popcorn (you buy a bucket, and you HAVE to buy a drink), moms who say that c-sections are fun (we've been over that one), and now, army men. Not the kind who devote their lives and safety to protecting the ideals of our country. The plastic kind. The ones you're probably staring in their dead, plastic eyes right now, not suspecting a thing. Yeah, those...
Since we have boys, we have lots of these guys. In various colors and sizes. It's like a melting pot of armed forces figurines around here. Being boys, my kids love to play aggressively with them. Shooting, hunting, chasing, jumping, policing, warring, mooing... they'll play any game with them. Loudly. And they usually spit a lot. But my boys are not at the center of this conspiracy. Oh no, they're none the wiser. It's the army men.
Once the games are over and the kids are in bed, the army men gather 'round and come up with their plan. I know this, because it's always a different plan. They lay out their strategy maps and speak in grunts too low to be heard from the master bedroom. Once a plan of action has been agreed upon, they set it into motion.
You wake up at some point, either to pee or to respond to the cries of a child. You stumble through the dark, disoriented, disheveled... barefoot. You can't hear it, but this is when Alpha Team gives the go signal. A small, dark, hard, pointy army man is dispatched to a location never before known to be indigenous to their kind. The hall, the carpet, the bathroom... Once everything is in place, all that remains is your contribution - your bare, unsuspecting foot.
You bounce off of hallway walls as though being tossed by waves on a rocking boat, too tired to walk a straight line... or turn on a light. And then it happens. The most softest of places within the arch of your feet comes down, hard, with all of your weight, on that evil little army man. Everyone's sleeping, so you can't scream. It's not bleeding, so you can't get sympathy the next day. But dear GOD it hurts. You can kick the army man if you want, try to get your revenge on him. But he's plastic. And it'll only anger him for the next time.
And now that we've found out we're expecting a girl, I can only assume that Barbie and her tiny accessories wreak the same kind of havoc.
Mondays. The Perfect Storm.
You probably don't have Mondays like this one. Yours probably started out with a nice, slow drizzle of rain that pitter-patted ever so softly against the window, you room dulled grey by the overcast sky. Your kids slept in. And when they did wake up, they left you alone. Wiped themselves. Did the dishes. Ordered your favorite pizza that arrived just as you woke up feeling completely rested. Your trip to Hobby Lobby went swimmingly, with nothing broken by your kids, and your total was WAY under budget. Sonic decided to start Happy Hour early. And the children played quietly and cooperatively while you worked happily on your projects. Oh, and your cell phone had a fully-charged battery ALL DAY.
My Monday hasn't gotten off to quite as good of a start as yours.
Kids were up late, so I was up late. Sciatic nerve kept me up a LOT. Kids woke up early, because it hasn't rained in 20 years and the rooms are all brighter than the actual surface of the sun by 6 am. The little one climbed in the pantry and got into my Bliss white chocolate squares, so he's wired for a month. And I'm out of Bliss white chocolate squares. Big one decided he's a dog, so he's barking. Due to the ridiculously busy summer we've had, we haven't been home a lot, so the groceries have dwindled down to orange juice and uncooked pasta. Darling husband took my car - which has the carseats, thus trapping us. Doctor's office hasn't sent in some VERY important paperwork. Yo Gabba Gabba is on. Laptop has a virus. Kids sense that it's Monday and mutiny begins. People post pictures and descriptions of food on Facebook. The local news shows up at the front door to interview me on camera while I'm wearing pajamas and Phil Spector hair. Okay, that last part didn't happen... yet. But today is one of those perfect storm Mondays where everything is aggravating and you start to wonder how sympathetic you, as a pregnant woman, would appear to a jury...
My Monday hasn't gotten off to quite as good of a start as yours.
Kids were up late, so I was up late. Sciatic nerve kept me up a LOT. Kids woke up early, because it hasn't rained in 20 years and the rooms are all brighter than the actual surface of the sun by 6 am. The little one climbed in the pantry and got into my Bliss white chocolate squares, so he's wired for a month. And I'm out of Bliss white chocolate squares. Big one decided he's a dog, so he's barking. Due to the ridiculously busy summer we've had, we haven't been home a lot, so the groceries have dwindled down to orange juice and uncooked pasta. Darling husband took my car - which has the carseats, thus trapping us. Doctor's office hasn't sent in some VERY important paperwork. Yo Gabba Gabba is on. Laptop has a virus. Kids sense that it's Monday and mutiny begins. People post pictures and descriptions of food on Facebook. The local news shows up at the front door to interview me on camera while I'm wearing pajamas and Phil Spector hair. Okay, that last part didn't happen... yet. But today is one of those perfect storm Mondays where everything is aggravating and you start to wonder how sympathetic you, as a pregnant woman, would appear to a jury...
Monday, August 15, 2011
Waking Up.
Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Crazy dreams, multiple potty breaks in the night, heartburn, sciatic nerve pain, hip and back pain, more crazy stress dreams, needing water, MORE potty breaks, round ligament pain, kicks, waking up on your right side and quickly flipping over to your left in fear... Pregnant women don't get REST at night. We work almost as hard through the night as we do during the day! Naps are pretty much mandatory. People like to say that it's practice for the restless nights you'll have once baby comes home. Those people aren't pregnant.
So please give us a break. Let us sleep once we are finally out. Don't wake us up early asking for something to drink. (Could someone teach my kids to read??) Don't be mad if we don't make it through the movie. And ESPECIALLY don't hold the crankiness against us.
As night approaches our stress level rises. We approach bedtime with the same reticence as Frodo beginning his epic journey to Mordor. We don't know if we'll make it, but we're sure going to try, for the good of mankind.
So please give us a break. Let us sleep once we are finally out. Don't wake us up early asking for something to drink. (Could someone teach my kids to read??) Don't be mad if we don't make it through the movie. And ESPECIALLY don't hold the crankiness against us.
As night approaches our stress level rises. We approach bedtime with the same reticence as Frodo beginning his epic journey to Mordor. We don't know if we'll make it, but we're sure going to try, for the good of mankind.
Shaving Our Legs.
I have been blessed this time around in that I am due in the winter. Oh happy day! But I have not been so lucky before, nor have countless other pregnant women. Already the excessive heat of summer is misery-inducing to pregnant women, what with all the extra body heat we're producing on our own, the swelling, the fear of boiling the baby inside our bellies. But then add the absolute nightmare of having the upkeep of Summer Fabulous legs and toes. We can't hide Hairy and the Hendersons under pants, or else we'll melt. And so we must do the Humpty Dance - not the one from the 90's, but the actual Humpty Dumpty might have a great fall Dance. The precious little darling you're carring is RIGHT in the way of reaching down, reaching around... reaching anywhere. Shaving your legs becomes an Olympic event that leaves you frustrated, out of breath, sore, and most likely bleeding. We have to heave and ho, rock back and forth, gaining enough momentum to lunge forward and swing back, all while wielding a RAZOR. Same goes for painting our little piggies. Try pulling off a salon-worthy pedicure when you're coming at your toes like a pendulum, holding a dripping polish brush. I asked my husband to paint my toes for me once... Once.
We have an ENORMOUS exercise ball that our boys love to play with. They run at it, jump on top with their bellies, and let the ball roll them around, completely at the mercy of whichever direction the ball wants to take them, unable to reach the floor with their limbs to put the brakes on. It's just like that when you try to shave your legs with a pregnant belly. Except the exercise ball doesn't push into their bladder and lungs and make them have to pee and catch their breath.
And so I am thankful for the blessed winter arrival of Baby Question Mark. I can hide under pants. I can wear close-toed shoes. And you can't judge me!
We have an ENORMOUS exercise ball that our boys love to play with. They run at it, jump on top with their bellies, and let the ball roll them around, completely at the mercy of whichever direction the ball wants to take them, unable to reach the floor with their limbs to put the brakes on. It's just like that when you try to shave your legs with a pregnant belly. Except the exercise ball doesn't push into their bladder and lungs and make them have to pee and catch their breath.
And so I am thankful for the blessed winter arrival of Baby Question Mark. I can hide under pants. I can wear close-toed shoes. And you can't judge me!
When You Poke/Pet/Rub/Touch Us.
Exception: People who want to pray for the baby.
It's like a kitten, maybe even that microfleece blanket you walk past in the store - people just have an urge to reach out and touch a pregnant belly. Sometimes they ask, most times they don't. I personally don't feel the need to reach out and touch someone. But countless others do. They walk up and talk to your belly - speaking directly to baby's butt. They rub your bump, blissfully unaware that it's lunch they're loving on. They pet your hair and arms, like Dr. Evil and Mr. Bigglesworth. What is it about being hormonal and hot that draws people to want such constant contact with us?! I knew a grown woman once who insisted on poking my pregnant belly. Like, hard. Index finger extended, she would loom towards me like the Wicked Witch going after the Pillsbury Doughboy. And poke. Not a "Put 'er there, pal" poke. Multiple, repeated pokes that really kind of hurt. And as constipated as pregnant women can get, she was playing Rip One Roullette by poking so much. I thought this was an anomaly. I mean, who else would think to poke a pregnant woman? Then we moved and I got pregnant again, and, you guessed it, ANOTHER girl started poking me.
We're PEOPLE, not Play Dough, waiting to be molded and sculpted in the knowing hands of the master.
Did Quasimodo have the same problem? No, he didn't. So why do people practically chase us down to feel us up? I get it, the miracle of growing life and whatnot. And every now and then you can get lucky and feel a kick or twirl or triple sow-cow. But what ever happened to ASKING?! I've known women who, when approached by others open-handed, would reach out and rub the person's belly themselves! Very brave.
For the most part, I don't have a problem with it... if only people would ASK. And maybe wait until I'm showing good and big. Don't rub last night's dinner and tell me how big I'm getting.
We pregnant women are not troll dolls. Rubbing our bellies will not bring you extra luck in BINGO. Poking us will not make us giggle. Petting us will not make us purr. Buying us Snickers will. So please, people, just ASK before you grab!
It's like a kitten, maybe even that microfleece blanket you walk past in the store - people just have an urge to reach out and touch a pregnant belly. Sometimes they ask, most times they don't. I personally don't feel the need to reach out and touch someone. But countless others do. They walk up and talk to your belly - speaking directly to baby's butt. They rub your bump, blissfully unaware that it's lunch they're loving on. They pet your hair and arms, like Dr. Evil and Mr. Bigglesworth. What is it about being hormonal and hot that draws people to want such constant contact with us?! I knew a grown woman once who insisted on poking my pregnant belly. Like, hard. Index finger extended, she would loom towards me like the Wicked Witch going after the Pillsbury Doughboy. And poke. Not a "Put 'er there, pal" poke. Multiple, repeated pokes that really kind of hurt. And as constipated as pregnant women can get, she was playing Rip One Roullette by poking so much. I thought this was an anomaly. I mean, who else would think to poke a pregnant woman? Then we moved and I got pregnant again, and, you guessed it, ANOTHER girl started poking me.
We're PEOPLE, not Play Dough, waiting to be molded and sculpted in the knowing hands of the master.
Did Quasimodo have the same problem? No, he didn't. So why do people practically chase us down to feel us up? I get it, the miracle of growing life and whatnot. And every now and then you can get lucky and feel a kick or twirl or triple sow-cow. But what ever happened to ASKING?! I've known women who, when approached by others open-handed, would reach out and rub the person's belly themselves! Very brave.
For the most part, I don't have a problem with it... if only people would ASK. And maybe wait until I'm showing good and big. Don't rub last night's dinner and tell me how big I'm getting.
We pregnant women are not troll dolls. Rubbing our bellies will not bring you extra luck in BINGO. Poking us will not make us giggle. Petting us will not make us purr. Buying us Snickers will. So please, people, just ASK before you grab!
Friday, August 12, 2011
When ERRBODY Has an Opinion About How You Feed Your Baby.
This post was forthcoming on its own, but I received SEVERAL requests for a rant on this subject, so here goes.
Give me a moment to construct my soapbox.
And.... go.
During my flagship pregnancy, as you read before, I had a very specific plan laid out. Pregnancy would be spent on my left side in a luxurious TempurPedic bed (dad GUM those things are expensive). Delivery would be in a hospital, but doctors and administrators alike would marvel at my abilities to naturally slide a baby out with no medical intervention (yeah, okay). And feeding would be via me, for the first year, just as everyone on the face of the planet and whoever spelled it out in the Lactose Galaxy stars had insisted. Welp, with a baby in the NICU, this didn't go according to plan, either.
You read about it in books. Your grandmother goes on and on about it. The covers of the free magazines you get from your OB are emblazoned with photos of it happening. The lady in the booth across from you at Chili's is showing you EXACTLY how. Everywhere you look (even when you're trying to look away), everyone is screaming the benefits of, and darn near requiring, breastfeeding. "Oh, it's the best thing for baby!" "Oh, you'll love it!" "Oh, hand me my Hooter Hider so I can whip it out here at the bowling alley!" Just about everyone builds nursing up to such a fevered pitch that you are meant to feel like it's the only option for you and your baby. Momma's milk is, indeed, a precious commodity, liquid gold that is squeezed for every drop like the clouds of their rain after a year-long drought in the Sahara desert. But it's NOT the only option you have. Sometimes you can't, sometimes you don't want to, sometimes it doesn't fit your lifestyle, sometimes there are health issues, sometimes the baby needs supplements, sometimes you adopt, sometimes, sometimes, sometimes... Women are so ingrained that breast is best that it subconsciously creates the idea that formula is BAD. Guess what? It ain't. Expensive? Yes. Stinky? Oh, heck yes. Bad? Not a chance.
Post-partum nurses have been known to roll their eyes and call lactation specialists against patient's wishes. Little old ladies - or even those ladies who walk around the zoo nursing their 3-year old (I saw it myself) - give you disapproving looks as you buy cans of Enfamil. I myself have even experienced pangs of guilt and embarrassment as I asked the cashier for two cans. "Oh, but you should try to nurse him when he comes home!" "Oh, pump as long as you can!" "Oh, you're such a bad mom for shaking that bottle instead of shaking your..." Well, that last one didn't happen. But you know what DID happen? A woman I knew barely as an acquaintance offered to nurse my son FOR me. Yep. I don't even remember how I worded my response. Everyone around me assumed that because my child wasn't being fed BY me, that I must need help parenting. That he was destined for multiple ear infections, allergies, and intenstinal issues. He wouldn't grow properly. He would sprout a tail. Everyone assumed that I had made a selfish choice to save my "self" rather than give my baby the best. No one knew about the months I spent pumping, the nights I spent sobbing, the regret I felt the first time I gave him formula.
Fast-forward to my second son. Thankfully, everything went perfectly, and I was able to feed him as soon as we got to the delivery room, all on my own. I would sometimes nurse him and cry silently, so thankful that God had created my body to do that for him. (Although, I have been known to be on the hormonal side from time to time.) And you know what happened? People judged me. I must be a hippie. I must be weird. I even had a friend who told me someone said "Don't you know breastfeeding will make a boy gay?" And people wouldn't give me my stinking PRIVACY! "How long has he been on that side?" "Won't he get gas if you eat that?" "Is he gaining enough weight?" "You know, he won't sleep through the night until he's two if you keep feeding him like that." "Has he sprouted the golden wings the mothers of old promised he'd get when you started nursing him?"
It's a sad fact of life that you can't win 'em all. You can't please everyone, and their opinions are going to continue coming, just like Christmas... although we're always surprised at how both sneak up on us.
But how YOU choose to feed YOUR baby is what is best for YOUR family. Except the 18-month-old I saw in Party City drinking a 20-oz. Coke with a bottle nipple screwed on top. Go ahead and judge that lady.
Formula isn't bad. Breast isn't always best. My skinny formula baby has had fewer infections, illnesses, and allergies than my chubby Mommy-fed baby. They're both gorgeous. They're both geniuses. Neither of them have tails or wings.
The next time you have a friend who is beating herself up because her milk never let down, give her a hug. The next time your friend nurses her baby through the movie, ignore it. Encourage rather than judge! Educate yourselves on the near-countless options - Momma's milk, goat's milk, formula... And if your pediatrician isn't supportive of your choice, find a new pediatrician. Raising a family isn't about opinions and winning arguments, it's about making healthy choices that are best for all of you.
Give me a moment to construct my soapbox.
And.... go.
During my flagship pregnancy, as you read before, I had a very specific plan laid out. Pregnancy would be spent on my left side in a luxurious TempurPedic bed (dad GUM those things are expensive). Delivery would be in a hospital, but doctors and administrators alike would marvel at my abilities to naturally slide a baby out with no medical intervention (yeah, okay). And feeding would be via me, for the first year, just as everyone on the face of the planet and whoever spelled it out in the Lactose Galaxy stars had insisted. Welp, with a baby in the NICU, this didn't go according to plan, either.
You read about it in books. Your grandmother goes on and on about it. The covers of the free magazines you get from your OB are emblazoned with photos of it happening. The lady in the booth across from you at Chili's is showing you EXACTLY how. Everywhere you look (even when you're trying to look away), everyone is screaming the benefits of, and darn near requiring, breastfeeding. "Oh, it's the best thing for baby!" "Oh, you'll love it!" "Oh, hand me my Hooter Hider so I can whip it out here at the bowling alley!" Just about everyone builds nursing up to such a fevered pitch that you are meant to feel like it's the only option for you and your baby. Momma's milk is, indeed, a precious commodity, liquid gold that is squeezed for every drop like the clouds of their rain after a year-long drought in the Sahara desert. But it's NOT the only option you have. Sometimes you can't, sometimes you don't want to, sometimes it doesn't fit your lifestyle, sometimes there are health issues, sometimes the baby needs supplements, sometimes you adopt, sometimes, sometimes, sometimes... Women are so ingrained that breast is best that it subconsciously creates the idea that formula is BAD. Guess what? It ain't. Expensive? Yes. Stinky? Oh, heck yes. Bad? Not a chance.
Post-partum nurses have been known to roll their eyes and call lactation specialists against patient's wishes. Little old ladies - or even those ladies who walk around the zoo nursing their 3-year old (I saw it myself) - give you disapproving looks as you buy cans of Enfamil. I myself have even experienced pangs of guilt and embarrassment as I asked the cashier for two cans. "Oh, but you should try to nurse him when he comes home!" "Oh, pump as long as you can!" "Oh, you're such a bad mom for shaking that bottle instead of shaking your..." Well, that last one didn't happen. But you know what DID happen? A woman I knew barely as an acquaintance offered to nurse my son FOR me. Yep. I don't even remember how I worded my response. Everyone around me assumed that because my child wasn't being fed BY me, that I must need help parenting. That he was destined for multiple ear infections, allergies, and intenstinal issues. He wouldn't grow properly. He would sprout a tail. Everyone assumed that I had made a selfish choice to save my "self" rather than give my baby the best. No one knew about the months I spent pumping, the nights I spent sobbing, the regret I felt the first time I gave him formula.
Fast-forward to my second son. Thankfully, everything went perfectly, and I was able to feed him as soon as we got to the delivery room, all on my own. I would sometimes nurse him and cry silently, so thankful that God had created my body to do that for him. (Although, I have been known to be on the hormonal side from time to time.) And you know what happened? People judged me. I must be a hippie. I must be weird. I even had a friend who told me someone said "Don't you know breastfeeding will make a boy gay?" And people wouldn't give me my stinking PRIVACY! "How long has he been on that side?" "Won't he get gas if you eat that?" "Is he gaining enough weight?" "You know, he won't sleep through the night until he's two if you keep feeding him like that." "Has he sprouted the golden wings the mothers of old promised he'd get when you started nursing him?"
It's a sad fact of life that you can't win 'em all. You can't please everyone, and their opinions are going to continue coming, just like Christmas... although we're always surprised at how both sneak up on us.
But how YOU choose to feed YOUR baby is what is best for YOUR family. Except the 18-month-old I saw in Party City drinking a 20-oz. Coke with a bottle nipple screwed on top. Go ahead and judge that lady.
Formula isn't bad. Breast isn't always best. My skinny formula baby has had fewer infections, illnesses, and allergies than my chubby Mommy-fed baby. They're both gorgeous. They're both geniuses. Neither of them have tails or wings.
The next time you have a friend who is beating herself up because her milk never let down, give her a hug. The next time your friend nurses her baby through the movie, ignore it. Encourage rather than judge! Educate yourselves on the near-countless options - Momma's milk, goat's milk, formula... And if your pediatrician isn't supportive of your choice, find a new pediatrician. Raising a family isn't about opinions and winning arguments, it's about making healthy choices that are best for all of you.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
When People Think Their Horror Stories Are Helpful.
This was yet another suggestion by an awesome mommy!
You know it's happened to you. My first was the greeter lady at Wal Mart. "Oh, he's a preemie? My daughter had a preemie. He died." I didn't even get a smiley face sticker with that little nugget.
It seems like the second people find out you're expecting, they a) assume you know nothing and can observe nothing on your own, and b) want to share every dark detail of their own scarring experience. Delivery room fish tales of 14-pound babies that caused tearing worse than what the Berlin Wall experienced. Epidurals that didn't work or caused strokes. Nursing babies that were born with teeth. Surprise twins. Surprise gender mistakes. Surprise labor. Surprise disorders. Hermaphrodites. Dictator doctors. And the absolute worst story you can hear: those who lost their babies.
These are all sad, crazy, mind-blowing stories. The women who experienced them are real and had real obstacles to overcome. But are they gems that help an excited pregnant woman in any way? NO. Cautionary tales are one thing. Freaking out a helpless mommy-to-be is quite another. What ever happened to "Congratulations"? (Which, by the way, is spelled with a T, not a D, people!) Pregnant woman are often like the old vets you see sitting outside of Cracker Barrel, playing giant checkers in those ridiculously expensive rocking chairs. We swap stories, try to one-up each other on either smoothness or misery of pregnancy. But needlessly terrifying each other? It's cruel. It does nothing but satisfy the person who is telling the story.
I have a problem in that I am almost entirely non-confrontational, so while I have plenty of witty responses in my head, I have no backbone to deliver them. So this is one I'd love to hear you sound off on. What was YOUR response to the person who inevitably told you something awful about pregnancy and/or delivery?
You know it's happened to you. My first was the greeter lady at Wal Mart. "Oh, he's a preemie? My daughter had a preemie. He died." I didn't even get a smiley face sticker with that little nugget.
It seems like the second people find out you're expecting, they a) assume you know nothing and can observe nothing on your own, and b) want to share every dark detail of their own scarring experience. Delivery room fish tales of 14-pound babies that caused tearing worse than what the Berlin Wall experienced. Epidurals that didn't work or caused strokes. Nursing babies that were born with teeth. Surprise twins. Surprise gender mistakes. Surprise labor. Surprise disorders. Hermaphrodites. Dictator doctors. And the absolute worst story you can hear: those who lost their babies.
These are all sad, crazy, mind-blowing stories. The women who experienced them are real and had real obstacles to overcome. But are they gems that help an excited pregnant woman in any way? NO. Cautionary tales are one thing. Freaking out a helpless mommy-to-be is quite another. What ever happened to "Congratulations"? (Which, by the way, is spelled with a T, not a D, people!) Pregnant woman are often like the old vets you see sitting outside of Cracker Barrel, playing giant checkers in those ridiculously expensive rocking chairs. We swap stories, try to one-up each other on either smoothness or misery of pregnancy. But needlessly terrifying each other? It's cruel. It does nothing but satisfy the person who is telling the story.
I have a problem in that I am almost entirely non-confrontational, so while I have plenty of witty responses in my head, I have no backbone to deliver them. So this is one I'd love to hear you sound off on. What was YOUR response to the person who inevitably told you something awful about pregnancy and/or delivery?
When People Criticize Your Birth Story/Plan.
This one's personal for me.
Birth plans and birth stories are personal for EVERYONE, to be fair. But this crime agaist mommies is one that can have lasting effects, for years even.
When I was younger (read: thinner), I was shaped like Kim Kardashian. Unfortunately, I didn't have the sense to appreciate it while it was there. Hips in high school are hard to pull off. So I comforted myself with the thought that they were child-bearing hips. Hips that my perfect, healthy, 8-pound babies would practically crawl through with nary a whimper from me. Hips with a mind of their own, that could absorb contractions. Hips that would make up for years of gaping waistbands that showed off my undergarments when I bent over. If you knew me in high school, you remember that part. So when I found out that I was expecting our first child (surprise!), I had the utmost confidence in my body to deliver a giant baby, completely naturally, with absolutely no medical intervention. Drug-free. I was THRILLED with my choice. My mom did it with me. Countless women had done it for centuries. Heck, dogs did it under the stairs. If I'm being completely honest, I even felt a little smug about it, a bit superior. Especially when people told me I was crazy or expressed doubt in my ability. And then it happened.
My first pregnancy started going terribly, horribly wrong. Bed rest, fetal monitoring, and biophysical profiles, oh my! My son was delivered prematurely by emergency c-section, weighing a mere 3 pounds, 8 ounces. Definitely not the birth plan I'd had in mind. I was devastated. The measures were medically necessary and absolutely saved his life, but I couldn't help feeling like I'd failed. And it didn't help that no one warns you about how much c-sections HURT. I've spoken with dozens of other c-section mommies who felt the same way, as though we'd been robbed of an experience. So while walking around with this weighing on my shoulders, this happened:
Celine Dion plays loudly.
Me: "Oh, this is the song that was playing when I had A."
Ignorant Woman Who Wears a Size 0: "What?"
Me: "Well, it was playing in the OR when they delivered him."
Ignorant Woman Who Wears a Size 0: "Oh, I was about to say. Since you didn't actually have him."
Insert imaginary punch here.
Jerks. People are jerks. The main thread through most of these posts is that it's PEOPLE and the things they do or say that anger us pregnant gals. I eventually got over my feelings of loss about a c-section (although not the size-0 gal). And then I got pregnant with my second son, and the date of the repeat c-section was announced, and I was flooded with "advice" and opinions against c-sections. I'm not going to turn this into a forum where we can discuss the pluses and minuses of c-sections or any other kind of births. The fact is, it's MY delivery, MY baby, and the choices were made by MY doctor when looking at MY medical history. Do I envy women who were able to attempt or complete a VBAC? Yes. Do I think less of women who are able to deliver vaginally and opt for pain relief? No. Should you? Heck no. If you give birth in a bathtub, hospital bed, rice paddy, or operating room, you gave birth. You are a Mommy. No one has any right to cloud that joy with their own opinions. The fact is, your uterus is doing an amazing thing no matter what. You brought a child into the world, and no one should ever be allowed to open their mouths about HOW they entered it. Same goes for adoption. Mommies are mommies, whether the baby grew in their bellies or their hearts.
So the next time you want to think your friend who amazingly delivered drug-free is a hippie, or your friend with the planned c-section is taking the easy way out, or your friend who begged for an epidural while at 2 centimeters is a weakling, stop. There's no easy way to bring a baby into the world. Good luck with your birth plan, whatever it may be, and don't let any little changes in it steal your joy at the overall experience. I may not have gotten to hold my son the second he was born, but I have the rest of his life to do that.
Birth plans and birth stories are personal for EVERYONE, to be fair. But this crime agaist mommies is one that can have lasting effects, for years even.
When I was younger (read: thinner), I was shaped like Kim Kardashian. Unfortunately, I didn't have the sense to appreciate it while it was there. Hips in high school are hard to pull off. So I comforted myself with the thought that they were child-bearing hips. Hips that my perfect, healthy, 8-pound babies would practically crawl through with nary a whimper from me. Hips with a mind of their own, that could absorb contractions. Hips that would make up for years of gaping waistbands that showed off my undergarments when I bent over. If you knew me in high school, you remember that part. So when I found out that I was expecting our first child (surprise!), I had the utmost confidence in my body to deliver a giant baby, completely naturally, with absolutely no medical intervention. Drug-free. I was THRILLED with my choice. My mom did it with me. Countless women had done it for centuries. Heck, dogs did it under the stairs. If I'm being completely honest, I even felt a little smug about it, a bit superior. Especially when people told me I was crazy or expressed doubt in my ability. And then it happened.
My first pregnancy started going terribly, horribly wrong. Bed rest, fetal monitoring, and biophysical profiles, oh my! My son was delivered prematurely by emergency c-section, weighing a mere 3 pounds, 8 ounces. Definitely not the birth plan I'd had in mind. I was devastated. The measures were medically necessary and absolutely saved his life, but I couldn't help feeling like I'd failed. And it didn't help that no one warns you about how much c-sections HURT. I've spoken with dozens of other c-section mommies who felt the same way, as though we'd been robbed of an experience. So while walking around with this weighing on my shoulders, this happened:
Celine Dion plays loudly.
Me: "Oh, this is the song that was playing when I had A."
Ignorant Woman Who Wears a Size 0: "What?"
Me: "Well, it was playing in the OR when they delivered him."
Ignorant Woman Who Wears a Size 0: "Oh, I was about to say. Since you didn't actually have him."
Insert imaginary punch here.
Jerks. People are jerks. The main thread through most of these posts is that it's PEOPLE and the things they do or say that anger us pregnant gals. I eventually got over my feelings of loss about a c-section (although not the size-0 gal). And then I got pregnant with my second son, and the date of the repeat c-section was announced, and I was flooded with "advice" and opinions against c-sections. I'm not going to turn this into a forum where we can discuss the pluses and minuses of c-sections or any other kind of births. The fact is, it's MY delivery, MY baby, and the choices were made by MY doctor when looking at MY medical history. Do I envy women who were able to attempt or complete a VBAC? Yes. Do I think less of women who are able to deliver vaginally and opt for pain relief? No. Should you? Heck no. If you give birth in a bathtub, hospital bed, rice paddy, or operating room, you gave birth. You are a Mommy. No one has any right to cloud that joy with their own opinions. The fact is, your uterus is doing an amazing thing no matter what. You brought a child into the world, and no one should ever be allowed to open their mouths about HOW they entered it. Same goes for adoption. Mommies are mommies, whether the baby grew in their bellies or their hearts.
So the next time you want to think your friend who amazingly delivered drug-free is a hippie, or your friend with the planned c-section is taking the easy way out, or your friend who begged for an epidural while at 2 centimeters is a weakling, stop. There's no easy way to bring a baby into the world. Good luck with your birth plan, whatever it may be, and don't let any little changes in it steal your joy at the overall experience. I may not have gotten to hold my son the second he was born, but I have the rest of his life to do that.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
When People Comment on How Big You Are.
Yet another suggestion from a friend in the family way (who is NOT huge!).
Have you ever gone to Pancho's, Furr's, Golden Corral, or really anywhere that feeds you too much? Have you then walked out with a food baby, your belly so full that you look slightly pregnant? Remember how miserably you sat in the car on the way home, and the relief that came from unbuttoning your pants once no one was around? Let me ask you - would you have wanted your picture taken at that exact moment in time? Did you feel beautiful? Would you have wanted that EXACT moment to be when you ran into your high school rival, who had married your high school sweetheart, both of them fresh off of the runways of Milan? No. You felt like crap. Now imagine instead that instead of carbs and coke that you swallowed too much of, you swallowed a baby. A big baby. A baby that needs a big, roomy uterus, a nice, healthy, thick placenta, plenty of amniotic fluid, and causes constipation, water retention... and moodiness. You're waddling around, doing your best to look fly in those fly-less maternity pants. You're glowing with excitement and a fresh round of vomiting. You walk everywhere belly-first, proud to finally be able to show off what your body has been working so hard on. Then it happens.
Maybe it was a relative. It could have been a stranger. Either way, they better run. "You look so big, are you sure you're not having twins?" Jerk. You know it's happened to you. I know it's happened to me. No matter who says it, it's not okay. Ever. I have a friend who actually WAS carrying twins, and she looked just fine. I have a friend who was carrying one GIANT baby, and she looked miserable. Guess what, people? Babies get BIG. The stork is a myth. Babies do not appear bundled cleanly in fresh linens, delivered by birds - who are actually teeming with germs and bacteria. Babies get nice and comfy for a long time, and grow grow GROW the whole time they're in there! Almost from the moment of conception, a woman's body begins changing to prepare for this growing. Hips spread, pelvis shifts, back aches... We had enough trouble fitting just OURSELVES into our jeans, and now we have to shove a baby in there, too!
Think back to the food baby and how unattractive you felt. Now add a bigger nose, bigger feet, bigger hips, bigger rear, bigger belly... there's really only one part of us that we're excited to see get bigger, and even THAT gets unbearable. Hormones make hair... grow. Hormones make digestion... interesting. Simply put, we feel GROSS. Your comment on our ever-expanding size does not feel like a pat on the back for doing such a great job at growing this healthy baby. It feels like a slap in the face - the very broken-out face. We know we're big. Our pants tell us. Our bed tells us. The seatbelt tells us. Believe us, you're not breaking any kind of news to us.
You know whose job it is to break news to us? The doctor's. And thanks to modern medicine (that funny little thing that pregnancy spectators seem to forget about so often), the days of delivery-room twin surprises are nearly obsolete. So if we were having twins, we'd know. I had a friend who got absolutely miserably enormous, and she knew it. But I also knew that she had seen a doctor and was, in fact, only having one enormous baby. Did all of the comments she received make her feel any better? No. Did they help her? No. All those people did was call a dangerously hormonal and sympathetic-to-a-jury woman fat.
So shut yer yap, world. You grow a person and see if your body doesn't change in the slightest. We'll be over in the air-conditioned corner, allowing our bodies to do whatever needs to be done to grow a healthy family. Boo-ya.
Have you ever gone to Pancho's, Furr's, Golden Corral, or really anywhere that feeds you too much? Have you then walked out with a food baby, your belly so full that you look slightly pregnant? Remember how miserably you sat in the car on the way home, and the relief that came from unbuttoning your pants once no one was around? Let me ask you - would you have wanted your picture taken at that exact moment in time? Did you feel beautiful? Would you have wanted that EXACT moment to be when you ran into your high school rival, who had married your high school sweetheart, both of them fresh off of the runways of Milan? No. You felt like crap. Now imagine instead that instead of carbs and coke that you swallowed too much of, you swallowed a baby. A big baby. A baby that needs a big, roomy uterus, a nice, healthy, thick placenta, plenty of amniotic fluid, and causes constipation, water retention... and moodiness. You're waddling around, doing your best to look fly in those fly-less maternity pants. You're glowing with excitement and a fresh round of vomiting. You walk everywhere belly-first, proud to finally be able to show off what your body has been working so hard on. Then it happens.
Maybe it was a relative. It could have been a stranger. Either way, they better run. "You look so big, are you sure you're not having twins?" Jerk. You know it's happened to you. I know it's happened to me. No matter who says it, it's not okay. Ever. I have a friend who actually WAS carrying twins, and she looked just fine. I have a friend who was carrying one GIANT baby, and she looked miserable. Guess what, people? Babies get BIG. The stork is a myth. Babies do not appear bundled cleanly in fresh linens, delivered by birds - who are actually teeming with germs and bacteria. Babies get nice and comfy for a long time, and grow grow GROW the whole time they're in there! Almost from the moment of conception, a woman's body begins changing to prepare for this growing. Hips spread, pelvis shifts, back aches... We had enough trouble fitting just OURSELVES into our jeans, and now we have to shove a baby in there, too!
Think back to the food baby and how unattractive you felt. Now add a bigger nose, bigger feet, bigger hips, bigger rear, bigger belly... there's really only one part of us that we're excited to see get bigger, and even THAT gets unbearable. Hormones make hair... grow. Hormones make digestion... interesting. Simply put, we feel GROSS. Your comment on our ever-expanding size does not feel like a pat on the back for doing such a great job at growing this healthy baby. It feels like a slap in the face - the very broken-out face. We know we're big. Our pants tell us. Our bed tells us. The seatbelt tells us. Believe us, you're not breaking any kind of news to us.
You know whose job it is to break news to us? The doctor's. And thanks to modern medicine (that funny little thing that pregnancy spectators seem to forget about so often), the days of delivery-room twin surprises are nearly obsolete. So if we were having twins, we'd know. I had a friend who got absolutely miserably enormous, and she knew it. But I also knew that she had seen a doctor and was, in fact, only having one enormous baby. Did all of the comments she received make her feel any better? No. Did they help her? No. All those people did was call a dangerously hormonal and sympathetic-to-a-jury woman fat.
So shut yer yap, world. You grow a person and see if your body doesn't change in the slightest. We'll be over in the air-conditioned corner, allowing our bodies to do whatever needs to be done to grow a healthy family. Boo-ya.
When You Have an Opinion About My Chosen Baby Name.
This was another suggestion by a dear pregnant friend... and it's a good one!
Have you ever tried to name a baby? Not a parakeet. Not a teddy bear. Not even a horse with a pedigree whose name will appear in the lineage of greats. A baby. A person. Someone who will grow up being called by your chosen moniker. We've all heard tales of Ima and Ura Hogg. We laugh, we shudder, we tease, we compare notes... Names are a big deal. This is at the front of (almost) every pregnant woman's mind as she begins the process of selecting the most perfect name in creation for a person she hasn't even met yet. Books, websites, forums, friends, Scrabble tiles... the resources abound in choosing a name, but when it comes down to it, there is only one right name for your little one. There were no doubt negotiations, tears, pleadings, bribes, threats, and months that went into agreeing with baby's Daddy on a name, as well. So once that name, The Name, has been found, clouds part, angels sing, blankets are ordered, and a sense of satisfaction settles in: you can now call that little bean in your belly by name. Now it's "Tommy's Room" or "Emma's carseat". Billy is kicking you, not "it." You get it - once that name has been announced, it's a BIG DEAL.
So then why, why, WHY, pray tell, does everyone who can speak the same language as you find it their duty to comment, criticize, and cry foul on the name YOU chose for YOUR baby? Okay, you had an ex with that name. Fine, you had a kid in your class 17 years ago that spit in your hair with the same name. Your boss has the same name? Then their parents spend just as much time and effort picking it out for them!
Our culture today is in the midst of a silly little battle regarding names: You either hear that your name is too unique, or not unique enough. We think it's weird when people name their offspring Banjo, but also raise an eyebrow at babies named John. You can't have it both ways, world. In fact, when it comes to naming MY baby, you can't have your way at all.
I, for one, am from the unique name school. My name being Jennifer, I hated having 86 other girls with the same name in my kindergarten class. My boys have unique names. And boy did people give us an earful. But guess what? They can name their kids whatever they want. These are mine. My precious, my own. Their names are awesome and were chosen with meaning and purpose. My obstetrician had a horse with the same name as my oldest son. Did that stop me? No. My dear friend who suggested this topic is currently keeping her second son's name a secret to avoid the very backlash that comes from announcing a baby name. Precious grandparents with suggestions? If that name wasn't good enough to use on me, why on earth would I use it for this baby?!
Opinions are like.... well, you know the saying. So unless I'm planning on naming my baby a profane expletive, and maybe even then, keep your opinions, relations, relationships, coworkers, favorite Wonder Pets, and teenage rivalries to yourself.
Incidentally, the baby I'm carrying that is causing these rants is as-yet unnamed. When we figure out who is in there, expect it to be unique. Just call the baby by their name and we'll be good.
Have you ever tried to name a baby? Not a parakeet. Not a teddy bear. Not even a horse with a pedigree whose name will appear in the lineage of greats. A baby. A person. Someone who will grow up being called by your chosen moniker. We've all heard tales of Ima and Ura Hogg. We laugh, we shudder, we tease, we compare notes... Names are a big deal. This is at the front of (almost) every pregnant woman's mind as she begins the process of selecting the most perfect name in creation for a person she hasn't even met yet. Books, websites, forums, friends, Scrabble tiles... the resources abound in choosing a name, but when it comes down to it, there is only one right name for your little one. There were no doubt negotiations, tears, pleadings, bribes, threats, and months that went into agreeing with baby's Daddy on a name, as well. So once that name, The Name, has been found, clouds part, angels sing, blankets are ordered, and a sense of satisfaction settles in: you can now call that little bean in your belly by name. Now it's "Tommy's Room" or "Emma's carseat". Billy is kicking you, not "it." You get it - once that name has been announced, it's a BIG DEAL.
So then why, why, WHY, pray tell, does everyone who can speak the same language as you find it their duty to comment, criticize, and cry foul on the name YOU chose for YOUR baby? Okay, you had an ex with that name. Fine, you had a kid in your class 17 years ago that spit in your hair with the same name. Your boss has the same name? Then their parents spend just as much time and effort picking it out for them!
Our culture today is in the midst of a silly little battle regarding names: You either hear that your name is too unique, or not unique enough. We think it's weird when people name their offspring Banjo, but also raise an eyebrow at babies named John. You can't have it both ways, world. In fact, when it comes to naming MY baby, you can't have your way at all.
I, for one, am from the unique name school. My name being Jennifer, I hated having 86 other girls with the same name in my kindergarten class. My boys have unique names. And boy did people give us an earful. But guess what? They can name their kids whatever they want. These are mine. My precious, my own. Their names are awesome and were chosen with meaning and purpose. My obstetrician had a horse with the same name as my oldest son. Did that stop me? No. My dear friend who suggested this topic is currently keeping her second son's name a secret to avoid the very backlash that comes from announcing a baby name. Precious grandparents with suggestions? If that name wasn't good enough to use on me, why on earth would I use it for this baby?!
Opinions are like.... well, you know the saying. So unless I'm planning on naming my baby a profane expletive, and maybe even then, keep your opinions, relations, relationships, coworkers, favorite Wonder Pets, and teenage rivalries to yourself.
Incidentally, the baby I'm carrying that is causing these rants is as-yet unnamed. When we figure out who is in there, expect it to be unique. Just call the baby by their name and we'll be good.
When You Post Pictures of Your Food on Facebook.
Did you hear that rumble in the distance? No, it's not that rain we've been praying for. It might be my stomach. But it's most likely an army of pregnant women coming to maul you for the piece of key lime pie you took a picture of and posted for all to see on Facebook.
One of the most notorious and enjoyable symptoms of pregnancy is cravings. Some of them are caused by a nutritional deficiency. Others are caused by God knows what. But many are caused by a whim, a commercial, a billboard, a song... or a Facebook check-in at Cheddar's. We women are a fickle bunch already. So add pregnancy to the mix and our culinary preferences change with the wind... or the refresh button. You know that incredible sandwich and soup you had for lunch and thought the world needed to see? My lunch is now inferior. That cheesecake you showed us? Like opening a can of tuna in front of a cat and not sharing. The hungrier we are, the angrier we get. That grill covered in meat? Congratulations, cave men figured out how to do that thousands of years ago. Just give me the steak. Even something as temporary as a snow-cone can send us into a flurry. (Did you like that play on words?) Whenever we in the family way get a hankerin', nothing else will do. So do us a favor. Spare our dinner plans, our husbands, and our ever-growling bellies. Enjoy your food, but don't tempt us! We might find you. After all, we can sniff you out.
One of the most notorious and enjoyable symptoms of pregnancy is cravings. Some of them are caused by a nutritional deficiency. Others are caused by God knows what. But many are caused by a whim, a commercial, a billboard, a song... or a Facebook check-in at Cheddar's. We women are a fickle bunch already. So add pregnancy to the mix and our culinary preferences change with the wind... or the refresh button. You know that incredible sandwich and soup you had for lunch and thought the world needed to see? My lunch is now inferior. That cheesecake you showed us? Like opening a can of tuna in front of a cat and not sharing. The hungrier we are, the angrier we get. That grill covered in meat? Congratulations, cave men figured out how to do that thousands of years ago. Just give me the steak. Even something as temporary as a snow-cone can send us into a flurry. (Did you like that play on words?) Whenever we in the family way get a hankerin', nothing else will do. So do us a favor. Spare our dinner plans, our husbands, and our ever-growling bellies. Enjoy your food, but don't tempt us! We might find you. After all, we can sniff you out.
Heat Waves.
I live in Texas. It's August.
It is a known fact that a sleeping pregnant woman uses more energy than a non-pregnant woman climbing a mountain. Our blood volume is increased by 50%. Our hormones are rising and running and rioting unchecked. We're getting bigger. And bigger. And it's HOT.
So please don't touch us. We like you, we really do. But please don't hug us a lot. Don't pet us. Don't do the thing where you side hug someone and talk directly into their face at the same time. That's not acceptable even when you're not pregnant. Don't comment on our wearing flip flops to formal occasions. Applaud our ponytails. We're HOT. And nothing can speed up a pregnant rampage like makeup that took 20 minutes to apply melting off. Or hair that took an hour to straighten curling right back up. Or people who side hug and talk directly into your face.
It is a known fact that a sleeping pregnant woman uses more energy than a non-pregnant woman climbing a mountain. Our blood volume is increased by 50%. Our hormones are rising and running and rioting unchecked. We're getting bigger. And bigger. And it's HOT.
So please don't touch us. We like you, we really do. But please don't hug us a lot. Don't pet us. Don't do the thing where you side hug someone and talk directly into their face at the same time. That's not acceptable even when you're not pregnant. Don't comment on our wearing flip flops to formal occasions. Applaud our ponytails. We're HOT. And nothing can speed up a pregnant rampage like makeup that took 20 minutes to apply melting off. Or hair that took an hour to straighten curling right back up. Or people who side hug and talk directly into your face.
No New Episodes of A Baby Story.
We've laughed. We've cried. We've seen this one before.
They're all from the North, all have silly accents, and almost all need to lay off the brown lipstick. You've empathized with the woman who wanted a natural birth and ended up needing a c-section. You've sat in shocked silence at the cone-headed baby. You cringed at... well, most of the deliveries. It's a great formula TLC has.... so keep it going!
They're all from the North, all have silly accents, and almost all need to lay off the brown lipstick. You've empathized with the woman who wanted a natural birth and ended up needing a c-section. You've sat in shocked silence at the cone-headed baby. You cringed at... well, most of the deliveries. It's a great formula TLC has.... so keep it going!
Old Wives Tales.
Yes, some of them are fun.
But there is this new concept called modern science. It involves tests and sonograms and an incredible amount of knowledge regarding what goes on inside the womb.
And so, lady at Wal Mart, it will NOT hurt my baby if I lift my arms above my head. No, concerned elderly woman, holding my baby too much will not cause him to bruise. The gender of a baby cannot be determined by the heartbeat, or by my nose, or by how often I shave my legs, or even what month it is. Should a pregnant woman get a tattoo, her baby will not be born with the same marking. While there is only a SLIGHT scientific backing for the ol' belief about heartburn being caused by crops of thick hair on baby's head, it's just something that happens to pregnant gals. I lived on Zantac and stacked pillows, and my two so far were born balder than Fred Mertz.
And let's take a moment to acknowledge Woman Who Answered a Phone in a Dentist's Office for a Week and Now Has More Medical Knowledge Than Your Obstetrician. Thank you for your concern, ma'am.
So yes, we can have fun with wives' tales. But please, for the love of deductibles, don't put too much stock in them!
But there is this new concept called modern science. It involves tests and sonograms and an incredible amount of knowledge regarding what goes on inside the womb.
And so, lady at Wal Mart, it will NOT hurt my baby if I lift my arms above my head. No, concerned elderly woman, holding my baby too much will not cause him to bruise. The gender of a baby cannot be determined by the heartbeat, or by my nose, or by how often I shave my legs, or even what month it is. Should a pregnant woman get a tattoo, her baby will not be born with the same marking. While there is only a SLIGHT scientific backing for the ol' belief about heartburn being caused by crops of thick hair on baby's head, it's just something that happens to pregnant gals. I lived on Zantac and stacked pillows, and my two so far were born balder than Fred Mertz.
And let's take a moment to acknowledge Woman Who Answered a Phone in a Dentist's Office for a Week and Now Has More Medical Knowledge Than Your Obstetrician. Thank you for your concern, ma'am.
So yes, we can have fun with wives' tales. But please, for the love of deductibles, don't put too much stock in them!
People Calling it "My Baby".
The idea for this one came from a friend!
But you know it's happened to you. You're the one vomiting the dinner you didn't even really want, sweating like a Slurpee, breaking out like it's prom night, and getting your zebra on with the stretch marks. And yet someone - someone who is NOT paying the copays and deductibles - refers to your bun in the oven as "my baby." Nope, sorry.
But you know it's happened to you. You're the one vomiting the dinner you didn't even really want, sweating like a Slurpee, breaking out like it's prom night, and getting your zebra on with the stretch marks. And yet someone - someone who is NOT paying the copays and deductibles - refers to your bun in the oven as "my baby." Nope, sorry.
Computers.
Especially when you typed out a super long blog post, only to have it disappear with no sign of recovery.
And when pages take too long to load.
And when pages take too long to load.
Perfume.
I know, this is a sensitive one. Everyone has the right to smell like a field of flowers, a heavenly angel surrounded by clouds of cotton candy, or even Red Door. I apologize if you wear Red Door. My mother went threw a Red Door phase, and it magically coincided with when my teenage independance started.
We're not asking that people stop wearing perfume. Or cologne. Or using body wash and shampoo that was infused with the very essence of sunshine and honey. Or burning candles that smell like cookies. Or using automatic air fresheners in their bathrooms. We're just asking for some understanding when we have to stand a few feet back or hide our faces in our shirts.
Pregnant women have super human smelling abilities. We can sniff out a pickle from two houses down. My poor husband can't chew gum near me. We know we can't rid the world of aromas. Just please don't bathe in Curve, Man Who Stood too Close in Phoenix. We're not asking the world to adapt to us on this one. I'm just venting. Because I do so love Hobby Lobby, but GRACIOUS do they have to mark the territory with cinammon like that?
We're not asking that people stop wearing perfume. Or cologne. Or using body wash and shampoo that was infused with the very essence of sunshine and honey. Or burning candles that smell like cookies. Or using automatic air fresheners in their bathrooms. We're just asking for some understanding when we have to stand a few feet back or hide our faces in our shirts.
Pregnant women have super human smelling abilities. We can sniff out a pickle from two houses down. My poor husband can't chew gum near me. We know we can't rid the world of aromas. Just please don't bathe in Curve, Man Who Stood too Close in Phoenix. We're not asking the world to adapt to us on this one. I'm just venting. Because I do so love Hobby Lobby, but GRACIOUS do they have to mark the territory with cinammon like that?
People Voicing a Preference About the Sex of Your Baby.
Guess what, peeps? We can't help this one. We can stop ourselves from drinking caffeine if we have to, we can sniff out a drug ring should the bloodhounds be on strike, and we can grow an entire person (or people!) inside of ourselves, but we cannot pick who that person is. God does. I'm not going into where babies come from, but the miracle of it itself is enough to cause awe and wonder and change your life forever. Be happy for us. Thank God for the blessing He's entrusted us with. God's will is either perfect or it isn't, and I choose to believe it is. Therefore, whoever He chooses to give us is the perfect person for our family. Don't get me wrong, peeing on Drano and cabbage and dangling expensive wedding rings that won't fit in a few months sounds like a BLAST. But I love my baby no matter what. And what most pregnant women (or all moms in general) won't say is that whenever you voice a preference for a boy or a girl, you're making them feel as though you wouldn't care about the baby should it turn out not to be what you want. "Aw, I wanted it to be a ____." See? We're swallowing vitamins the size of Hot Wheels and peeing more than we blink, so please don't give us something else to stress over. In fact, just bring us a Snickers.
Pants.
Every woman hates buying pants. Will they zip? Will they button? Will I spill forth over the waistband... and if so, can I find a shirt long enough to hide it?
While blessed maternity pants are renowned for not having zippers or buttons or lions or tigers, they're still pants. Sure, I prefer them to normal jeans. Who DOESN'T want to not have to lie down to zip up? But maternity pants still have sizes inside them. And once you've reached that moment when your favorite jeans won't button, it's time for maternity jeans. Giant elastic bands made of the same material as Granny's unmentionables cover your stomach dern near up to your chest. That mess don't breathe. And most of the time, while constipation has caused your belly to swell past the point of Levi's, you're not quite big enough to hold up those precious pants. So when you bend over, people see that weird elastic band. I'm a tall girl, and maternity jeans never seem to come in tall sizes. I'm sure you shorties would complain that they don't come in petite sizes, as well. Petite pregnancy clothes... psh. Which begs the question - why on EARTH do maternity stores sell skinny jeans?! It's like selling Snickers at a Weight Watchers meeting. Cruel. Ooooh... Snickers....
While blessed maternity pants are renowned for not having zippers or buttons or lions or tigers, they're still pants. Sure, I prefer them to normal jeans. Who DOESN'T want to not have to lie down to zip up? But maternity pants still have sizes inside them. And once you've reached that moment when your favorite jeans won't button, it's time for maternity jeans. Giant elastic bands made of the same material as Granny's unmentionables cover your stomach dern near up to your chest. That mess don't breathe. And most of the time, while constipation has caused your belly to swell past the point of Levi's, you're not quite big enough to hold up those precious pants. So when you bend over, people see that weird elastic band. I'm a tall girl, and maternity jeans never seem to come in tall sizes. I'm sure you shorties would complain that they don't come in petite sizes, as well. Petite pregnancy clothes... psh. Which begs the question - why on EARTH do maternity stores sell skinny jeans?! It's like selling Snickers at a Weight Watchers meeting. Cruel. Ooooh... Snickers....
Welcome.
However you stumbled upon this blog, you are welcome here. You are welcome to laugh, vent, growl, cry - anything your perfectly hormonal and pretty much uncontrollable self needs to do. Husbands are welcome, but are encouraged to remain silent. Guest posts are encouraged! If you have this blog address, you know me, so please contact me any way you know how to contribute. Criticisms of everything but pregnant women are welcome... unless you're a pregnant woman complaining about that other pregnant woman, then it's okay. Encouragement is welcomed. Understanding is mandatory. Comments are fun.
For those of you who are not pregnant, read everything with a pillar of salt. Hormones awaken the beast within, creating a whole new creature that is foreign even to those of us who are with child. I love to laugh and smile and encourage... but found myself angrily berating the skylight in my kitchen last week. This is a temporary me. So this is my attempt at saving my husband and other loved ones from my wrath. Please feel free to add your own irks. It's all in the name of saving our sanity by venting to a computer, rather than a fragile friend who is unarmed with similar hormones and superpowers.
For those of you who are not pregnant, read everything with a pillar of salt. Hormones awaken the beast within, creating a whole new creature that is foreign even to those of us who are with child. I love to laugh and smile and encourage... but found myself angrily berating the skylight in my kitchen last week. This is a temporary me. So this is my attempt at saving my husband and other loved ones from my wrath. Please feel free to add your own irks. It's all in the name of saving our sanity by venting to a computer, rather than a fragile friend who is unarmed with similar hormones and superpowers.
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