Hi, Hello, No, I'm Not Dead

It's been a while since I've written anything. I've graduated,  had unexpected renovations because our dishwasher broke and left an inch of standing water downstairs, earned a promotion, and generally started losing it again. This is hardly my first time struggling with my mental health, and now I know what to call it.

It's my Scary-Go-Round. (yes, cringe-worthy for the use of an amusement park ride as analogy for mental illness, but bear with me...)

While thinking in the shower, I realized how frustrating it is to be going through the ups and downs of battling myself yet again. The pain and apathy start, and I know it will be some time before it goes away for good. Right now, it's not every hour of every day. And it's not to the point that I pose a threat to myself.

But it is often enough that it's taking away from my quality of life. I'm not running, because it seems useless when I have to start back over with every break due to a cold or rainy weather. I struggle to parent without yelling, because there aren't enough emotional reserves to let me be patient when Brianna is being a normal four-year-old. I'm not performing well at work, because I just want to hide away from my responsibilities instead of focusing and getting stuff DONE.

I don't know if all of this is seasonal, with the days getting shorter and having fewer chances to enjoy being outside. Or maybe it's just that this promotion is more than I can handle. (That possibility scares me quite a bit, because if it's true, then it feels like a lot of work to have finished grad school only to hit a wall professionally.) It could also be my Mirena messing with my hormones. It certainly wouldn't be the first time that PCOS and funky hormones made me depressed.

The first time I really struggled with depression, I was in high school, and failing nearly every class because the pain would anchor me at home, and I didn't have the energy to keep myself going in and feeling like a shadow of myself at school. A few months later, I was diagnosed with PCOS, and life was a lot easier. The effects of my performance at school ended up being life altering, though ultimately in a good way. I was no longer the Honor Roll, all AP classes, full scholarship type student that could go anywhere I wanted. I was only accepted to one college as a senior, but I'm glad to have been there because I met my best friend, who happens to be my doppelganger from across the country. It doesn't take away the frustration I felt at the time, knowing that my plans were all going to shit, but now I can look back and know not everything is lost because I have mental illness.

And this time, that Scary-Go-Round won't be a surprise. I can hear the music  in the distance and start setting myself for self-care and getting help. I know that I don't have to choose the majestic horse that looks good  from the outside but also gives the worst of the highs and lows -- keeping everything on my plate so that I still look "normal" from the outside doesn't help me get better. Now I can choose to keep life simple and not worry about what people see of me as I ride it out on the calm seat, if that's what it takes to get better. And I don't have to be alone, away from people who can help keep the ride from going too fast or too bumpy. I can ask for a break so I can keep myself even-keeled. And I can start working with a therapist right away instead of waiting until I'm desperate.

I have a therapy appointment scheduled for next Tuesday. I'm nervous, because I've been thinking about all the identities that make up me, and how they play into my life. It's enough to fill up that first session without even getting into the problems I need to address, let alone get a feel for whether we're a good fit. For now, I just have to wait and see, hope that it works out, and speak up if things get worse before they get better.

Second Thoughts

I have so many thoughts that swirl around in my head lately. The vision of a two-kid family that had always been my ideal. The frustration and confusion of infertility before we got help. The pain and suffering of our family when I struggled with PPD. The insidious little thoughts that pop up when I'm having a bad parenting day.

What if it wasn't just PPD? Look at how I struggle still with parenting, with keeping my cool instead of raging against the inconsequential little battles of life with a small child. What if I'm depressed again, or maybe it never left? What if I'm really just a horrible, terrible person who isn't meant to be a mother?

Some people say it's the stress of school while working full time and parenting a little one. That it will go away with time, that toddlers and preschoolers are hardest because they're learning to push buttons. That she'll be less exhausting when she has the outlet of school and other people to be around with her boundless energy. I've heard too that sometimes our kids are too similar to us, and we see the worst part of ourselves reflecting back like an accusation of our faults.

I think about all the struggling and I can't possibly imagine how I could handle adding PPD and all the changes that come with another baby on top of that. And really, when it comes down to it, I don't feel the same pangs of longing when I see a baby. I don't have much nostalgia for having an infant, perhaps because I was too miserable to enjoy the small moments.

And yet, when I take a moment to reflect on that, I get angry. Resentful. Ashamed. And sad. It doesn't seem fair to have struggled to get pregnant and then to struggle with the reality of having that baby in my life. To feel that every cry and tantrum and whine is an indictment of my inability to care for her. To feel guilty for needing space and solitude so desperately. To be jealous of mothers who love their children so effortlessly that the tough moments flow over them like water.

A small part of my heart wishes for another baby so I could have another chance, to know that instant bonding and love without struggle. But I fear I'm too broken, that we'd be doomed to a repeat with even more on our plate this time around.

My PCOS symptoms have been so unpredictable since Brianna was born. I've gone through medication after medication, hoping to find the right fit that won't leave me with mood swings, acne, more facial hair, and low libido. I'm awaiting results on insulin testing to see if that's part of why nothing works very long. It's typical with PCOS, but I've never had issues with insulin or blood sugar over the last 15 years, so I doubt that's what's going on. If everything comes back normal, I'm planning to get an IUD and hope the consistent hormone levels help.

It's hard coming to terms with this being the new reality for me. Even as a teenager, I managed my PCOS from the perspective of wanting to have two kids eventually. The idea that I'll have to live with these symptoms as is until menopause hits in twenty years never really occurred to me. For some reason, the decision to have another child (or not) feels like a major event in my life, a dividing line for my experiences, and I'm putting a lot of pressure on myself to get this one right so I don't look back with regret.

Wait, Why Did I Decide This Was A Good Idea?

Business school. Yeah. We have covered lots of great stuff. Some of it has reinforced things I learned through trial and (lots of) error on the job, some of it has given me new perspective on every day occurrences. And sometimes, I've even been able to apply stuff on the job, like nifty tricks in Excel and understanding how to break bad news and make it seem less sucky (yes, that's a technical term).

And then there are the classes that I doubt I'll ever apply. Pricing models? Bond valuations? Not so much my line of work.

But marketing is a particularly weird place for me. I find myself at odds with capitalism sometimes (wait, what? why did I decide to do business school again?), and that has become quite evident in marketing. It's hard to be a quasi-socialist feminist who questions the status quo when your class is designed around getting people to believe they need your product or message. Hey ladies, you need to be beautiful according to these strictly heterosexist, white-centric, fat-phobic ideals if you're going to get that man of your dreams so you can have kids and then either be horribly selfish for staying at home and not using that degree or horribly selfish leaving your kids so you can be in the workforce. Because your dreams obviously involve meeting a man, getting married, having kids, and then feeling guilty for every other choice you make as an adult.

Manipulation - it's what's for dinner.

Being a parent just reinforces how at odds I am with marketing and the way vulnerabilities are targeted. If you think your kids aren't being encouraged to want the most sugar-laden crap snacks whenever they watch Saturday morning cartoons, you are mistaken. I try my best to emphasize needs versus wants with Brianna, but there's only so much that sticks when we're out and about for regular grocery shopping and the like. We haven't discussed the ethics of marketing yet (that's the last week of this section), but I just know that will be the day I'll be asked to wrap it up so we can move on to other topics and I will go home and call my sister to vent about the oppression inherent in the system being perpetuated by watery tarts with swords and then quote some more Monty Python and Eddie Izzard. (Like you do.) (Sorry, I couldn't help it.) (If you are not confused by these random quotes, we need to have drinks together because you are AWESOME.) (Last parenthetical, I swear.) (Just kidding, there will probably be more.)

The other thing that bothers me about advertising is the perpetual creation and reinforcement of stereotypes. The information about me based on my web browsing and demographics say that yes, I am a mom, a working professional, interested in running. And I get inundated with so many messages that run utterly counter to my actual thoughts. The fact that I am a mom does not mean I stay at home. The fact that I'm in a career (versus a no-growth job) does not mean I am willing to spend my money on luxury items. The fact that I run does not mean I am interested in weight loss gimmicks or going hardcore with CrossFit. If you're going to insist on using a box to market to me, at least bother to use the right box.

Consumerism is pretty much the opposite of my philosophy in life. It's not to say I'm a minimalist or a martyr, but if I'm going to spend my money on something, I want to be DAMN sure it fits my needs and that I consider what all my needs are. Taking that moment to evaluate my needs means I don't do a lot of impulse shopping. Feeling manipulated, stereotyped, and exploited by an advertising campaign is just more likely to push me away.

So yeah. This is not my favorite section of business school thus far. But one of the two classes will be more relevant next time, and after that I get electives. So far, I'm one of three moms (and several dads of varying parenting involvement), and it hasn't been an issue. Andy has been amazing about giving me enough time to get all my stuff done and communicating with me about what help he needs so I can spend my family time well. It's starting to take its toll on Brianna, though. She got used to having me home more the last couple months because the classes were less involved and I was basically free over Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks. She asks me to stay home more, and looks so disappointed when I leave the house for a study group. The days I have class are pretty seamless for her, since I don't come home until class is over, but then she clings a bit more when she sees me again the next morning. I can't say I blame her. Sometimes when I get home from class, I check in on her before going to bed so I can tuck the blankets around her and kiss her cheek. I don't think she remembers it when she wakes up, but it's nice to have that moment.

Things That Matter

It's been a few months since my last post, which means I've been due for one. I had plans of talking about how crazy life has been since school started. Or perhaps another post about how there seem to be babies everywhere when you can't have your own for whatever reason. (Seriously, my local Starbucks seems to attract parents with babies in chest carriers, waving tiny fists at their parents' Pumpkin Spice Lattes! and yet, there are rarely any parents braving a trip with a Terrible Two-year-old. Gee, I wonder why?)

But yesterday I was at work, mere blocks from the shooting at the Washington Navy Yard. I had dear friends in that building. I might have been there for meetings with my clients if I weren't waiting on a badge renewal. But now there are bullet holes in hallways I've walked down. There are offices where proud name plates with titles and rankings made people targets. There are people who had to leave behind their cars, phones, computers, everything, and have no idea when they can go back. Parents who had to wait hours to see their kids and now spend the day at home because their work space is a crime scene.

But even harder to comprehend are the people who won't get to come back for their belongings. Who will never again hold their children close or laugh with friends. Who took jobs where the biggest threat lately was cuts in pay due to sequestration, a challenge overcome for now.

We'll wait for answers, and maybe find some closure. Implement some policies to keep a tragedy like this from happening again. But somehow the issues I held so tightly in my head seem to be replaced by a fog, a disoriented haze from which I am pulled by the sudden wail of sirens or the whir of helicopter blades. Sounds, formerly so routine in my space, that now recall the fear of being told to stay in the building but away from windows, worrying about people who make up both my work life and my "family".

I went home that afternoon, against security orders, so I could hold Andy close and be with Brianna instead of going to class. She sensed that something was up, but she accepted my explanation that sometimes scary things happen that make Mommy want lots of hugs and then asked to go to the park. It wasn't quite enough to take away all the hurt, those moments pushing her on the swings and hunting for sticks and pine cones. But for now her innocence and laughter help me feel centered with the things that matter.

The Next Grand Adventure

I posted last year about wanting another baby but giving it some time because there so many things that didn't make it the right choice at that moment. And then time went by and things still weren't right. The holidays came to a close and as we are wont to do when we mark the passage of time, Andy and I looked at plans. And we realized that we still weren't in the right place for another baby. For the first time, I felt true acceptance of that decision, without the wistfulness and longing that I'd felt before.

So I did what any other Type A, goal-driven person would do with too much time on my hands and nothing on the horizon. I decided that I should go to grad school, because clearly two months was enough time to research local schools, study and take the GMAT, write a few essays, do my taxes and submit the FAFSA, get letters of recommendation, and submit my application. Doesn't everyone like a good challenge that makes you slightly neurotic?

By the end of the application review period, I bumped up to fairly neurotic, but in the end I've been accepted to the grad program that I wanted. I'll be starting courses for an MBA in August, and by June 2015 I'll be finished. It's a very fast program, but I have Andy's support to make this happen and we talked (and talked and talked and talked) about how this would impact our family and how we can make it work.

So no babies for the next two years, and I'm okay with that. Brianna would be fantastic with a sibling right now, but I'll be in a better position to afford that baby. We're spending the next few months getting our home ready for auto-pilot, since housecleaning and maintenance will be dead last on the family to-do list. Meals will be prepared, frozen, and inventoried so that take-out on dead-tired days doesn't kill our budget. Sometimes being an overzealous planner has its perks.

I'm also doing my best to get myself back to a really healthy state. Winter and then allergy season put a serious dent in my ability and motivation to run, so I'm not where I wanted to be at the end of spring. There will be no racing for me this season, and probably not for the next two years. But I'm still trying, and I'm still losing weight. I suspect that while I was so focused on applying for school, my medication stopped working effectively for my PCOS and I didn't catch on. It's been a rude awakening to see the facial hair and acne come back (WITH A VENGEANCE!), and I had some very rough days where mood swings bordered on depression. I'm starting a new medication this week, but it may take some time to see change. I'm hoping this one sticks and continues to work for me through school, because I won't have time to manage my symptoms.

Results

So, that whole 5K thing I have been talking about doing off and on throughout the life of this blog, and then publicly posted that I was planning to complete one?

I did it.

It wasn't the most amazing run ever (I completed it in 44:11, which is a 14:22 pace), but I learned a lot about racing and about my own strength. And in hindsight, I've seen just how strong I've become over the last six months, how far I've moved beyond the expectations I held for myself before I started running.

About 6 weeks before the race, Andy had a chance to observe me running. He ran cross-country in high school, and his input and support when I faced a new challenge had been one of the best things to keep me going when I wanted to give up or go back to easier intervals. He watched me struggle on a day when my muscles were simply not cooperating, and told me that my pace was more of a trot than a run and with a tiny bit more effort, I could see much better speeds. A true run was something I'd never done in my life, and my body refused to keep it up for more than a minute or two without dropping down to a walk. So I regrouped, started the C25K program all over again, and built myself up to running 8 minute intervals with 5 minute walking breaks, repeated long enough to finish five kilometers. I was nervous, but I eventually worked up (down?) to having a 5K training run completed in less than 44 minutes. With my former slow trot, it would have taken me about 50 minutes to complete, so that difference is astounding.

My sister had a medical emergency the day before my race, so I was a bit rattled going in. She's fine now, but my thoughts kept going back and forth between worry that something similar would happen to me and feeling like I needed to push myself for her sake, because a 5K isn't something she could be doing any time soon in her state.

Once the race started, I pushed too hard, trying to keep up with everyone around me. My original back-of-the-pack placement turned out to be more in the middle as people filed in behind me, and the effort to keep up made me grab a water bottle. Having never, ever had water in the middle of the run, I learned very quickly that it's a good way to get a side stitch. My usual intervals were completely blown, and gradually it devolved into running half-heartedly from time to time and a lot of walking. I was nearly in tears at one point because I was so sure that I had blown it, I couldn't possibly finish under my goal time of 45:00. But there were great cheerleaders (including Andy and Brianna, at several spots along the route), and at the end I was able to give it everything I had. I sprinted for the finish line, and as I cooled down, Andy told me my gun time was 45:08. Definitely well within 45:00 for my chip.

I took a break from running for most of November. We went on a CRUISE (it was so awesome!!!) a couple weeks after the race, and when we returned it was so much colder that my asthma flared up when I tried to run. I eased back into things and now I'm back to training to run 3 miles straight without walking breaks. My goal is to do a spring race with a 13:00 pace or better (which race I'll do is TBD). As of today, I've built up to 17 minutes straight at a 12:45 pace.

The progress I've made is sometimes hard to believe when I look back on what I've done. I often feel discouraged, that I'll never get to move beyond whatever I'm up against. But six months ago, I didn't think I could run for a minute even if I tried. Six months ago, I couldn't fit clothes outside of the plus-size section in a store. Six months ago, I thought I was doomed to an obese life, a world where I didn't have enough energy for all the things I wanted to experience and I couldn't really, truly be proud of every part of me. And now I know that's not true, not even a little bit.

But really this little girl is what I run for. So she always knows how strong her mama is and that she is strong too:

Because nothing says love like demanding to wear Mama's sweaty hoodie after a run.

No More Excuses

A couple months ago, I had one of those horrible, terrible, awful, no good, very bad days. Plans to go camping were thwarted by a severe storm that left the ground quite soggy, and I was in the kind of mood that takes a small disappointment and turns it into an opportunity to enumerate Everything That Sucks About Me. But at some point in the midst of despairing my body and the fact that I was well on my way to gaining back all the weight I had lost while nursing, I had an epiphany.

Nothing will change until I make big changes in my life.

For everyone else in the world who has found exercise and healthy eating to be a fact of life: SUCK IT. Between undiagnosed asthma and my devotion to food as coping mechanism, I had spent my life completely convinced that exercise would always be uncomfortable and crap-tastic, and that I was incapable of eating like a normal human being. Why bother, when life is clearly better when you're not getting sweaty and those pesky feelings of inadequacy can be stuffed with a giant gooey chocolate chip cookie?!

So I made a choice to try something, ANYTHING, because I couldn't bear the thought of feeling so unhappy with myself for the rest of my life. I had considered trying the Couch to 5K program in the past, but that voice in the back of my head held me back. "what if you can't do it? then you'll be fat AND a failure. and with that asthma? bad idea. better go get a snack instead." Sometimes I countered [what, you don't have conversations with yourself in your head?] that I could probably walk a 5K with some training, and maybe even run a bit of one too! And this time, the positive voice won.

I started training the very next day. Had a few stumbles. Figured out how to make it work and why carrying a smartphone in your pocket is not, in fact, a smart idea. And then really started to enjoy it. Sometimes unfamiliar phrases would just pop out, like "I bet I can push harder on this interval!" and "I wish it were my running day already..." and "I hope this foot injury doesn't keep me from running!" There were some setbacks along the way. Days that it felt like I would never get stronger, and always be that slow poke from middle school gym class that doesn't finish her mile until after everyone else has already done their cool-down. In a perfect world, I would have done the program in 9 weeks. In reality, I took 13 weeks, and I still haven't reached the point of running five kilometers. But I kept at it until it was a habit, despite the heat and the sweat. In October I'll be running the AIDS Walk Washington 5th Annual 5K Run to raise money to fight HIV/AIDS in DC, a city that has extremely high rates of infection.

And once the running was well underway, I started watching what I eat. It was rarely about denying myself something, or staying under a calorie limit. Mostly, it was about being aware of the impact that different foods had to my diet and making conscious choices instead of saying "why not? who cares how bad it is for me when it's soooo tasty?". I've stopped using food for comfort, as an emotional fix when I'm upset or bored.

So now I'm a runner. I'm stronger. I'm healthier. I have a goal, and I'm seeing it through. I'm finding ways to keep going, even when it feels like I can't. And perhaps most important of all, I'm giving myself permission to be less than perfect. To need a slow day sometimes. To take a breather. To accept that starting from almost zero capability doesn't mean I can't, it means I can't yet. But I will keep trying, and I won't let myself make excuses about why I can't.

Baby Fever, Version 2.0

I seem to have developed a problem recently. The kind of problem that involves forgetting things.

Important things.

Like how utterly exhausted I was over the last 13 months.

That's right. I have baby fever again.

It feels like I see pregnant ladies and babies everywhere lately. Everyone else is having them. And they're so cute. And sweet. And not waking me up at midnight and 3 and 6 just after I fell back to sleep following my husband's alarm for work.

Oh right, I do like sleeping the night. In case anyone (including my ovaries) didn't know.

All kidding aside, I do seem to have developed a hyper-awareness of babies again, which tends to hone in on the tiniest, most precious, non-screaming ones. I went through this before Brianna was conceived. But that always felt more like a slap in the face from the universe, a reminder that so many others had them easily, sometimes unintentionally, while we had to wait and wait and wait some more.

This time, I think it's more of an awareness of how much Brianna has changed. She took her first steps last weekend, which officially ended my reign as Almost Competent Mother of Cute Baby and instead demoted me to Happy but Bewildered Toddler-Wrangler. She can say Hi (especially if you're a stranger in the supermarket), and All Done!, and has her own little name for the dog ("Re-ra" for Phedre). She's learning all these wonderful things, including dumping her food in her lap to see just how squishy yogurt can be (HELPFUL HINT #1: yogurt is gooey and you cannot wipe it off of high chair straps).

And with all of this comes the realization that I do not have a baby anymore. I'm thrilled to see her in this new stage, but at the same time I feel a pang of regret that I was so unable to enjoy her first weeks in our life. It's made me quite introspective about what I could have done differently, the help I would have insisted on, and whether I would be at the same risk for PPD with more realistic expectations and better self-care tools this time around.

And yet, even as I consider how much faster we could tackle it in a "next time" scenario, I have to be honest with myself about whether it would be a smart move for our family and for our marriage. Sometimes it takes everything in me to manage Brianna's needs, be a reasonably productive employee, not resort to cereal for dinner, and keep the house in good enough shape to not require HAZMAT suits. (HELPFUL HINT #2: don't stop by my house unannounced. ever.) And even then, I sometimes lose my cool and have to give myself a time out. I've come a long way from where I was last year, but the scars of having PPD haven't fully healed yet. I wasn't the only one affected by it, either; Andy had a huge burden, not just as my biggest supporter, but also to keep life going when I couldn't and fill the gaps for whatever Brianna needed that I couldn't give.

And, like just about every other family out there, we have to be sure we can provide for another child. We went through some unnervingly tight stretches financially, as we adjusted to the loss of disposable income and the ridiculous price of diapers.We've since figured out how to stay comfortable without going into debt, giving up on small luxuries, or working on the corner on a hot night for some extra money (which is good, because post-nursing boobs are hardly money-makers). (NOTE: I would only resort to hooking in the most dire circumstances, such as being unable to feed Brianna after a zombie apocalypse. That was more a joke for my mother. Hi Mom!)

So for now, we're giving ourselves some time. Time to save money, time to get our relationship back to rock solid, time to see how I handle the adjustments and frustrations of having a toddler. I've been on birth control that's just kind of meh for PCOS (more on that in another post soon-ish), but I'll stick with it for a few more months and wait for my boobs to stop tingling when I see a baby or a pregnant lady. It's been so tempting to go off the meds and rely on infertility to keep us in check. But right now, a pregnancy would be more than we're prepared to handle, and the constant guessing game of what my body is doing could lead me down a constant path of hoping and being disappointed.

Because I do want another baby. But right now is just not the time.

A Long Goodbye to Nursing

Back in December, I made the difficult decision to stop pumping at work. My supply had dwindled over time, until I was getting less than 4 oz. a day. I wasn't even able to supply one bottle a day for daycare. Even worse, I had spent a few weeks in denial that Brianna wasn't getting enough from me on the weekends. I thought she could get a lot more since she was nursing directly, compared to what I got from pumping with a noisy, awkward machine. But being home with her for a few days over Thanksgiving, I finally recognized just how hungry she was when she wasn't at daycare. So my husband and I agreed that we would do formula on the weekends and I would stop pumping at work, but I would continue nursing her first thing in the morning and to help her go to sleep at night.

It was a lot harder than I expected. I was never engorged, since I barely had any milk at that point anyway. But emotionally was another story. It felt so strange to give her a bottle instead of cuddling her up against my chest. And she still would root on my chest to signal her hunger when we screwed up the timing on getting a bottle for her, or when she was upset and wanted comfort. Those were the hardest times for me, to know she still wanted to nurse but I had nothing to give her.

It had been such a gradual decrease that I didn't feel any guilt over having to stop. I had known it was coming, both because my midwife had warned me that pumping just can't match a baby for keeping up supply and because I could see the drop-off, week by week, in the number of bottles of pumped milk we sent to daycare. The hormones, however, were another matter.

Friends had told me that it could be like being post-partum all over again. FANTASTIC. I spent all of my Christmas holiday being a complete bitch, or overly sensitive, or on really bad days, an overly sensitive bitch from hell. Like when I got mad at Andy for having the heat cranked up on an empty pan while he made me breakfast and so I turned it off like a pouty teenager and then was certain he was going to leave me for yelling at him about the pan. Poor Andy. I don't think it was much of a vacation for him on those days.

By the beginning of January, Brianna had cut down to just 5 minutes of nursing in the morning. She'd nurse for a moment, then look over her shoulder, or bite me, or smack my boob with her no-longer-quite-so-tiny fist. Sometimes she'd manage to do all three AT THE SAME TIME. One morning there had been an empty bottle on the table beside the glider. She stopped swatting me long enough to try to roll over and grab it. Clearly nursing wasn't doing anything for her anymore, so we switched to a bottle in the morning.

She took to it like there was nothing strange about no longer getting to start her day with a couple of nipple chomps and playing whack-a-mole with mommy's boobs. It sort of surprised me that she gave it up so easily, and I have to admit, I took it a bit personally. I wanted to have some sign that she missed it, that she wanted to start the day cuddling with me.

We still had bedtime nursing, which mostly consisted of two minutes of nursing and then throwing herself out of my arms to say "Look lady, put me in that damn crib already, I want to sleep and you won't stop shoving that boob in my face!" But that only lasted a couple weeks and then I got the cold from hell. The kind that you catch from a husband who snores when he's sick so you're already tired from not getting enough sleep. And then you start to wonder if sinuses are really all that necessary, and whether you should carve out your nose or just cut off your whole head so you can feel better. That kind of cold. And hoo-boy, decongestants go to work awfully fast at drying up mucus in your body. Unfortunately they're not kind enough to say, oh, that milk, you want to keep that? Okay, let's just get rid of the snot that makes you sniffly and unable to sleep and we'll be on our way. So that was the end of that adventure. I just wish I had realized it would be our last nursing session, because I would have snuggled her a bit more.

Cue crazy hormones one more time! Super bowl commercials this year tended to have a few more "heart-warmers" than usual. Especially fun was tearing up after a particularly sad-sweet Ronald McDonald House ad with a series pictures of a kid who is sick but it shows him getting better and the commercial ended with a healthy kid and parents who were happy because they had a place to go when their son was sick and children get better faster when families stay together during treatment and now everyone is happy and nobody is sick anymore, aren't you glad you have a healthy kid and if you don't, we have this wonderful place for you to stay together! And by "tearing up", I mean sobbing, but without any snot because the decongestants dried me out.

It wasn't just me, I swear. Andy almost cried too. Take that, hormones! You're not the only reason I was a basket case during most of the Super Bowl!

So yeah. Everything is back to normal now. I still get achy sometimes when I hear a baby crying, but I haven't leaked and my boobs look almost decent again. At first (TMI ALERT!) they were sort of sad looking, like someone shoved a juiced grapefruit in a stocking and forget to add extra stuffing to make it roundish instead of saggy and lumpy. You're welcome for that visual. Now they look better, as long as I've worn a bra all day. Not so pretty when I first wake up, but then again, it's not like I'm showing them off at 7am, because SOMEONE likes to wake up at 5:30 even on the weekends, which puts the kibosh on sexy fun time in the morning. [Yeah, yeah, welcome to parenthood. It's not really something I expected to have, but I do miss it. Especially going back to sleep afterward and then being woken up with breakfast in bed. Note to couples without kids: don't tell me about waking up "so early" at 8am, or I will drop off a visitor for you.]

I'm incredibly grateful to have kept up with breastfeeding as long as I did. Things very nearly ended in the first few weeks because her wonky latch made it so painful for the first minute or so. But then we got the hang of it, and nursing was wonderful. I'm sad to see it go, but then again the advent of top teeth has made me quite thankful to have not experienced bites in recent days. Everything worked out well, and I'm proud of myself. Now pass me some decongestants, I feel a cold coming on.

Back to Rainbows and Sunshine

It's amazing to me looking back that I had even considered keeping up a blog (here or somewhere else) after Brianna was born. We barely have time to keep a semi-clean house and get healthy meals and maybe even have Frisky Time at least once a week (don't worry, this won't be a TMI post). But there are so many things I've wanted to share here, so I'm going to try to find some time to post now and then.

The most important change in my life over the past few months has been finally feeling better. Postpartum depression is a Bi-atch with Sucky Sauce on the side. It takes what should be the most magical, precious time in your relationship with your children and sucks away your will to really see life for what it is. Incredibly tough at times, a learning experience every single day, but so much wonder in every new thing they do and express and discover. Watching her joyfully grab her feet to play with her toes when they're finally freed from her pajamas helps balance the exhaustion of waking up every night at 4am.

For now, her world revolves around the fact that she has feet and hands and a mouth and can blow bubbles with her food and kick her legs like crazy, watching the silly things Andy and I do to keep her distracted when she's on the edge of a meltdown.  These simple things are enough to make me utterly content as a mother almost all the time. And I am really, truly happy.

For now, the hardest moments come when I forget that she is blossoming into a person, and every day she will become a little more independent with her own agenda of what she wants to be doing and the means to make it difficult for me to push my own will on her. As tempting as it is to just think of her as a cute puppet who will go along with whatever I need (or want) to do, she lets me know when she's not happy with the plan. It doesn't mean I have to give everything over to her, but it helps to remember that she's not doing it to piss me off, and that there are times when picking my battles makes everything smoother for everyone.

(She's already working on the limp fish routine when I try to trim her nails. I can only imagine what it's going to be like when she has her first temper tantrum in the grocery store over something I'm not inclined to add to our grocery cart. Unless she wants Oreos, in which case we're also getting some peanut butter to dip them in.)

Going with the flow has become a touchstone for me. The more I fight to stick with my own vision of what's supposed to happen, the harder it is to make anything happen. Sometimes I just have to let it go and stop trying to expect how other people (people meaning a 6 month old, assorted relatives, and random drivers who won't get off their damn phones) will behave in my life. (Because that totally worked before, you know.) They're not doing everything with the express purpose of making my life hell, they're just doing what fits with their own plan. It doesn't have to be a reflection of me when I can't figure her out, because she doesn't even know what she wants. I just have to pause and remember that I'm doing the best I can with what I know and trying to figure out the things I don't know.

So for anyone out there wondering if they'll ever feel like themselves again, when they'll finally have that bubbly constant love other moms seem to have for their kids, why they can't turn off the harsh voice and just enjoy their family - it gets better. With a lot of help and support and self-reflection, I'm finally where I wanted to be when pregnancy was still just a dream.

If you don't feel like you're living, there are a lot of people who want to help. You just have to take the first step and let somebody know. Here are some websites that I found helpful, encouraging, and/or downright life-saving:

From the NIH, good descriptions of what you might be feeling and lots of great resources to look through for you as well as your partner.

A list of 14 tips to prevent PPD from Ask Moxie. These are still helpful even when you're in the thick of it, so check them out.  Mostly I love her tone and approach. No holier-than-thou "you must do this!", just "do what makes it easier and more loving for everyone in your house right now, and what gets everyone the most sleep."

If breastfeeding is a priority, check out kellymom. Lots of great info that can help make breastfeeding less difficult/confusing/painful.

Dooce. She went through PPD and laid it all out there to help break down the stigma of mental illness. She's also funny as hell when she's writing about other stuff, and sometimes you need a good laugh.


It's a scary place to be. Please don't try to go through alone. You're not weak, you're not the World's Most Unqualified Mother, you're not a disappointment to your baby/your spouse/God/the cashier you always get on your weepiest trips to the grocery store.

You won't feel this way forever.

Dark Hours

Hi there! It's been awhile since I've posted anything, so if you're still reading my blog, you deserve a prize. Not that I can really give you anything, since all my time and energy goes into taking care of a baby and myself.

So. The real reason I've been out of commission here is that I was dealing with some really severe post-partum depression. It's a lot more common than most people realize, but that doesn't make it any less difficult. It's a horrible feeling to wonder if you love your child enough, or at all. But it's terrifying to realize that you think about hurting that child, and more so to realize in the darkest, most difficult moments that if you don't put her down right now, you will do something you regret.

It's not pretty, but it's the truth. I couldn't trust myself sometimes, and I'm thankful that those moments only came in the middle of the night when Andy could take over caring for her and then be my shoulder to cry on. I struggled a lot with these feelings and thoughts, and it only made me feel more inadequate as a mother. There's so much judgement for mothers who admit to being less than thrilled with parenting, and even more for those who don't know how to handle the challenges, but I feel it's important to be honest about this, even if it took me several weeks to share what I've been through.

After all the time we spent trying to get pregnant, I forgot to prepare myself for how hard the transition to motherhood would be. It's not just the sleepless nights, though that was one of my biggest triggers. It's also the insecurity of not knowing what she's trying to tell me with her cries, the fear that the mistakes I make (big or small) will have long-term consequences, and the sheer bewilderment of having a relative stranger running my life. I felt like I couldn't make her happy, but being a perfectionist, I had the completely unreasonable standard for myself that I should be able to figure what she wanted in the first couple weeks.

Life doesn't work like that though. It takes time to learn a baby's cries and cues, and even then, sometimes she's just crying to cry and there's nothing to do but soothe her until it runs its course or hand her off to someone else when you can't handle it anymore. Breastfeeding isn't strictly intuitive; there's a bit of a learning curve to get past the soreness and the leaking. And then there are the diaper changes where she pees all over the place before you can get the fresh diaper on, and then does it again two more times.

It should have been one of the most special times in my life, but I couldn't enjoy my daughter until she was almost 2 months old. I'd have brief periods of happiness, but the rest of the time I was struggling to live without being able to control how she behaved or change my environment to be more manageable. Eventually I learned to go with the flow, to not take it personally when she screamed, to recognize when I was approaching that border between rational response and losing it again. Weekly therapy has made all that possible. Medication also helped make it easier to accept the difficult moments even when I didn't have half the sleep I needed. So many people have told me that you get the hang of it around 3 months, and it seems to be true.

It's so much easier now, especially now that she only wakes up twice during the night, if at all. Life feels a lot better, though there are still hard moments when I have to walk away. I'm not sure where to take this blog now, though. I don't really have any interest in making this a "look at how cute my kid is! she has sunshine and rainbows coming out of her ass!" mommyblog (though I could do that somewhere else, since she has some spectacularly surprising stuff coming out of her ass sometimes). Yet there's not a whole lot to say about my ovaries or my hoo-ha at this point (sorry Hoozin, I just couldn't leave it alone). In about a year we'll be trying for kid #2, but until then there may be some radio silence. So tell me what you think. Should I start another blog, or should I just transform this yet again to reflect the newest stage of my life?

The Postpartum Adventure

Brianna is now three weeks old. She's lost her wrinkly newborn look, and just looks like a tiny baby now (well, as tiny as you can look when you're roughly 10 pounds). She holds her head up on her own sometimes and loves to watch a toy that dangles from the arm of her car seat, which is where she goes half the time because she sleeps so well in there. Occasionally she'll give us smiles, though I'm pretty sure they're not happy smiles yet, just more of a "hey, I have muscles in my face, I wonder how to use them" expression, kind of like when she lifts her eyebrows and pouts her lips out after she finishes nursing. But while my mom would be happy to have me write about Brianna until my fingers fall off, I'm here to share what it's been like for me these past three weeks with all the gory details. Fair warning: it's not always gonna be pretty.

When I was still in the hospital, the biggest thing I had to face was how unbelievably tired I was. So tired I couldn't reposition myself in bed at first, and I pretty much slept if I wasn't nursing or cuddling with Brianna. Which made going to the bathroom all kinds of fun at first, since certain areas were understandably SORE. (Percocet is such a wonderful drug when you've just pushed something the size of a small cantaloupe out of your hoo-ha! Did I mention her head was 14.5 inches around? Oy-vay.) It was also slightly disturbing to have so much bleeding afterwards. Nine months without a period, and then it seems like my body wants to make up for lost time, with the added bonus of having to use pads. It's like being back in junior high, but instead of an egg baby to care for, I have an incredibly cute but demanding newborn. After a mere 36 hours, I am sent home with a sitz bath, water jug, and squirt bottle as parting gifts. We could have stayed longer, but I would probably have been going stir crazy, and the fold out bed Andy was in was not designed for fathers over 6 feet tall.

Since coming home, I'm still incredibly tired, but it's more because I only get 5 hours of sleep in little chunks, rather than the utter exhaustion of pushing out a baby in only 20 minutes. The first full day home, we had to take Brianna to the pediatrician, and I had never regretted having stairs so much as I did after dragging myself up and down and out and about, and repeat the next day because Brianna needed to be monitored for weight after loosing too much after birth before my milk came in. (What a way to feel like a parenting failure!) Gradually the stairs got easier, and by now I'm running back and forth without any issues. I've started up walking again too, though they're kind of pathetic, slow little strolls that leave me tired when it's warm out like it has been. Everyday I go further though, and I know eventually I'll get back up to a good pace and distance.

I had planned on using a walking routine to lose any baby weight that remained after Brianna was born, but thanks to a minimal weight gain throughout the pregnancy and the crazy metabolism brought on by breastfeeding, I've already lost it all. Plus an additional 17 pounds. I have no idea how I lost that much so quickly, but I won't complain. I'm not as swollen as I had been, so a lot of it was probably water. I'm not necessarily thinner than I was before getting pregnant, but I am back into my normal clothes, which feels fantastic but is a little frustrating at times because everything is shifted around from where it was before.

My belly has quite a bit of pooch with extra skin hanging around. It's gotten better than it was right after the birth, when it felt like a big soft sponge, but I'd like to at least have some chance of wearing a cute swimsuit this summer. The other big change is that my boobs are huge. Andy certainly has nothing but smiles when the subject comes up, but dear Lord, did I really need to gain three cup sizes? It seems to have been taken from my ass to fuel breastfeeding, which honestly, I'm kind of sad about. It was the one body part that stayed normal through the pregnancy, and I was generally pretty happy with the way it looked before. It helped balance out my figure and now I just look (quite literally) slightly deflated. I'm hoping things continue to reconfigure over the next few weeks, because this isn't exactly the body I imagined having as a new mom. Better in some ways, but disappointing in others.

You know what's not disappointing? Having my hair stop growing so much! Unfortunately it didn't happen overnight. In fact, those lovely postpartum hormones gave a sudden boost to my hair and nails. Nature isn't exactly selective about which hair gets the MiracleGro treatment, so any hairs that were already present starting growing like weeds, including my facial hair. After coming home from the hospital and having barely enough energy to shower, personal grooming was pretty low on my to-do list. Until I noticed that my hairs were longer than Andy's stubble. Yes, I had finally grown more hair than my husband and had gone past the title of Bearded Lady. I had starting looking like a college sophomore who tries to grow a goatee so his fake ID is more believable. The only reason I wasn't a completely lost cause is that I had waxed my upper lip recently enough that there weren't too many hairs trying to do a Chia Pet imitation. Otherwise Andy probably would have looked at me funny when I tried to kiss him. Needless to say, I promptly waxed and plucked my way back to delicate femininity, or as close as I could come to it in this hormone-addled state, and things have been much slower growing back in.

So even with all those hormones going crazy (and who knows what PCOS will do to keep things...unpredictable), I'm doing quite well physically for being halfway through the 6 weeks that it's supposed to take to feel back to "normal".

Emotional recovery is a whole other story though.

Baby blues have given way to something more. It's not something I'm ready to get into in much detail at the moment, but I am getting treatment. Some days are harder than others, but it's starting to get easier and I'm able to enjoy more of my time with Brianna, which wasn't happening much at first.

How to Have a Baby

As promised, here's the (overly elaborate) story of how Brianna arrived. I have a lot to say, so grab a snack and dig in!

Really, it began that Sunday when I started having some mild contractions early in the afternoon. They didn't really slow down or go away, so I started keeping myself busy. I made a batch of palacsintas (a Hungarian version of a crepe), which unfortunately weren't refrigerated while we were in the hospital, so I didn't get the joy of a nutella-filled palacsinta when I got home - phooey. I went for a walk and the contractions got stronger. I sat outside while my mom planted flowers for me and they kept going. Through dinner and a shower, more and more contractions, incredibly regular. For most women, that would be a pretty sure sign that labor has begun, since contractions are supposed to go away when you move or change position if it's false labor. But apparently I'm that weirdo who doesn't like to follow medical rules. I tried laying down and getting a nap in, and once again they went away.

For some reason, it was even more devastating than the last round. They hadn't been difficult to get through, but they weren't exactly a walk in the park. I had gotten myself emotionally ready to go through with everything, and then it all went away. I was starting to wonder how many more times I would go through getting my hopes up, working to stay comfortable, and then being stuck again. We needed to reschedule our next check-in anyway since my mom needed to be at Dulles about the same time as the next day's appointment and there was no way it was going to work out with rush hour traffic on the Beltway, so we made our way to what would have been my Week 40 check-in.

We get in and it turned out that I had dilated another centimeter, but it didn't feel like enough given what I had been through. A lot of people think a slow labor is easy, and while physically it wasn't too bad, I was emotionally drained. The midwife brought up the possibility of scheduling an induction, and I told her I would be fine with it even though I had been asking to have a natural birth. My mom joked before she left to discuss it with a doctor at the hospital that today would be great, and lo and behold, our wish was granted. Luckily, I had just enough presence of mind to suggest grabbing the hospital bags on our way out, so we were ready to go.

The doctor's office happens to be right next to the hospital, so within minutes we were in the labor and delivery admitting office and then getting checked out again by the midwife on call to decide if she was okay with admitting me. I had already known that I would need an IV for antibiotics, so really the question was whether I was okay with the effects of the Pitocin and needing to be continuously monitored. At the time, I thought I could handle it, so we decided to go for it.

At 5pm, IV #1 gets started and I don't know if it was the nurse or just how swollen I had gotten by the end of the pregnancy, but it hurt. A lot. And nothing is less reassuring than seeing your ass-kicking ICU nurse mother cringe at the job done on an IV. Motherly concern or professional surprise? Either way, I was pretty sure that at some point the pain of the needle jabbing my hand would distract me for better or for worse. More on that later.

The Pit gets started along with my antibiotics, and the nurse was kind enough to start me off at the lowest dose possible and kick it up periodically until my contractions seemed to be doing well on their own. For a couple hours, the contractions were easier than what I had been going through at home. And though we tried to hold it in, my mom and I got a good laugh hearing a woman across the hall yelling "Owie!" during some intense labor. There's just something comical about hearing something a toddler would use. She definitely was making it a lot harder on herself than it needed to be, with a lot of high pitched screams that cascaded throughout the unit. We joked about going in and offering some help, because she definitely sounded like she needed it.

Around 7pm, the shift changes and I meet Morgan, the nurse who will be helping us all night. She and my mom talked shop a bit, including how far she drives to get up to Alexandria since my mom was looking at moving closer, and she mentions that Books on CD make the drive easier. "I have one right now that's so good I drove the long way home and then kept circling the block trying to keep listening. It's really long though, and part of a series--" and I blurt out "Outlander?!" and we all collapse into a fit of raving and giggles because really, how can you not love the Scottish hotness that is Jamie Fraser? That was the first sign that I was going to love having her on my labor team. She also made a point of checking in with me before starting any nursing care to see exactly how I wanted things to go, which was really reassuring. She pretty much continued to be awesome the whole night.

Not too long after that, the Pit was strong enough to get some more serious contractions going, and though nothing was terribly painful yet, they had to keep backing down the dosage because apparently my body responds quite well to it with contractions back to back. Then my mom bumped the IV while helping me pee and you would have thought I had suddenly jumped to being ready to push with the chewing out I gave her. So when we get back out of the bathroom she asked Morgan to redo it (figuring she'd be a little more competent than her predecessor) before my next round of antibiotics was due. Unfortunately that happened to be the same time as the all holy run to Chipotle for all the nurses, and since I was her only patient and everyone else had 2, she was the one leaving (did I mention I couldn't eat solid food at this point, and my mom decides to add in an order for her own burrito? cruelty, I tell you!). In the meantime, someone else tries to get IV #2 started only to discover that my body was really not wanting to cooperate, so yet another nurse comes in to try it out. They get the needle placed, and all seems well with the world. Until Morgan gets back and tries to start the meds running again...and nothing happens. Because this needle didn't work either. Lovely. IV #3 finally gets going, but at this point I've been off Pit for an hour and the contractions have stopped almost completely. I'm feeling like a human voodoo doll, and poor Andy is nauseous because he hates needles but stays by my side so I can focus on him and stay calm through each stab with the needle. The midwife for the evening shift comes in at 10 to check me out and break my water, and I've only opened up another centimeter after 4 hours of Pit. Luckily, breaking the water seems to be the magic ticket, because things really start to take off.

For the next couple hours, things are intense. Really intense. I'm past the point where most of the labor aids we brought with us (a fountain, a birthing ball, and so on) are going to be helpful, but Andy keeps talking me through my breathing, staying right by my side. Eventually I figure out I'm getting through each surge by focusing on his face, eyes locked breathing right beside me so I can hold on to his strength. We kept going like that for a long time, his face inches away from mine, showing me all the love in the world, with the sound of waves in the background on a sound machine. There were a couple times that I was doubting myself, unsure if I could make it without something for the pain. But Andy told me "I know you're strong enough to do this, but if you want to get some medication, it's okay." And something about having the encouragement to go on and the permission to get relief if I wanted to gave me the strength to choose not to use the narcotics and keep going.

Then suddenly things pick up even more. I'm struggling to find a position that doesn't hurt, and now it's my mom talking me through each contraction, showing me the way through. But as I'm struggling and moving around, the monitor that I'm hooked up to keeps shifting, so the nurses can't keep tabs on my contractions or Brianna's heart rate. And this nurse (who should be renamed Wicked Bitch of the Hospital instead of Agatha) keeps coming in to adjust the straps and the sensors, and won't even let me get through some of the tougher contractions before diving in. With this kind of pain, I can only tolerate certain types of touch from people I know and love dearly, so a stranger coming in and getting in my space isn't exactly welcome. My mom had to actually swat her hands away a couple times when she simply wouldn't leave me alone. The only good thing to come out of what she did was that the Pitocin was turned down several times because of how closely the contractions were showing up on the monitor.

There are only so many times you can turn down a dosage before you hit the minimum the pump is capable of producing. I had reached that point, as low as the IV would allow but with contractions going full strength and right on top of one another, so there was a chance the IV would be capped off and I would be sailing on my own. I was desperate to get in the shower and try using the water and heat to soothe me, but when you're on Pit, the baby must be monitored because the heart rate can suddenly change for the worse, which is when C-sections tend to be needed. But just in case it might be doable, my mom asks if I can get into the shower since the Pitocin is getting turned off. Thankfully, the midwife was okay with it just one time until I needed to get round three of antibiotics, and then I would have to stay in bed. For 30 minutes, I would be free of the IV and those incredibly confining straps. I was so sick of the pressure they were putting on my belly that I was nearly in tears, begging to have them taken off but too afraid to rip them off myself.

After a fun round of "hide the IV in a glove smaller than my wrist" so everything stays sterile while I'm wet, I crawl into the shower. It was soothing to a certain extent, but the contractions were so intense at that point that it was all I could do to remain upright. They hadn't really slowed down much by that point, so I was still just shifting from one position to another by the time the next one started. The time seemed to pass quickly, and by the time I was sicking of being uncomfortable, it was time to get out.

The thing we had forgotten about from my false labor escapades is just much a shower can move things along for me. I keep struggling through each contraction, struggling to keep from absolutely losing it and dissolving into a puddle on the floor. My mom is talking me through each one, pushing me to keep ahead of the pain that's coming and regroup with the fleeting lulls between each contraction. Each time it feels like I'm near drowning, about to lose control, unable to swim to safety and nothing to grab to pull myself away from the overpowering strong current. At this stage everything is kind of hazy, but I remember counting random sequences of numbers between 4 and 9, distracting myself by making new patterns every time. Because that's how a math geek handles contractions, obviously.

I'm going along like that for what felt like ages but was probably less than a half hour when suddenly I have to go to the bathroom so badly it distracts me from the awful contractions. But nothing happens. And suddenly we realize that I don't need to go -- I'm wanting to push. I'm fighting the urge because surely I'm not there yet, panting to give myself something else to do, but it's all so instinctual that there's no way in hell that panting will last me more than a couple minutes. So I decide to test the waters and give a little push. Holy instincts, Batman! It hurts but it feels right, and seriously, it hurts a lot but if I don't push soon I might just go crazy.

My mom is yelling over her shoulder, "Uh, she's trying to push, Morgan! Call the midwife!" and suddenly everyone is moving a lot faster. The midwife comes in to check everything out and I'm not quite there, just a tiny lip of the cervix still sitting around Brianna's head. So she and Morgan get everything set up on the sterile table and I'm back up on the bed, bearing down every so slightly with each contraction because that's the only way I can handle the intensity of the urges.

Finally, just before 3am, everything is ready. Andy and my mom are at each leg, ready to support me when I'm not pushing, and I'm being told to start. I get into it with every ounce of strength in my body, getting as many as I can with each contraction and feeling things starting to stretch and burn. My mom is counting through each push for me, telling me that Brianna is crowning already, and then Andy is counting for me, back in his role of being my rock to hold on to. All of a sudden the stretching burn gives way to the greatest pain I have ever experienced in my life. It was like having every sunburn of my life condensed into one moment and wrapped around my hoo-ha. I'm trying to push despite the pain, but each one is more and more painful, and I let out an ear-splitting primal scream, because there is nothing else my body can do to convey the agony I was feeling. But before I can get carried away with another scream, the midwife gets my attention and tells me I need to push, and suddenly I am back on track.

Just a few more pushes and even more intense pain, and suddenly I am holding the most beautiful baby girl in my arms, tears streaming down my face as Andy and I see our daughter for the first time. She is absolutely perfect, like her daddy in so many ways, and we are instantly in love. From that moment on, everything but Brianna is a little bit hazy for me, but I do remember my mom cutting her cord, the wide eyed look she gave us as she nursed for the first time in my arms, and the tears in Andy's eyes when he held her. My mom gave us some alone time to get to know Brianna while she called everyone to share the news, and I can't imagine a happier way to spend the first couple hours of her life.

Everything was quiet in the room after the midwife and Morgan got me fixed up (a first-degree tear - no surprise with that short of a delivery) and settled, though when she went to get me back on Pitocin to help my uterus contract, the IV had blown AGAIN. So six needle pokes and three failed IVs left me with a shot in the ass instead, which was infinitely better than more IV. All in all, I don't know that I could handle another birth with continuous monitoring, but with the incredible support of my mom and Andy, I got through it and managed to do it without cursing, telling Andy I hated him, or threatening to kill someone.

Introducing Brianna Noelle

I made it!! Brianna Noelle was born Tuesday night without pain meds at 3:16am, weighing 8 pounds and 14 ounces and measuring 20 inches long (I got part of it right). I'll do another post with the whole story, but funny thing about pushing out babies, you're completely and utterly exhausted by the end of it and everything hurts for a few days. So enjoy the pictures and poke me if I don't get around to another post in a couple days.

Asleep at home

Swaddled up in the hospital

Cuddling with my beautiful girl

Exhausted but happy

 Ready to go home

Week 38 - Return of the TMI Happy Hour

Hi there! I bet you're just thrilled to be reading yet another post where I spew forth verbal diarrhea . I wanted to give everyone adequate notice for the squeamish and shy that today will be a lot of TMI, so don't say I didn't warn you. Let's get started, shall we?

So the biggest thing on my mind lately has been a certain tendency towards being Frisky, which makes me sound like a sex-crazed maniac. This is only partly true. There seem to be two things going on right now, not exactly mutually exclusive but they don't seem to work well together either. On the one hand, my body seems to be going "Get it now before you have to wait at least 6 weeks and make it work while sleep-deprived with leaky boobs!". That part is fine, I know how to handle that (obviously, or I wouldn't be in this...predicament). But on the other hand, I feel a certain amount of pressure to be Frisky to bring on labor. There's a certain amount of ironic symmetry in pushing to do this on a regular schedule after the routines we went through to get pregnant in the first place.

One of the things that couples complain about if they have trouble conceiving is that sex starts to feel like a chore instead of a fun and intimate expression of love. We never quite got there, but there were a couple times that a small glass of wine was needed to get things started, and right now I don't have that luxury available. I'm terrified that I'll start not looking forward to it, and then I'll be regretting not taking advantage of the opportunity when I was able to.

Ahem.

Enough about that. You know what else you probably never wanted to know about? The fascinating prospect of going to the bathroom! Most women have a fear of a tiny bit of, shall we say, involuntary bodily function during delivery. But your body does it's best to clear everything out of your system before you get anywhere near the pushing stage, generally the day before you go into labor. I have never been so excited by the idea of number two before, for the sole fact that it could mean the big day is imminent. Exciting stuff, I know. Also exciting is the slow break down of the mucus plug (which somehow hadn't come out yet despite dilating to 4cm), because it's so fun to have what looks like a shower snot rocket when you wipe. But it's a good thing, if more than a little strange feeling.

We met with the midwife yesterday and got some recommendations on DIY induction. Sex and acupressure topped the list (check, and trying it out). She also tried using some of the tricks of her trade, only to discover that I'm already so close to going into labor that she couldn't actually do any of them because my body was already there. In addition to being 4cm and 60% effaced, I'm also carrying fully engaged ("her head is basically at the gates of the luge") with bulging waters and my membranes have separated on their own. One good sneeze could be all it takes, though several rough coughs associated with the bronchitis I have had hasn't been enough to do it, so I guess I can take that option out of the running. Then again, how am I supposed to know the difference between peeing my pants and having my water break? I'm guessing they all feel the same when you have a sneezing fit, based on my previous experiences with the "spritz of joy".

But enough about me and everything else you never wanted to read about. The midwife estimated Brianna to be about 8 and a half pounds, pretty much on par with last week's ultrasound, so I'm guessing she's actually in the 8 and three-quarters range. We'll see though. Either way, she puts a lot of pressure on my pelvic bone, so I will be sooooooo happy to go into labor. I've been getting about 10 hours of sleep throughout the day because I'm so tired after carrying her around for the other 14, and that's still not enough time to ease the achiness. I'm just hoping for Brianna's sake that even if I go into labor by tomorrow morning that things take just long enough that she's not born on April Fool's Day, because that's just a sucky day to have a birthday. So right now we're shooting for April 2nd just after midnight. If you see a post about going into labor, it's probably not a joke, unless I'm feeling particularly punchy. Can't discount that possibility either.

Week 37 - Under Pressure

I've been really thrown off by the whole false labor situation, so this post is a bit late. I'm second-guessing myself about a lot of different things, and it's starting to wear on me a bit. Small twinges that made me wonder seem like something I need to ignore now, and I worry that I won't recognize when the real thing starts or I'll think something else is labor when it's not. The pain of my pelvis opening up (and trying to turn over in bed when I'm that sore) make me wonder whether I'll be able to handle labor without meds. It seems like this will go on forever, but then when I consider what I still need to do at work or at home it feels like I can't possibly get to everything in time.

Luckily, my mom was AMAZING with helping us get ready this week while she was here, so that oh-shit list is a lot shorter than it was before. The nursery is completely set up and just needs the wall decals put up. Our kitchen is half baby-proofed (we'll add door latches later). She was even generous enough to hire cleaners for us, and as sad as it is to admit it, our house hasn't been this clean since we bought the place. We still have to finish taxes and replace the shelves in our bedroom closet, but everything else is as ready as it can be. We would even have a little party to show off our clean house and adorable nursery except half our friends are going out to another party which we can't make it to because (a) too many stairs at their place and (b) I don't like to be more than a half hour from our hospital. I'm weird like that. But anyone who wants to crash our place is welcome to enjoy the cheese and alcohol-free wine we will probably be enjoying with a Burn Notice marathon this Saturday. There might even be yogurt to accompany the Michael Westin eye candy.

Our last appointment was disappointing in a lot of ways. First off was the news that I was shut down like Fort Knox and shouldn't expect labor to start anytime soon. Then there was the news that my Group B Strep test came back positive, so I will have to have an IV of antibiotics when I arrive at the hospital. We were so thrown off by the news that I was no longer dilated or effaced that I didn't even think to ask about the test results, so hopefully we'll get more answers when we go in later today. (Yes, technically I'm 38 weeks already. You try doing regular blog updates when you have to pee every half hour and tell me how it goes while you search for more toilet paper.) On top of that, the OB ordered additional stuff to look at when we did the ultrasound, which made me paranoid that I would be induced early.

Luckily that probably won't happen. She still looks big, but they couldn't get her head measurement because she's so nicely engaged, which is a good sign for me. Her legs are going to be incredibly long though, unlike my stumpy limbs. That part comes from her daddy for sure. The placenta looks like it's still healthy and functioning as intended, so even if she gets bigger, an induction isn't recommended since it hasn't been shown to prevent C-sections. She's still thriving by all accounts and my pelvis should be wide enough to accommodate her, so according the perinatologist I might as well be allowed to start labor on my own. There are a couple of OBs who would be more open to them, so I'll do my best to avoid getting appointments with them over the next few weeks, but you never what will happen.

I've decided to make Friday my last day of working. I've been feeling so tired, and it just doesn't seem worth it anymore to go into labor exhausted so I can save a week or two with Brianna at the end of my maternity leave. Part-time work will let me extend my time home with her while keeping me sane, especially since I can work from home when I'm starting out instead of jumping straight into daycare. And this way I don't have to try to work when my mom comes back from her work week next Tuesday.

So how big was Brianna estimated at? Eight pounds, seven ounces. Thank God for this big bone structure of mine. I've never been so happy to wear a size 10 shoe, though I would be even happier if it didn't also come with extra width. Fred Flintstone's cross-dressing brother called, he wants his heels back. Anywho, enough of that tangent. Her lungs should be just about done maturing, though apparently another week to grow would be ideal. Her movements have slowed down quite a bit. Saturday, she scared the crap out of me by refusing to move until the afternoon when I ate two pieces of candy, drank a glass of cold water and a glass of cold juice, and put on some Queen. I'm pretty sure it's the Queen that did it, because just a couple bars into Under Pressure she started dancing around. Kind of a fitting song considering all the pressure she's putting on my pelvis. Now she just needs to stay put for a few more days until my mom comes back again, and then it will be perfect timing.

....Or Not

That was what is known as false labor in medical terminology. I call it frustrating and confusing, but at least I have my mom here now. I just wish I didn't feel so down for misjudging it, and for being told that I was nowhere near labor at today's appointment.

It's Happening....

Contractions have started. We're on our way to the hospital in about an hour or so. Looks like we're going to get that St Patrick's Day baby after all! Wish us luck and check back for updates and pictures.

Week 36 - Almost There

We made it through the week without too many more contractions. In 36 hours, she'll be officially full term and I can take a deep breath and welcome any signs of labor. (Oh hell, who am I kidding? I would welcome any and all signs of labor right now, but it's better for Brianna to get all the cooking time she deserves.) There were definitely some overly emotional moments over the weekend where I let anxiety get the better of me. It wasn't so much the fear of going into labor early that got to me. Rather, it was the emotional roller coaster of constantly looking for signals, reading into everything when I should just take it in stride and keep on living, and the tension between wanting to be done with the difficult side of pregnancy and knowing that it will be healthier for Brianna if I just give it time. A lot of it reminded me of the stress of infertility, the constant struggle of hoping everything works this time and the minor complaints like upset stomach and achy boobs will finally mean something great. It's nice to know that there is no disappointment with this though, just the anticipation of finally meeting our baby girl.

I finally feel ready for all of this to happen. Our bags are packed for the hospital and patiently waiting in the trunk. The bassinet is set up and waiting for her arrival. Tiny outfits are folded and stacked on the changing table while we wait to get the dresser built (and waiting with good reason, since the box weighs over 100 pounds and will probably get upstairs by being opened up and carried piece by piece). If we make it to Friday, we'll have the car seat inspected by the Sheriff's office for some extra piece of mind to be sure it's installed correctly. Plus, I have a nice work-from-home set-up that's letting me stay comfy while not burning any leave waiting for this to happen.

I have been informed by my family that some of my Monty Python references on here haven't come across all that well. Which just confirms my belief that I should entertain myself before going to the hospital by watching Eddie Izzard and other British comedy so Brianna will be quite familiar from an early age with all the material I will use to be an embarrassing mom when she's a teenager. Anyone want to join me for a marathon of Dressed to Kill, Holy Grail, and Coupling? We can even watch the Circus of the Epidural just to keep it labor related.

Brianna is probably seven and a half pounds now. She had hiccups earlier, and it took FOREVER for them to go away. Kind of unnerving to feel that rhythmic little bounce over and over so many times. She still hates extremely warm water, since every time I tried to get a hot shower to relieve hip pain, she got squirmy and unhappy and I got contractions. So, we'll probably avoid that one since it's just generally uncomfortable for everyone.

My belly button is flat now. It probably won't ever pop since I carry some extra "cushion" around my waist, but there's definitely nothing to it anymore. I guess this means I'm done, even without the turkey timer popping. The earliest signs of spring have arrived in DC, like buds appearing that will become cherry blossoms in a couple weeks and tiny leaves of green on the weeping willows along the Parkway. It's one of the prettiest times of year around here (impending tourist invasion aside), and now I just want a baby to complete it.

Week 35 - Shoot Me Now

As of today, I have four weeks and a day until my estimated due date. Which is absolutely crazy and more than a little scary. And right on cue to herald the end of my eighth month? Some serious Braxton-Hicks, which seem to be happen more often in the car and are more intense there. It seems to be a combination of being stressed (like when we're driving home at the end of the day) and having poor posture in general when we're in the car. By Friday they had gotten so bad that I went to bed and spent all afternoon and evening switching back and forth between my left and right side. (They got better eventually, but several times that night I was convinced that I would in fact go into labor in the next two weeks. More on that in a bit.)

By Saturday morning I wanted nothing to do with the bed, so I continued to take it easy by supervising in a comfy chair (lovingly provided by the Spanish Inquisition) while Andy did most of the work of cleaning our room. I think he would have mutinied if I hadn't also been set up at a table so I could sort through some of the crap that had accumulated all over the place. So now we have a clear floor and a clear desk, and even better? None of it was shoved in the closet. That would be the classic packrat coping technique, but we managed to find a home for everything or agreed to get rid of it. Goodwill is going to start recognizing our car and refuse to take our stuff.

Sunday was spent writing thank you notes for my first shower and getting taxes done. Woohoo, another refund. Not sure what we'll do with it this year, but last year it helped replace our roof. Maybe part of it will go towards some of the inevitable last minute "Oh crap, babies can't shop for themselves..." runs to Babies R Us for swings and diaper pails and the other things that we don't have yet but will be desperate for about 12 hours after bringing Brianna home.

In the midst of my impending doom of labor freakout over the weekend, I realized that while we do need some stuff still, a lot of them are gifts that just haven't arrived yet, and that by next weekend, we could theoretically be ready to bring home a baby. You know, as long as you look past the fact that we don't have diapers or a car seat. Or packed bags for going to the hospital.

Moodiness seems to be happening a lot lately. Last night I had round ligament pain from hell (quite literally - the devil showed up and made my uterus hurt, not such a nice guy that one) but didn't recognize it at first and called the midwives. I'm sure they think I'm a moron, and I went to today's appointment being that idiot who called over round ligament pain. Anywho, I was so overwhelmed and uncomfortable that I had a bit of a breakdown. Again. Poor Andy. All this on top of him having dental work and a headache yesterday. He's a real trooper, but we have finally decided that adventurous cooking (ie, let's make this up as we go along!) is out for the next several weeks. In fact, it might be out for a few months, because I don't think we feel like experimenting with a newborn on hand, unless we're feeling particularly crazy and so sleep deprived that it also sounds like a good idea to run around with our underwear on our heads. So, not likely.

Complaint #54,763 about pregnancy? I have to pee. All. The. Time. Middle of the night waddling to the bathroom is especially painful when your bladder is full and the hormones that loosen your pelvis are making it hard to stand up straight. It's gotten so bad that I'm starting to run out of toilet paper. Which means a trip to Costco needs to happen. However, that probably won't be happening for a couple days. Do you want to know why? Of course you do, this wouldn't be the TMI happy hour if I didn't tell you anything and everything about what's going on.

So at said appointment today, I got to hear the heartbeat as usual and measured rather large (39 weeks, but Brianna was sticking her butt out again so it's probably not that bad). Our midwife was a wee bit out of sorts because she had just had the pleasure of telling her previous (rather clueless) patient that she had a bulging abdomen because she was 20 weeks pregnant, not constipated. How anyone gets that far thinking they just need a good laxative, I don't know, but the midwife felt she had had her fair share of surprises today. She offered to check my cervix after doing the swab for Group B Strep, and after all the action my uterus has been getting, it sounded like a good idea to me. Good instincts on that one, because the surprises were not done for the day.

Y'all, I'm 4cm dilated already. 4 freaking centimeters! And 70% effaced to boot. I'm halfway through the easy-ish part of labor, and apparently those "fake" contractions were probably the real deal. If I get any regular contractions, I have to call the hospital even if they're several minutes apart. So I'm going to treat the next week like I'm on bedrest whenever possible. No Frisky fun-time. No standing over the stove cooking dinner. Still working, but not going back and forth between the adjacent buildings several times and staying off my feet. With my luck, the fire alarm will go off and I'll have to stand outside for awhile. And it will be raining.

Brianna is probably 7 pounds now, maybe 21 inches. We'll get a more definite answer when we go in for a yet another ultrasound, just to check her growth again since I measured so big. Right now it's just a waiting game as her lungs mature. Hopefully she'll stay tight for another week and continue to grow and be even healthier when she's born. It would be awesome to have a St. Patty's Day baby, or if she were born on the 21st (my grandma's birthday), that would be pretty cool too. With a full moon on the 19th, who knows what will happen. I'll try to update a little more often as things change through the week, so check here first if you're curious about our baby status.