Throughout my life, I have heard two basic schools of thought on scars.
The first:
I fought the battle, and I survived. My scar is a mark of honor, strength, and resilience.
The second:
Something happened to me, be it good or bad, and I am changed forever.
Some scars we carry on our physical bodies.The dark purple line on my lower stomach that I hope my bathing suit will cover. The stretch marks on my left hip. The breasts that have fed four babies and now require a good bra and dim lighting in order to look sexy.
Some scars we see in our physical world. The headstones, the photos, the boxes tucked away on closet shelves, kept in memory of babies and children who were taken from us far too soon. The piles of adoption paperwork lining the kitchen counter. The medication that we take each day to quiet the voices in our heads telling us that we aren't good enough, that it's too hard, that we should just give up. The tiny pajamas, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue as evidence that our tall, toothless six year old was once small enough to curl up onto our chest for a long afternoon nap.
Some scars are invisible. You cannot see them, but you can feel them. The way your stomach drops when the dentist tells you that your second grader has a cavity. The guilt that you feel when you run though the drive thru for dinner for the third time in a week. The sad validation that you feel when you hear that your child qualifies for therapy.
Being a mom is the hardest thing I have done. It is the hardest thing that I continue to do, each and every day. The scars that I carry are evidence of the hard times, yes, but they are also evidence of some of the best times in my life.
My scars are proof that I carried these beautiful children of mine - that a small part of my husband and a small part of myself combined and grew into an amazing person with an incredible heart and a blossoming personality. I remember the swelling of pride and love that I felt the minute I met each and every one of them.
My scars are proof that I nursed my babies. That I fed them and sustained them and that I helped them grow. I remember spending hours, curled up in bed, snuggling impossibly tiny babies. Those are some of my most precious memories.
My scars are proof that I survived the pain of loss, and am a more compassionate person because of it.
My scars are proof that I spent a year fighting a battle within myself and still managed to take care of my family. They are proof that I am stronger than I ever imagined, and that I can make it through anything.
Don't hide your scars, mamas.
Motherhood is a battle, and it leaves its marks, on our physical bodies as well as in our hearts and minds. But remember this as you celebrate Mother's Day.
You are beautiful. You are strong. You are resilient.
Your children, whether you hold them in your heart or in your arms, are one of the greatest things that have ever happened to you, and you are changed forever.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
When You Have a Friend Who is Struggling
I've been pretty open about my struggles this year. Shortly after Muffin was born, I was diagnosed with PPD and PPA. Given his traumatic birth, it was probably a bit of PTSD, too.
It was a hard year.
I'm finally coming out the other side, but, as is expected - life's challenges just keep on coming.
A traveling husband.
A baby with health problems.
Therapy, Early Intervention, and more therapy.
The general chaos and work of having four children under the age of six.
The adventure of life hasn't stopped, and for that, I am grateful. I'm also infinitely grateful that I am in a better place, emotionally and physically, to tackle everything that life has to throw at me. Otherwise, I might be crying in a corner somewhere.
Okay, some days, I end up doing just that. Life is hard, after all.
There are a lot of things that have helped me this year. And there are a lot of things that have hurt me. Though I'm sure everyone's heart was in the right place, when you have PPD, not everything that is said or done is helpful and uplifting, despite the best of intentions.
Maybe you have a friend or family member who is trying to overcome PPD or another challenging time in her life. Maybe you are trying to beat those demons yourself. I thought I would share some of the things that I found uplifting this year, in the hopes that it could help someone else out there who is still walking in the shadows.
Get her out of the house
When you are in the depths of PPD, or when you are simply feeling overwhelmed and not enough, the last thing that you want to do is leave the house. You have an innate desire to stay locked up in the walls of your misery. The outside world is not a welcome distraction.
I beg you, if you have a friend who is struggling, get her out of the house. There is nothing like some fresh air and friendship to lift your spirits, even if it's just for a short while. Life is busy and it can be hard to coordinate schedules, but don't be the friend who always says, "We should do dinner!" but never comes through to make it happen. Instead, be the one who offers to come pick your friend up, brings coffee, who helps with the kids' shoes, reassures your friend that she looks fine, and - if necessary - takes her by the arm and gets her out of the house. She may resist, but she will appreciate your effort to include her, love her, and make her feel worthwhile.
I was fortunate to have friends do this for me this year. It was never a question of, "Do you want to..." it was simply, "We are hanging out!" Even though I fought with myself every step of the way, I always felt better when I got out of the house.
Recognize Facebook for what it is
Facebook is a mainstay of our world. As much as I wish it would disappear sometimes, it's not going anywhere. As much as I wish I had the willpower to delete my Facebook profile, it really is my connection to many family members and friends.
I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.
So many times, I run into people who I don't see often in real life, and they say, "Oh, I see the pictures that you put up on Facebook! You must be so (happy/busy/frustrated/insert whatever word here)." Even though I appreciate that they enjoy my pictures and posts, I find myself trying not to shake my head.
Facebook is not a true portrayal of a person's life. Please remember that. Whether you see your friend posting an onslaught of happy pictures, or you see posts where a friend is complaining or venting more than you would like, remind yourself that Facebook is merely a glimpse into someone's dynamic, complicated life.
The friend who is posting picture after picture of her smiling children could be struggling even though it seems like all is well. So often I felt that I was standing in a crowded room, screaming, and no one - NO ONE - realized it. Didn't they see that I was acting? I needed help.
The friend who is asking what she can do to get through her day may be having a hard moment and is looking for advice to get through it. It does not mean that her life is one of never-ending misery. I've been on this end of it, too, where I have asked for a simple bit of advice and been told that I am completely unhappy or that I hate my life. Didn't they see that I was fine? Why on earth can't I ask for advice? Did I lose that right when I was diagnosed with PPD?
Check in with your friend. Do it the old fashioned way and CALL her. Visit her. Talk to her. Ask her how she is doing. You can tell a whole lot more about how she is truly doing by the tone of her voice and the expression on her face than you can by her latest Facebook status update.
Commiserate
Maybe I should label this bit of advice as, "Don't be a jackass." But suggesting that you commiserate with your friend is probably a nicer way to put it.
When you are having a hard time, the last thing that you want to hear is how much better someone else is doing. It magnifies your perceived flaws. It makes you wonder what you are doing wrong - even if you are doing NOTHING wrong.
If a friend vents to you about the fact that she isn't getting much sleep because her baby is up six times a night, don't chime in with "Oh, little Joey slept through the nights at six days old! I couldn't imagine getting up all night like you do."
If a friend is complaining about her messy house, don't respond by telling her that you stay up until midnight every night, scrubbing the walls because you simply cannot go to bed if there are tiny toddler-size smudges on your fresh paint.
For the love of God, sympathize with the poor woman! Exhaustion is miserable. Tell her that you know how it feels to wake up in the morning and wonder if you ever went to sleep. Tell her not to worry about cleaning her house. Crumbs add character. Step in and help her out, if you can.
Be the friend who helps fold the laundry while you chat and pass out Goldfish crackers to your army of minions. Everyone likes that friend.
Remember that life has it's struggles
This is where I'm at these days.
Life has struggles. Many struggles. Annoying toddler phases, an acute lack of sleep, disagreements with a spouse. Life can be hard.
But life isn't ALL HARD. I can see that now.
Still, when I complain about things in my life - things that are truly and genuinely challenging and overwhelming - the first thing response that I get from some people is about my depression. It's as if they mean to say that they would not feel the same way that I feel in my circumstance and so I must be insanely depressed and must get back to the doctor immediately and take loads of antidepressants.
I'm not buying it. It hurts my feelings and pisses me the hell off to get this response. So please, I beg you, remember that life has it's struggles. Your friend will struggle long after her situation begins to improve. Don't tell her that her life is crap and that she isn't handling things well. Lift her up. Remember that piece of advice above? Commiserate.
Are her feelings valid? Yep.
Is she dealing with difficult circumstances? I bet she is.
Would you feel similarly in her situation? I'm sure you would.
Tell her that it's going to be okay
When I got the phone call from the hospital telling me that Muffin had been referred to the department of pediatric surgery, I panicked. I called my husband and cried for a minute and tried to get my bearings. I sent a text to one of my best friends to let her know.
That friend called me, right then and there, in the middle of her day with a classroom full of students chatting in the background. The first words out of her mouth were, "It's going to be okay."
That phone call meant the world to me.
Those words are powerful.
BE THAT FRIEND.
Acknowledge her progress
Depression, anxiety, new babies, big life changes - they can derail your life, even if only temporarily.
It takes bravery to overcome these challenges. It's scary to admit that you are struggling, to call the doctor, to get the help that you need. It's important to have support along the way.
Pay attention to the process. Acknowledge her progress. Remind her that she's doing okay! She's getting through it, on the good days and on the bad days. There is light. There are better things to come. Tell her that you are proud of her.
I am so thankful for my husband, because he is this support for me. He constantly reminds me, when I am feeling overwhelmed or like I'm not doing enough, that I'm doing great. That I am SO MUCH BETTER than I was months ago. That I am OVERCOMING the struggle of a lifetime. I feel the changes in myself. I am happier. I am more content. I am confident. I am at peace. I am driven.
The fact that he SEES these changes and acknowledges them is so encouraging to me. That man has given me so much grace this year. I am lucky to have him.
If you have a friend who is having a hard time with life, reach out. Be genuine. Be kind.
If you are struggling and you need a friend, I'm glad to be that person for you. I hope one day to be able to repay all of the kindness and support that I have gotten this year from friends near and far.
It was a hard year.
I'm finally coming out the other side, but, as is expected - life's challenges just keep on coming.
A traveling husband.
A baby with health problems.
Therapy, Early Intervention, and more therapy.
The general chaos and work of having four children under the age of six.
The adventure of life hasn't stopped, and for that, I am grateful. I'm also infinitely grateful that I am in a better place, emotionally and physically, to tackle everything that life has to throw at me. Otherwise, I might be crying in a corner somewhere.
Okay, some days, I end up doing just that. Life is hard, after all.
There are a lot of things that have helped me this year. And there are a lot of things that have hurt me. Though I'm sure everyone's heart was in the right place, when you have PPD, not everything that is said or done is helpful and uplifting, despite the best of intentions.
Maybe you have a friend or family member who is trying to overcome PPD or another challenging time in her life. Maybe you are trying to beat those demons yourself. I thought I would share some of the things that I found uplifting this year, in the hopes that it could help someone else out there who is still walking in the shadows.
Get her out of the house
When you are in the depths of PPD, or when you are simply feeling overwhelmed and not enough, the last thing that you want to do is leave the house. You have an innate desire to stay locked up in the walls of your misery. The outside world is not a welcome distraction.
I beg you, if you have a friend who is struggling, get her out of the house. There is nothing like some fresh air and friendship to lift your spirits, even if it's just for a short while. Life is busy and it can be hard to coordinate schedules, but don't be the friend who always says, "We should do dinner!" but never comes through to make it happen. Instead, be the one who offers to come pick your friend up, brings coffee, who helps with the kids' shoes, reassures your friend that she looks fine, and - if necessary - takes her by the arm and gets her out of the house. She may resist, but she will appreciate your effort to include her, love her, and make her feel worthwhile.
I was fortunate to have friends do this for me this year. It was never a question of, "Do you want to..." it was simply, "We are hanging out!" Even though I fought with myself every step of the way, I always felt better when I got out of the house.
Recognize Facebook for what it is
Facebook is a mainstay of our world. As much as I wish it would disappear sometimes, it's not going anywhere. As much as I wish I had the willpower to delete my Facebook profile, it really is my connection to many family members and friends.
I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.
So many times, I run into people who I don't see often in real life, and they say, "Oh, I see the pictures that you put up on Facebook! You must be so (happy/busy/frustrated/insert whatever word here)." Even though I appreciate that they enjoy my pictures and posts, I find myself trying not to shake my head.
Facebook is not a true portrayal of a person's life. Please remember that. Whether you see your friend posting an onslaught of happy pictures, or you see posts where a friend is complaining or venting more than you would like, remind yourself that Facebook is merely a glimpse into someone's dynamic, complicated life.
The friend who is posting picture after picture of her smiling children could be struggling even though it seems like all is well. So often I felt that I was standing in a crowded room, screaming, and no one - NO ONE - realized it. Didn't they see that I was acting? I needed help.
The friend who is asking what she can do to get through her day may be having a hard moment and is looking for advice to get through it. It does not mean that her life is one of never-ending misery. I've been on this end of it, too, where I have asked for a simple bit of advice and been told that I am completely unhappy or that I hate my life. Didn't they see that I was fine? Why on earth can't I ask for advice? Did I lose that right when I was diagnosed with PPD?
Check in with your friend. Do it the old fashioned way and CALL her. Visit her. Talk to her. Ask her how she is doing. You can tell a whole lot more about how she is truly doing by the tone of her voice and the expression on her face than you can by her latest Facebook status update.
Commiserate
Maybe I should label this bit of advice as, "Don't be a jackass." But suggesting that you commiserate with your friend is probably a nicer way to put it.
When you are having a hard time, the last thing that you want to hear is how much better someone else is doing. It magnifies your perceived flaws. It makes you wonder what you are doing wrong - even if you are doing NOTHING wrong.
If a friend vents to you about the fact that she isn't getting much sleep because her baby is up six times a night, don't chime in with "Oh, little Joey slept through the nights at six days old! I couldn't imagine getting up all night like you do."
If a friend is complaining about her messy house, don't respond by telling her that you stay up until midnight every night, scrubbing the walls because you simply cannot go to bed if there are tiny toddler-size smudges on your fresh paint.
For the love of God, sympathize with the poor woman! Exhaustion is miserable. Tell her that you know how it feels to wake up in the morning and wonder if you ever went to sleep. Tell her not to worry about cleaning her house. Crumbs add character. Step in and help her out, if you can.
Be the friend who helps fold the laundry while you chat and pass out Goldfish crackers to your army of minions. Everyone likes that friend.
Remember that life has it's struggles
This is where I'm at these days.
Life has struggles. Many struggles. Annoying toddler phases, an acute lack of sleep, disagreements with a spouse. Life can be hard.
But life isn't ALL HARD. I can see that now.
Still, when I complain about things in my life - things that are truly and genuinely challenging and overwhelming - the first thing response that I get from some people is about my depression. It's as if they mean to say that they would not feel the same way that I feel in my circumstance and so I must be insanely depressed and must get back to the doctor immediately and take loads of antidepressants.
I'm not buying it. It hurts my feelings and pisses me the hell off to get this response. So please, I beg you, remember that life has it's struggles. Your friend will struggle long after her situation begins to improve. Don't tell her that her life is crap and that she isn't handling things well. Lift her up. Remember that piece of advice above? Commiserate.
Are her feelings valid? Yep.
Is she dealing with difficult circumstances? I bet she is.
Would you feel similarly in her situation? I'm sure you would.
Tell her that it's going to be okay
When I got the phone call from the hospital telling me that Muffin had been referred to the department of pediatric surgery, I panicked. I called my husband and cried for a minute and tried to get my bearings. I sent a text to one of my best friends to let her know.
That friend called me, right then and there, in the middle of her day with a classroom full of students chatting in the background. The first words out of her mouth were, "It's going to be okay."
That phone call meant the world to me.
Those words are powerful.
BE THAT FRIEND.
Acknowledge her progress
Depression, anxiety, new babies, big life changes - they can derail your life, even if only temporarily.
It takes bravery to overcome these challenges. It's scary to admit that you are struggling, to call the doctor, to get the help that you need. It's important to have support along the way.
Pay attention to the process. Acknowledge her progress. Remind her that she's doing okay! She's getting through it, on the good days and on the bad days. There is light. There are better things to come. Tell her that you are proud of her.
I am so thankful for my husband, because he is this support for me. He constantly reminds me, when I am feeling overwhelmed or like I'm not doing enough, that I'm doing great. That I am SO MUCH BETTER than I was months ago. That I am OVERCOMING the struggle of a lifetime. I feel the changes in myself. I am happier. I am more content. I am confident. I am at peace. I am driven.
The fact that he SEES these changes and acknowledges them is so encouraging to me. That man has given me so much grace this year. I am lucky to have him.
If you have a friend who is having a hard time with life, reach out. Be genuine. Be kind.
If you are struggling and you need a friend, I'm glad to be that person for you. I hope one day to be able to repay all of the kindness and support that I have gotten this year from friends near and far.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Feel Free to Breastfeed Here
I blame my husband's travel schedule for the fact that I am lonely and bored at night and therefore wind up reading the comments of controversial Facebook news stories.
I blame my husband's travel schedule, the cold weather, and PMS for the fact that I am feeling stabby enough to respond to the ignorance and dumbassery that I see in those comments.
Yesterday, a local news station shared a story on their Facebook page about a mom who was in a restaurant with her family when she was asked to leave her table and breastfeed her baby in the bathroom. The right to breastfeed is protected by law here in New York, and the restaurant manager issued a public apology to the mother in question.
As these things often do, the Facebook post blew up with hundreds of comments. Many were supportive, promoting a woman's right to feed her child no matter where she was. Some, however, were downright nasty. Most of the awful comments came from other women, who may or may not be mothers themselves, though the men chimed in with a few gems, as well.
We've all seen the arguments that women should use nursing covers in public, or "simply" pump a bottle of milk to bring with them if they are going out in public. While these make me roll my eyes, I'm used to them. However, some of the comments that I read made me feel shocked, angry, and somewhat defensive.
I support breastfeeding. I love breastfeeding. I've breastfed four babies and am still nursing Muffin at ten months old. I kind of fight the urge to give breastfeeding moms a high five when I see them nursing in public (but I do usually smile at them in a hopefully non-creepy way.) I resisted the urge to reply to every ignorant comment that I saw on that Facebook post. Instead, I saved my sarcasm for my blog.
But There are Children Around!
Some of the commenters seemed truly horrified that their children might be witness to breastfeeding. You would think that they were concerned about their special snowflakes watching a woman dancing on a stripper pole. "I don't want my kid seeing boobs!" Yes, we want to be careful that your child never witness a baby being fed the way nature intended. After all, how will we continue the cycle of ignorance if we allow nursing moms to feed their babies wherever, whenever, and make it seem like a completely normal thing to do?
Moms Who Breastfeed in Public are Just Doing it for Attention
Damn. How did you know? You are so smart. You caught on to our evil plan to have everyone stare and gawk and make us feel uncomfortable. Nursing moms LOVE to be ostracized and told to go feed our babies in a dirty public bathroom. We just choose to start our feedings in restaurant booths and on park benches in order to provide you with the opportunity to give us all of that negative attention. The whole "wanting to feed our baby" thing is just a lie, really. We made it up.
Breastfeeding Spreads Germs. It Shouldn't be Allowed Around Food.
For real? Did you really just say that?
While there are some medications and health conditions where breastfeeding may be contraindicated, a healthy mom and baby do not "spread germs" by breastfeeding. In fact, breastfeeding passes antibodies from mom to baby, which help to protect baby from whatever germs and bacteria you have the nerve to share with the general public. Breastfeeding is incredibly healthy for baby and has many health benefits for mom, too.
As far as breastfeeding around food - you do realize that breast milk IS food, right? It's not some hazardous material that is going to contaminate the food supply in the restaurant. But maybe you should watch out for the woman who is nursing her infant at the table nearest to the salad bar. That shit is going to squirt right into the ranch dressing and you will never know what hit you.
"I brought bottles."
As said by a self-proclaimed Single Dad. Gee, thanks for chiming in.
So, moms - keep nursing. It's horribly flashy, inappropriate, and disgusting, but how else will we piss off the people of the world? That breast milk is powerful stuff!
I blame my husband's travel schedule, the cold weather, and PMS for the fact that I am feeling stabby enough to respond to the ignorance and dumbassery that I see in those comments.
Yesterday, a local news station shared a story on their Facebook page about a mom who was in a restaurant with her family when she was asked to leave her table and breastfeed her baby in the bathroom. The right to breastfeed is protected by law here in New York, and the restaurant manager issued a public apology to the mother in question.
As these things often do, the Facebook post blew up with hundreds of comments. Many were supportive, promoting a woman's right to feed her child no matter where she was. Some, however, were downright nasty. Most of the awful comments came from other women, who may or may not be mothers themselves, though the men chimed in with a few gems, as well.
We've all seen the arguments that women should use nursing covers in public, or "simply" pump a bottle of milk to bring with them if they are going out in public. While these make me roll my eyes, I'm used to them. However, some of the comments that I read made me feel shocked, angry, and somewhat defensive.
I support breastfeeding. I love breastfeeding. I've breastfed four babies and am still nursing Muffin at ten months old. I kind of fight the urge to give breastfeeding moms a high five when I see them nursing in public (but I do usually smile at them in a hopefully non-creepy way.) I resisted the urge to reply to every ignorant comment that I saw on that Facebook post. Instead, I saved my sarcasm for my blog.
But There are Children Around!
Some of the commenters seemed truly horrified that their children might be witness to breastfeeding. You would think that they were concerned about their special snowflakes watching a woman dancing on a stripper pole. "I don't want my kid seeing boobs!" Yes, we want to be careful that your child never witness a baby being fed the way nature intended. After all, how will we continue the cycle of ignorance if we allow nursing moms to feed their babies wherever, whenever, and make it seem like a completely normal thing to do?
Moms Who Breastfeed in Public are Just Doing it for Attention
Damn. How did you know? You are so smart. You caught on to our evil plan to have everyone stare and gawk and make us feel uncomfortable. Nursing moms LOVE to be ostracized and told to go feed our babies in a dirty public bathroom. We just choose to start our feedings in restaurant booths and on park benches in order to provide you with the opportunity to give us all of that negative attention. The whole "wanting to feed our baby" thing is just a lie, really. We made it up.
Breastfeeding Spreads Germs. It Shouldn't be Allowed Around Food.
For real? Did you really just say that?
While there are some medications and health conditions where breastfeeding may be contraindicated, a healthy mom and baby do not "spread germs" by breastfeeding. In fact, breastfeeding passes antibodies from mom to baby, which help to protect baby from whatever germs and bacteria you have the nerve to share with the general public. Breastfeeding is incredibly healthy for baby and has many health benefits for mom, too.
As far as breastfeeding around food - you do realize that breast milk IS food, right? It's not some hazardous material that is going to contaminate the food supply in the restaurant. But maybe you should watch out for the woman who is nursing her infant at the table nearest to the salad bar. That shit is going to squirt right into the ranch dressing and you will never know what hit you.
"I brought bottles."
As said by a self-proclaimed Single Dad. Gee, thanks for chiming in.
So, moms - keep nursing. It's horribly flashy, inappropriate, and disgusting, but how else will we piss off the people of the world? That breast milk is powerful stuff!
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Parenting Many Kids
A few weeks ago, I read an article on ScaryMommy about POOPCUPS.
Parents of One Perfect Child Under Preschool-age.
I found it hilarious in that "it's funny because it's true" way, and also because I saw a lot of myself in that article. Back in the good ol' days, when it was just me, Big Kid, and my husband, I was a total POOPCUP. My baby was the smartest, funniest, sweetest little human being to ever grace the earth.
I had all of the time in the world to encourage these wonderful traits. I used to do flashcards with Big Kid. He was about a year old, and we would sit down with a big stack of flashcards and Big Kid would say the words. We would video tape it. We were so proud. He was, quite obviously, a genius! I mean, most babies his age weren't even talking!
You know what I realize about this scenario now, looking back?
I USED TO DO FLASHCARDS. WITH A BABY.
No need to tell me to get a grip. Three kids later, that grip has been firmly gotten, thankyouverymuch.
(That sentence may qualify for the worst sentence in the history of sentences, but you catch my drift.)
Back then, when I was a perfect parent to one perfect child, I was sure that certain things, such as weaning, potty training, and general child-rearing would be a breeze.
To his credit, Big Kid has made this parenting thing pretty easy on us and those things were, and continue to be, very easy - at least with him.
Imagine my horror when Toast came along and he was - GASP! - his very own person. Still completely awesome, yet very, very different from his big brother.
And then Beam joined our family. And then Muffin showed up.
And suddenly, I forgot what the hell a flashcard was and was just trying to make it through the day parenting four kids under the age of six. Needless to say, life has changed in many ways. Some of those changes were good (Don't drill your baby using flashcards!). Some of those changes are questionable. If you have three or more kids, you can probably relate. Read on.
Sleeping Arrangements
When I was pregnant for Big Kid, husband and I spent hours designing the perfect nursery. We had a theme. We scoured yard sales and shopping centers for the perfect nursery accessories. We tried (in vain) to paint a custom shelf. We purchased an expensive crib set full of deadly comforters and bumpers and actually used them (the horror!). Everything was ready for his arrival. He had the perfect spot to lay his sweet head and dream.
With four kids, we don't give a crap where anybody sleeps. The only thing we care about is the fact that they DO sleep. Currently, Big Kid, Toast, and Beam share a giant bedroom that they have deemed Kiddie Fun Land. When it's time to settle down in Kiddie Fun Land, we tuck Beam into her crib (so that she can't escape) and Toast and Big Kid pile into a single twin bed, along with no fewer than two pillows, three stuffed dinosaurs, and nine blankets. Yes, nine blankets. They have their own beds, but they prefer to sleep together and we prefer that they sleep, period. We turn on ten minutes of Dora the Explorer and we run out the door.
Bath Time
In the name of full disclosure, bath time doesn't happen as often as it should. When I only had one or two kids, I was religious about bath time, and they had a bath every day or every other day. Nowadays, I notice that the kids start looking sketchy and I start psyching myself up for the marathon that is bath time. First, I warn them that they will, in fact, be taking a bath tonight. They groan. Big Kid negotiates for a shower, but sometimes I just tell him no, he's taking a bath because it's easier for me (HA!)
I usher the kids upstairs and dig out four pairs of pajamas. I run back downstairs for diapers because I forget them every single time. I run back downstairs a second time to grab extra towels from the dryer. I turn on the water and get Muffin undressed. He's first in line for a bath because he's the cleanest and also the quickest. The other kids typically gallivant around the house naked while I bathe, lotion, and dress the baby.
Once Muffin is done and I have removed his bath seat, I yell for the other kids to pile in. Big Kid balks.
"Is this DIRTY bathwater?!"
"Oh my GOD, it's only a little pee. Get your butt in there!"
(Told you, questionable parenting.)
To appease him, I drain somegently-used bathwater and run some fresh. Muffin sits in his chair and either plays quietly or screams while I do the bath assembly line.
Face wash, face wash, face wash.
Hair wash, hair wash, hair wash.
Pass out wash cloths, let the kids play and scrub down.
Then I dump water over them one last time and usher them all out of the tub and back to Kiddie Fun Land.
The kids put on lotion and get dressed. Beam insists that she needs to put lotion on her boobs. I remind her that she doesn't have boobs. The kids jump on their beds while I gather up dirty clothes and towels and pray to God that bedtime is coming soon.
Breastfeeding
Breastfeeding can be stressful, especially for first time parents. Even though it's "natural," there's nothing natural about it. Most of the time, you don't know what the hell you are doing and neither does your baby. There is a steep learning curve involved.
I've breastfed all four kids, and there were sharp differences in the beginning when I compare Big Kid to Muffin. With Big Kid, we charted everyone of his feedings. We wrote down the time that he latched on, how long he nursed, which side he fed from, if he pooped, or peed, or both. Husband was great at charting these Baby Basics. If he didn't poop or didn't latch on every two hours on the dot, I panicked a bit.
With Muffin, although the nurse wanted me to keep track of all of this stuff, I was an old pro. Nurses would ask, "When did he last eat?" and I would say, "I don't know! Maybe 20 minutes ago?" "How long did he nurse for?" "I don't know... until he was done and fell asleep." I could tell it made them crazy but you know - fourth baby and all. I didn't care.
Driving Around Town
A single car seat will fit into just about any vehicle that you own. Big Kid and I used to cruise around in a little five-speed Honda Civic. Man, I loved that car.
Four car seats, however, require a specialized vehicle called the Minivan. (Yes, I could drive a big SUV, but I do love my van). Instead of just simply loading your baby up, putting the car into first gear and taking off, you have four kids climbing over and under to get to their appropriate car seats. You follow, buckling each one as you go, banging your head on the ceiling light, and breaking your hip trying to maneuver your way back out the giant door. You are no longer driving a cute car. You are driving a trash can on wheels. Someone could live for days with the extra food, sippy cups, and clothing that you have stashed into your Stow and Go compartments.
Going Out to Dinner
When we had only one kid, going out to dinner was a regular occurrence. Back then, it didn't cost $60 to feed our family, and we were quite certain that we could make it through the meal without anyone having a meltdown. We would get Big Kid all set up in his high chair with his adhesive place mat, some Gerber Puffs, and order our meals. We would order vegetables for the baby, because we wouldn't dream of feeding him French fries at such a tender age. We would talk to Big Kid and gush over him and hope that the waitress and everyone around realized how well behaved and adorable he was.
Going out to dinner now is a carefully calculated risk. Who has napped today? How hungry are they? (If they are too hungry, forget it. Waiting for a restaurant meal is going to be a nightmare.) Is the restaurant going to be busy? Do they have any drink specials?
We load up the minivan, usher the troops into the restaurant, and repeat, "Six please, two high chairs," when the hostess asks us "How many?" We are quickly ushered to the most remote corner of the restaurant and spend four minutes playing Musical Chairs before everyone is settled. Husband and I order drinks, and the kids order a round of chocolate milk. The kids begin to quietly color on their kids' menus while husband and I try to talk. There is no fawning over our adorable children - we are just praying that they are quiet enough not to be noticed by the rest of the patrons of the restaurant. Sometimes desperate measures are taken to maintain calm through the meal. We bribe them with dessert. We throw French fries around like water. We spike their chocolate milk with a bit of rum.
(Kidding!)
We eat as fast as we can, pay our bill, and leave our server a fat tip for getting us in and out quickly. On the way home, we say that we will only be going out to eat again if we can go without kids and enjoy our meal, because we just spent $57 for food that we barely tasted.
Parents of One Perfect Child Under Preschool-age.
I found it hilarious in that "it's funny because it's true" way, and also because I saw a lot of myself in that article. Back in the good ol' days, when it was just me, Big Kid, and my husband, I was a total POOPCUP. My baby was the smartest, funniest, sweetest little human being to ever grace the earth.
I had all of the time in the world to encourage these wonderful traits. I used to do flashcards with Big Kid. He was about a year old, and we would sit down with a big stack of flashcards and Big Kid would say the words. We would video tape it. We were so proud. He was, quite obviously, a genius! I mean, most babies his age weren't even talking!
You know what I realize about this scenario now, looking back?
I USED TO DO FLASHCARDS. WITH A BABY.
No need to tell me to get a grip. Three kids later, that grip has been firmly gotten, thankyouverymuch.
(That sentence may qualify for the worst sentence in the history of sentences, but you catch my drift.)
Back then, when I was a perfect parent to one perfect child, I was sure that certain things, such as weaning, potty training, and general child-rearing would be a breeze.
To his credit, Big Kid has made this parenting thing pretty easy on us and those things were, and continue to be, very easy - at least with him.
Imagine my horror when Toast came along and he was - GASP! - his very own person. Still completely awesome, yet very, very different from his big brother.
And then Beam joined our family. And then Muffin showed up.
And suddenly, I forgot what the hell a flashcard was and was just trying to make it through the day parenting four kids under the age of six. Needless to say, life has changed in many ways. Some of those changes were good (Don't drill your baby using flashcards!). Some of those changes are questionable. If you have three or more kids, you can probably relate. Read on.
Sleeping Arrangements
When I was pregnant for Big Kid, husband and I spent hours designing the perfect nursery. We had a theme. We scoured yard sales and shopping centers for the perfect nursery accessories. We tried (in vain) to paint a custom shelf. We purchased an expensive crib set full of deadly comforters and bumpers and actually used them (the horror!). Everything was ready for his arrival. He had the perfect spot to lay his sweet head and dream.
With four kids, we don't give a crap where anybody sleeps. The only thing we care about is the fact that they DO sleep. Currently, Big Kid, Toast, and Beam share a giant bedroom that they have deemed Kiddie Fun Land. When it's time to settle down in Kiddie Fun Land, we tuck Beam into her crib (so that she can't escape) and Toast and Big Kid pile into a single twin bed, along with no fewer than two pillows, three stuffed dinosaurs, and nine blankets. Yes, nine blankets. They have their own beds, but they prefer to sleep together and we prefer that they sleep, period. We turn on ten minutes of Dora the Explorer and we run out the door.
Bath Time
In the name of full disclosure, bath time doesn't happen as often as it should. When I only had one or two kids, I was religious about bath time, and they had a bath every day or every other day. Nowadays, I notice that the kids start looking sketchy and I start psyching myself up for the marathon that is bath time. First, I warn them that they will, in fact, be taking a bath tonight. They groan. Big Kid negotiates for a shower, but sometimes I just tell him no, he's taking a bath because it's easier for me (HA!)
I usher the kids upstairs and dig out four pairs of pajamas. I run back downstairs for diapers because I forget them every single time. I run back downstairs a second time to grab extra towels from the dryer. I turn on the water and get Muffin undressed. He's first in line for a bath because he's the cleanest and also the quickest. The other kids typically gallivant around the house naked while I bathe, lotion, and dress the baby.
Once Muffin is done and I have removed his bath seat, I yell for the other kids to pile in. Big Kid balks.
"Is this DIRTY bathwater?!"
"Oh my GOD, it's only a little pee. Get your butt in there!"
(Told you, questionable parenting.)
To appease him, I drain some
Face wash, face wash, face wash.
Hair wash, hair wash, hair wash.
Pass out wash cloths, let the kids play and scrub down.
Then I dump water over them one last time and usher them all out of the tub and back to Kiddie Fun Land.
The kids put on lotion and get dressed. Beam insists that she needs to put lotion on her boobs. I remind her that she doesn't have boobs. The kids jump on their beds while I gather up dirty clothes and towels and pray to God that bedtime is coming soon.
Breastfeeding
Breastfeeding can be stressful, especially for first time parents. Even though it's "natural," there's nothing natural about it. Most of the time, you don't know what the hell you are doing and neither does your baby. There is a steep learning curve involved.
I've breastfed all four kids, and there were sharp differences in the beginning when I compare Big Kid to Muffin. With Big Kid, we charted everyone of his feedings. We wrote down the time that he latched on, how long he nursed, which side he fed from, if he pooped, or peed, or both. Husband was great at charting these Baby Basics. If he didn't poop or didn't latch on every two hours on the dot, I panicked a bit.
With Muffin, although the nurse wanted me to keep track of all of this stuff, I was an old pro. Nurses would ask, "When did he last eat?" and I would say, "I don't know! Maybe 20 minutes ago?" "How long did he nurse for?" "I don't know... until he was done and fell asleep." I could tell it made them crazy but you know - fourth baby and all. I didn't care.
Driving Around Town
A single car seat will fit into just about any vehicle that you own. Big Kid and I used to cruise around in a little five-speed Honda Civic. Man, I loved that car.
Four car seats, however, require a specialized vehicle called the Minivan. (Yes, I could drive a big SUV, but I do love my van). Instead of just simply loading your baby up, putting the car into first gear and taking off, you have four kids climbing over and under to get to their appropriate car seats. You follow, buckling each one as you go, banging your head on the ceiling light, and breaking your hip trying to maneuver your way back out the giant door. You are no longer driving a cute car. You are driving a trash can on wheels. Someone could live for days with the extra food, sippy cups, and clothing that you have stashed into your Stow and Go compartments.
Going Out to Dinner
When we had only one kid, going out to dinner was a regular occurrence. Back then, it didn't cost $60 to feed our family, and we were quite certain that we could make it through the meal without anyone having a meltdown. We would get Big Kid all set up in his high chair with his adhesive place mat, some Gerber Puffs, and order our meals. We would order vegetables for the baby, because we wouldn't dream of feeding him French fries at such a tender age. We would talk to Big Kid and gush over him and hope that the waitress and everyone around realized how well behaved and adorable he was.
Going out to dinner now is a carefully calculated risk. Who has napped today? How hungry are they? (If they are too hungry, forget it. Waiting for a restaurant meal is going to be a nightmare.) Is the restaurant going to be busy? Do they have any drink specials?
We load up the minivan, usher the troops into the restaurant, and repeat, "Six please, two high chairs," when the hostess asks us "How many?" We are quickly ushered to the most remote corner of the restaurant and spend four minutes playing Musical Chairs before everyone is settled. Husband and I order drinks, and the kids order a round of chocolate milk. The kids begin to quietly color on their kids' menus while husband and I try to talk. There is no fawning over our adorable children - we are just praying that they are quiet enough not to be noticed by the rest of the patrons of the restaurant. Sometimes desperate measures are taken to maintain calm through the meal. We bribe them with dessert. We throw French fries around like water. We spike their chocolate milk with a bit of rum.
(Kidding!)
We eat as fast as we can, pay our bill, and leave our server a fat tip for getting us in and out quickly. On the way home, we say that we will only be going out to eat again if we can go without kids and enjoy our meal, because we just spent $57 for food that we barely tasted.
Friday, January 30, 2015
What I Remember About the Day I Almost Died
My Muffin is fast approaching his first birthday. Can you believe it?
This year has been tough. Not only in the "it's hard having four kids under six" kind of way, but in a very personal and emotional way. If you didn't notice, I'm not surprised. I've discovered that I'm kind of a good actress. I spent the year praying that my kids wouldn't notice if I was just going through the motions, but rather, they would feel that I was there, truly there, in the ways that matter. I did my best most of the time and I guess I will never know whether or not it made a difference, but I tried.
When I started to come out of the fog of PPD and PPA, I had this horrible realization that I really don't remember much of anything that has happened in the last ten months. My baby's entire life so far is a blur. It's a punch in the stomach to realize that your baby is now sitting and playing with blocks and you have no idea how it all happened. I have snippets of memories here and there, some high points and a lot of low points. It all ties back to the day that Muffin was born. It was the day that I almost died.
I remember the day that I went into labor. It was a strangely warm day. A Monday. 78 degrees. Sunshine. The day that I brought Muffin home, however, it was cold. Very cold. It had snowed the night before. So while we entered the hospital wearing t-shirts, we bundled our new baby up and brought him home in the frost.
The dichotomy of the weather on those days is not lost on me.
Muffin was due on April 13, 2014. Labor started during the night, but it was very sporadic. Contractions here and there. I did my best to sleep and my husband went to work the next morning. I had a few more contractions in the morning, and I could tell they were the real deal, but they weren't a big deal. I got the kids ready for the day and avoided texts from friends asking if I was in labor. Around 9:30, I called my husband to tell him that I was in labor and that he should let his boss know and come home soon. I called my mom to leave work and come take care of the kids.
Labor was not intense by any means at this point. I had an epidural with Big Kid, but had drug-free deliveries with Toast and Beam, and my goal was once again to deliver drug-free, so I wasn't in any rush to get to the hospital. I felt fine. However, I was Strep B positive for the first time ever, so I knew that I needed two doses of antibiotics before delivery, and I needed to be in the hospital for at least four hours in order to receive the proper doses. So we headed out.
We stopped for brunch at a diner near the hospital. It's kind of a tradition for us to have a "last meal" before a new baby. I had a few more contractions while we were eating. I figured that it was probably time to head in, and we paid our bill and headed to meet the midwife at the hospital.
We arrived and checked in, and I was dilated to a four. The midwife wasn't convinced that it was real labor (despite the fact that a mom of four certainly knows and despite my warning that Beam had been delivered one hour after I was dilated to a five!). So we walked the halls for a bit and she checked again, and Muffin's head was very low and I was dilated to a five. So the nurse started an IV and the first dose of antibiotics, and I ordered some lunch. (Yes, that is a good indication of how easy my labor was - I was sitting in bed and eating.) By this time, it was about noon.
Around 2:30 is when labor really picked up. The contractions were stronger and closer together and I began to pace the hospital room and lean on my husband as necessary. I'm not sure why, but standing is always my go-to labor position. I'm more comfortable that way. If Strep B wasn't a factor, this is when I would probably have decided to call my husband to go have a baby. Up until this point, it was really no big deal.
Around 3:30, I realized what an idiot I was for opting out of the drugs. Epidurals are amazing, aren't they? Why would I ever decide to feel this if I didn't have to?! If you've never had the fortune of having a drug-free birth, I'll share this tidbit with you - at some point, you will realize that it was a bad idea. It's usually too late at this point to change your mind and it's really an indication that you are doing awesome - it's almost the end!
I was standing up, leaning on the bed when my nurse came in to see how I was doing. I don't remember what time it was, but I remember that I told her that I was tired. I told her that I just couldn't do it any more. She watched a few contractions and told me, "No wonder you are tired! You aren't getting a break anymore. Your contractions are only about 40 seconds apart." I asked for water. I drank an entire glass in between each contraction.
The midwife came in and she offered to catch the baby right where I was standing if I wanted to stay where I was and push him out. My legs were giving out though, so I climbed into the bed and was kneeling and leaning forward on a birth ball. I alternately felt the urge to push and breathe through contractions, so I did what felt right at the time. The nurse and midwife were amazing at letting me do whatever felt good. My hips were killing me, and my darling husband alternated between putting hot cloths on my hips to ease the pain and quickly removing them when I yelled. Those cloths went from feeling amazing to feeling like a cinder block in a matter of seconds, and he was a good sport during our "cloth on/cloth off" game. At some point, he gently suggested that I may not be able to push the baby out in the position that I was in, and told me that I should try turning over if I wanted to get it all over with.
I tried turning quickly between contractions, but I guess I wasn't quick enough, because I had one right in the middle of moving, and I remember screaming, "I'm dying! Help me!"
Birth is glamorous, right?
Bless his heart, my husband was right, though. After changing position and a couple of quick pushes, Muffin came screaming into the world at 4:44 pm, on April 14, 2014. Baby number four was here and we were elated.
This is where it gets graphic.
Shortly after Muffin was born, one nurse took him and cleaned him up and did his measurements while the other helped me to the bathroom to clean up. I remember that there was a lot of blood, and the nurse commented that I was bleeding more than she would like, so she was going to watch me. I washed up and climbed back into bed and snuggled my new baby.
I nursed Muffin as soon as I could. It was around this time that I noticed that something wasn't quite right. Every mom will tell their tale of nursing cramps. They suck, and they get stronger after each baby. These cramps weren't right, though. They were worse than labor and I could barely breathe through them. A short while later, I called the nurse to come help me to the bathroom. She came in with another nurse, and as they tried to help me out of bed, I got really hot and really dizzy. I must have fainted because I remember the nurse calling to me to "come back" and I remember saying, "I'm here! I'm fine! I'm awake!"
The cramps continued. My sister came to meet Muffin and I remember telling her about how much pain I was in. It was worse than labor, I would say. Something isn't right.
I don't remember exactly who was in the room when everything took a bad turn. I've relied on my husband to fill in the gaps here. From what he told me, I was sitting in the bed and all of a sudden I went limp and became very pale. He called the nurse. She rushed in and checked my blood pressure and it was 51/18.
She pulled my blankets away and according to my husband there was "more blood than he had ever seen."
She rushed to get the doctor.
I was in and out of consciousness during all of this. I remember the doctor asking the nurse if I had an epidural. She told him no. He said, "She isn't going to like this."
I remember screaming at him, "Please stop!" But I was so weak that I could barely lift my head or move. It was a strange half-wake, half-sleep state, but I distinctly remember him reaching and pulling tissue out of me. I remember him telling me that they were going to have to take me to the OR. Retained placenta. They would be moving me as soon as possible.
I remember them fitting the mask over me in the operating room.
I woke up in recovery and my throat was killing me. I asked for water. They gave me ice chips.
I woke up again in my room upstairs. This time, it was a different room. My husband told me that they had to clean the other room. I will never forget the worried look on his face. He looked like a man who had just watched someone die. I kept asking him if he was okay.
I was so weak. I was told that I was not to get out of bed. Eventually, they gave me a blood transfusion or two. I can't quite remember that, either.
On April 14, 2014, we welcomed our baby boy into the world. I almost died.
Two days later, on April 16th, we brought our baby boy home in the snow. I cried, a lot.
On April 17th, my husband went back to work. Life went on, and the world just spun out of control.
I had a baby! Why didn't anyone care? Why was everyone just moving on and going about their lives? I almost died! Didn't you know that? Does anyone care that I might not have been here anymore?
These are the thoughts that I have carried with me for the past ten months.
If you think that everything is "fine" because Muffin is "fine" and I am "fine," you are missing the point. Yes, we are here and of course, that matters. But everything else matters, too.
I have struggled to overcome these feelings for the past year. I'm not quite there, but I'm getting better each and every day.
This year has been tough. Not only in the "it's hard having four kids under six" kind of way, but in a very personal and emotional way. If you didn't notice, I'm not surprised. I've discovered that I'm kind of a good actress. I spent the year praying that my kids wouldn't notice if I was just going through the motions, but rather, they would feel that I was there, truly there, in the ways that matter. I did my best most of the time and I guess I will never know whether or not it made a difference, but I tried.
When I started to come out of the fog of PPD and PPA, I had this horrible realization that I really don't remember much of anything that has happened in the last ten months. My baby's entire life so far is a blur. It's a punch in the stomach to realize that your baby is now sitting and playing with blocks and you have no idea how it all happened. I have snippets of memories here and there, some high points and a lot of low points. It all ties back to the day that Muffin was born. It was the day that I almost died.
I remember the day that I went into labor. It was a strangely warm day. A Monday. 78 degrees. Sunshine. The day that I brought Muffin home, however, it was cold. Very cold. It had snowed the night before. So while we entered the hospital wearing t-shirts, we bundled our new baby up and brought him home in the frost.
The dichotomy of the weather on those days is not lost on me.
Muffin was due on April 13, 2014. Labor started during the night, but it was very sporadic. Contractions here and there. I did my best to sleep and my husband went to work the next morning. I had a few more contractions in the morning, and I could tell they were the real deal, but they weren't a big deal. I got the kids ready for the day and avoided texts from friends asking if I was in labor. Around 9:30, I called my husband to tell him that I was in labor and that he should let his boss know and come home soon. I called my mom to leave work and come take care of the kids.
Labor was not intense by any means at this point. I had an epidural with Big Kid, but had drug-free deliveries with Toast and Beam, and my goal was once again to deliver drug-free, so I wasn't in any rush to get to the hospital. I felt fine. However, I was Strep B positive for the first time ever, so I knew that I needed two doses of antibiotics before delivery, and I needed to be in the hospital for at least four hours in order to receive the proper doses. So we headed out.
We stopped for brunch at a diner near the hospital. It's kind of a tradition for us to have a "last meal" before a new baby. I had a few more contractions while we were eating. I figured that it was probably time to head in, and we paid our bill and headed to meet the midwife at the hospital.
We arrived and checked in, and I was dilated to a four. The midwife wasn't convinced that it was real labor (despite the fact that a mom of four certainly knows and despite my warning that Beam had been delivered one hour after I was dilated to a five!). So we walked the halls for a bit and she checked again, and Muffin's head was very low and I was dilated to a five. So the nurse started an IV and the first dose of antibiotics, and I ordered some lunch. (Yes, that is a good indication of how easy my labor was - I was sitting in bed and eating.) By this time, it was about noon.
Around 2:30 is when labor really picked up. The contractions were stronger and closer together and I began to pace the hospital room and lean on my husband as necessary. I'm not sure why, but standing is always my go-to labor position. I'm more comfortable that way. If Strep B wasn't a factor, this is when I would probably have decided to call my husband to go have a baby. Up until this point, it was really no big deal.
Around 3:30, I realized what an idiot I was for opting out of the drugs. Epidurals are amazing, aren't they? Why would I ever decide to feel this if I didn't have to?! If you've never had the fortune of having a drug-free birth, I'll share this tidbit with you - at some point, you will realize that it was a bad idea. It's usually too late at this point to change your mind and it's really an indication that you are doing awesome - it's almost the end!
I was standing up, leaning on the bed when my nurse came in to see how I was doing. I don't remember what time it was, but I remember that I told her that I was tired. I told her that I just couldn't do it any more. She watched a few contractions and told me, "No wonder you are tired! You aren't getting a break anymore. Your contractions are only about 40 seconds apart." I asked for water. I drank an entire glass in between each contraction.
The midwife came in and she offered to catch the baby right where I was standing if I wanted to stay where I was and push him out. My legs were giving out though, so I climbed into the bed and was kneeling and leaning forward on a birth ball. I alternately felt the urge to push and breathe through contractions, so I did what felt right at the time. The nurse and midwife were amazing at letting me do whatever felt good. My hips were killing me, and my darling husband alternated between putting hot cloths on my hips to ease the pain and quickly removing them when I yelled. Those cloths went from feeling amazing to feeling like a cinder block in a matter of seconds, and he was a good sport during our "cloth on/cloth off" game. At some point, he gently suggested that I may not be able to push the baby out in the position that I was in, and told me that I should try turning over if I wanted to get it all over with.
I tried turning quickly between contractions, but I guess I wasn't quick enough, because I had one right in the middle of moving, and I remember screaming, "I'm dying! Help me!"
Birth is glamorous, right?
Bless his heart, my husband was right, though. After changing position and a couple of quick pushes, Muffin came screaming into the world at 4:44 pm, on April 14, 2014. Baby number four was here and we were elated.
This is where it gets graphic.
Shortly after Muffin was born, one nurse took him and cleaned him up and did his measurements while the other helped me to the bathroom to clean up. I remember that there was a lot of blood, and the nurse commented that I was bleeding more than she would like, so she was going to watch me. I washed up and climbed back into bed and snuggled my new baby.
I nursed Muffin as soon as I could. It was around this time that I noticed that something wasn't quite right. Every mom will tell their tale of nursing cramps. They suck, and they get stronger after each baby. These cramps weren't right, though. They were worse than labor and I could barely breathe through them. A short while later, I called the nurse to come help me to the bathroom. She came in with another nurse, and as they tried to help me out of bed, I got really hot and really dizzy. I must have fainted because I remember the nurse calling to me to "come back" and I remember saying, "I'm here! I'm fine! I'm awake!"
The cramps continued. My sister came to meet Muffin and I remember telling her about how much pain I was in. It was worse than labor, I would say. Something isn't right.
I don't remember exactly who was in the room when everything took a bad turn. I've relied on my husband to fill in the gaps here. From what he told me, I was sitting in the bed and all of a sudden I went limp and became very pale. He called the nurse. She rushed in and checked my blood pressure and it was 51/18.
She pulled my blankets away and according to my husband there was "more blood than he had ever seen."
She rushed to get the doctor.
I was in and out of consciousness during all of this. I remember the doctor asking the nurse if I had an epidural. She told him no. He said, "She isn't going to like this."
I remember screaming at him, "Please stop!" But I was so weak that I could barely lift my head or move. It was a strange half-wake, half-sleep state, but I distinctly remember him reaching and pulling tissue out of me. I remember him telling me that they were going to have to take me to the OR. Retained placenta. They would be moving me as soon as possible.
I remember them fitting the mask over me in the operating room.
I woke up in recovery and my throat was killing me. I asked for water. They gave me ice chips.
I woke up again in my room upstairs. This time, it was a different room. My husband told me that they had to clean the other room. I will never forget the worried look on his face. He looked like a man who had just watched someone die. I kept asking him if he was okay.
I was so weak. I was told that I was not to get out of bed. Eventually, they gave me a blood transfusion or two. I can't quite remember that, either.
On April 14, 2014, we welcomed our baby boy into the world. I almost died.
Two days later, on April 16th, we brought our baby boy home in the snow. I cried, a lot.
On April 17th, my husband went back to work. Life went on, and the world just spun out of control.
I had a baby! Why didn't anyone care? Why was everyone just moving on and going about their lives? I almost died! Didn't you know that? Does anyone care that I might not have been here anymore?
These are the thoughts that I have carried with me for the past ten months.
If you think that everything is "fine" because Muffin is "fine" and I am "fine," you are missing the point. Yes, we are here and of course, that matters. But everything else matters, too.
I have struggled to overcome these feelings for the past year. I'm not quite there, but I'm getting better each and every day.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Sex After Kids
I debated writing this one.
I prayed that I could blog anonymously. Then I contemplated having a fake "Guest Blogger" write the post.
I mean, after all, my mom reads this. Probably my father in law. Maybe even my boss.
Yes, I'm a 30 year old prude.
But, as much as I tell my children that they were stars in the sky who landed in my belly and were gently removed by a doctor and no it didn't hurt, you all know the truth. My husband and I had sex. At least four times.
We were driving in oursweet minivan a few weeks ago and, miraculously, all four kids fell asleep. I'm not exactly sure how the conversation came about, but my husband said to me, "Remember that time, on Mill Street, when we almost burned your apartment down?"
And I laughed. Because I remembered. We were engaged, and it was Valentine's Day, and we were in the middle of a blizzard. So we did what anyone does when it's cold and you are bored (hello, September babies!). And we may have started a small fire due to poor candle placement and a faulty shower curtain rod. We both started laughing. One of us wondered out loud what happened. The other glanced back to the four sleeping kiddos in the back and reality smacked us in the face.
They happened.
Sex after kids is kind of a chore. Let's be real. Especially if you are a nursing mom, or the mom of young kids. The last thing that you want after the kiddos finally fall asleep at night is another person tugging on your yoga pants or grabbing your boobs. But at the same time, it's fun. It's the best way to reconnect with your husband after a long day at your respective jobs. And after it's all done, you probably wonder, "Why don't we do that more often?!" If you don't wonder this, you probably aren't doing it right.
Now, we've obviously managed to do it three times since having our oldest. And we haven't started any fires. And although getting naked on the living room floor can be fun (Hi, Muffin!), we've really been slacking in the whole marriage department.
And so, we made a pact. A New Year's Resolution, if you will. Sex three times a week. For you out there reading, that may sound like a lot or it may sound like not enough at all, but that's our goal. Today is January 6th, and we've done it a half time, twice. We have some work to do.
Now, if you don't know what "half sex" is, I'm going to assume that you don't have kids. Keep on with that birth control, sister. If you do have kids, you can appreciate the humor that is "Sex After Kids."
It's no secret that I'm breastfeeding Muffin, every two hours, AROUND THE CLOCK, sleep be damned. So after a long night at work and a few skipped feedings, the girls are huge. They look AMAZING. I just showered. The kids are all asleep. I tiptoe into my room and climb into bed topless, hoping to "surprise" my husband. (BTW, three nights in a row of this has ruined the surprise. He came to expect it and I told him I would have to scale back. Anywho...) Topless. Seven hours without feeding the baby. Spraying milk everywhere is the opposite of sexy. It just leaves you saying, "Son of a bitch! Where's my bra?"
Last week I went shopping without the kids. VS was having a sale, so I bought some new underwear - all boyshorts - and I was excited. I showed them to my husband when I got home. The conversation went something like this:
"Didn't you wear thongs when we started dating?"
"Yeah. But I've had FOUR babies. They aren't comfortable anymore."
"Well what if I buy you some?"
"I'll put them on in the bathroom immediately before going to bed."
"Deal."
The EPITOME of sexy, let me tell you.
Last night, I kindly pointed out to my husband that it was the fifth of January, almost a whole week down, and we were already breaking our resolution. After a quick argument over who was surfing Facebook more instead of, you know, stripping down, we tiptoed to bed. The name of the game these days is "Quick, before the baby wakes up." We ALMOST had it before we heard Muffin's cries, and I said, "No, don't stop!" and husband said, "I didn't even hear him." So maybe we will count that one as a success. Yes, success.
Day six. 1.5 times. Victory.
I prayed that I could blog anonymously. Then I contemplated having a fake "Guest Blogger" write the post.
I mean, after all, my mom reads this. Probably my father in law. Maybe even my boss.
Yes, I'm a 30 year old prude.
But, as much as I tell my children that they were stars in the sky who landed in my belly and were gently removed by a doctor and no it didn't hurt, you all know the truth. My husband and I had sex. At least four times.
We were driving in our
And I laughed. Because I remembered. We were engaged, and it was Valentine's Day, and we were in the middle of a blizzard. So we did what anyone does when it's cold and you are bored (hello, September babies!). And we may have started a small fire due to poor candle placement and a faulty shower curtain rod. We both started laughing. One of us wondered out loud what happened. The other glanced back to the four sleeping kiddos in the back and reality smacked us in the face.
They happened.
Sex after kids is kind of a chore. Let's be real. Especially if you are a nursing mom, or the mom of young kids. The last thing that you want after the kiddos finally fall asleep at night is another person tugging on your yoga pants or grabbing your boobs. But at the same time, it's fun. It's the best way to reconnect with your husband after a long day at your respective jobs. And after it's all done, you probably wonder, "Why don't we do that more often?!" If you don't wonder this, you probably aren't doing it right.
Now, we've obviously managed to do it three times since having our oldest. And we haven't started any fires. And although getting naked on the living room floor can be fun (Hi, Muffin!), we've really been slacking in the whole marriage department.
And so, we made a pact. A New Year's Resolution, if you will. Sex three times a week. For you out there reading, that may sound like a lot or it may sound like not enough at all, but that's our goal. Today is January 6th, and we've done it a half time, twice. We have some work to do.
Now, if you don't know what "half sex" is, I'm going to assume that you don't have kids. Keep on with that birth control, sister. If you do have kids, you can appreciate the humor that is "Sex After Kids."
It's no secret that I'm breastfeeding Muffin, every two hours, AROUND THE CLOCK, sleep be damned. So after a long night at work and a few skipped feedings, the girls are huge. They look AMAZING. I just showered. The kids are all asleep. I tiptoe into my room and climb into bed topless, hoping to "surprise" my husband. (BTW, three nights in a row of this has ruined the surprise. He came to expect it and I told him I would have to scale back. Anywho...) Topless. Seven hours without feeding the baby. Spraying milk everywhere is the opposite of sexy. It just leaves you saying, "Son of a bitch! Where's my bra?"
Last week I went shopping without the kids. VS was having a sale, so I bought some new underwear - all boyshorts - and I was excited. I showed them to my husband when I got home. The conversation went something like this:
"Didn't you wear thongs when we started dating?"
"Yeah. But I've had FOUR babies. They aren't comfortable anymore."
"Well what if I buy you some?"
"I'll put them on in the bathroom immediately before going to bed."
"Deal."
The EPITOME of sexy, let me tell you.
Last night, I kindly pointed out to my husband that it was the fifth of January, almost a whole week down, and we were already breaking our resolution. After a quick argument over who was surfing Facebook more instead of, you know, stripping down, we tiptoed to bed. The name of the game these days is "Quick, before the baby wakes up." We ALMOST had it before we heard Muffin's cries, and I said, "No, don't stop!" and husband said, "I didn't even hear him." So maybe we will count that one as a success. Yes, success.
Day six. 1.5 times. Victory.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
My Children are Afraid of Cats
A Fear of Cats... and Other Things that Annoy Me
A few weeks ago, we tried to adopt a kitten. The key word here is "tried."
In less than 24 hours, it went from excitement and joy and love...
To this:
If pictures had sound, you would hear shrieks of sheer terror.
Now mind you, my children have been around cats their entire lives. I've had my adult cat, Sammy, longer than I've had my husband. The kitten has since moved in with a friend, but the fear of cats still remains. The kids cannot walk past Sammy without screaming in fear.
This morning, I sent Big Kid upstairs to get a clean pair of socks. He had "dressed" himself in a too-small shirt and pants, but had somehow missed his sock drawer. (Come to think of it, I wonder if he changed his underwear? Too late now.) Anywho, I said, "You have EIGHT MINUTES until your bus gets here. Run upstairs and get some clean socks."
A minute later, he comes downstairs whining. He's still barefoot.
"Where are your socks?! Your bus comes in FIVE MINUTES!"
His response? "I couldn't get them. Sammy is laying in the hallway."
Being the sympathetic mom that I am, I told him to march his butt back upstairs and come down with socks or I was going to send him to school late, with a note that explaining that he is terrified of big, fluffy, kitty cats who take naps.
Big Kid suddenly found the courage to change his socks.
Hunger Pains
My children are hungry all.the.time. It wears on a woman to hear, "Can I have a snack? Can I have a treat? Can I have pasta for dinner? No sauce. Just pasta and butter. I'm hungry mom! I'm SO HUNGRY!" all.the.time.
Sometimes I think to myself, there is no physical way that they are actually hungry. I mean, they have just eaten, and I can't remember the last time that I had anything except water.
This morning, Beam was sitting at the table. She was sitting in front of two plates, one contained a sliced up apple, the other contained a waffle. To her right were cups of orange juice and dry cereal. She got up from the table, after eating a bite of each, and yelled to me, "I'm HUNGRY MAMA!" I told her to eat her food. She went to the kitchen, got a stool, opened the cabinet, and demanded cheddar fishies. Not wanting to fight (and wanting to eat my own cereal in peace), I put some in a bowl for her. She walked to the living room, put the bowl on the shelf without eating a single Goldfish, and came back to ask me for a bite of my cereal.
Honest to God, I could rip my hair out some days. Every morning, I found myself shouting, "I've fed you seven times! I've been awake for FOUR HOURS and haven't eaten. Leave me alone for five minutes before I put you back to bed until dinner."
Grocery Shopping
Grocery shopping with four kids is so annoying that it deserves a post of its own. Some day, I will write that post. For now, though, I'll share this morning's annoyance.
I wear Muffin in a Beco carrier while we shop. I pray to the gods of the grocery store that Beam will cooperate and ride in the front seat of the shopping cart (she won't.) I direct Toast and Big Kid to hold onto the cart or walk beside me and NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING.
It never fails that the kids somehow end up wandering back and forth in front of the shopping cart, "leading the way," so to speak. They don't know if we need grapes or cereal or to restock our supply of vodka, so they have no idea where to go but yet, they end up in front of the crazy train. After running down two toddlers and fruitlessly trying to tell them to go left or right, I finally snap. I tell Toast to hold onto the cart. I tell Big Kid to hold his sister's hand. The conversation goes the same each and every time.
"You guys cannot walk in front of the cart. Hold your sister's hand and follow me."
"But it's STICKY!"
"HOLD HER HAND."
"She's so gross!"
"HOLD. HER.HAND. NOW. or you will not get a cookie from the bakery."
Relenting and taking his sister's hand, "Fine. Beam, you are SO GROSS."
Somehow, we manage to get out of the house with clean socks and buy fresh food at the grocery store. But I still don't get to eat it.
A few weeks ago, we tried to adopt a kitten. The key word here is "tried."
In less than 24 hours, it went from excitement and joy and love...
To this:
If pictures had sound, you would hear shrieks of sheer terror.
Now mind you, my children have been around cats their entire lives. I've had my adult cat, Sammy, longer than I've had my husband. The kitten has since moved in with a friend, but the fear of cats still remains. The kids cannot walk past Sammy without screaming in fear.
This morning, I sent Big Kid upstairs to get a clean pair of socks. He had "dressed" himself in a too-small shirt and pants, but had somehow missed his sock drawer. (Come to think of it, I wonder if he changed his underwear? Too late now.) Anywho, I said, "You have EIGHT MINUTES until your bus gets here. Run upstairs and get some clean socks."
A minute later, he comes downstairs whining. He's still barefoot.
"Where are your socks?! Your bus comes in FIVE MINUTES!"
His response? "I couldn't get them. Sammy is laying in the hallway."
Being the sympathetic mom that I am, I told him to march his butt back upstairs and come down with socks or I was going to send him to school late, with a note that explaining that he is terrified of big, fluffy, kitty cats who take naps.
Big Kid suddenly found the courage to change his socks.
Hunger Pains
My children are hungry all.the.time. It wears on a woman to hear, "Can I have a snack? Can I have a treat? Can I have pasta for dinner? No sauce. Just pasta and butter. I'm hungry mom! I'm SO HUNGRY!" all.the.time.
Sometimes I think to myself, there is no physical way that they are actually hungry. I mean, they have just eaten, and I can't remember the last time that I had anything except water.
This morning, Beam was sitting at the table. She was sitting in front of two plates, one contained a sliced up apple, the other contained a waffle. To her right were cups of orange juice and dry cereal. She got up from the table, after eating a bite of each, and yelled to me, "I'm HUNGRY MAMA!" I told her to eat her food. She went to the kitchen, got a stool, opened the cabinet, and demanded cheddar fishies. Not wanting to fight (and wanting to eat my own cereal in peace), I put some in a bowl for her. She walked to the living room, put the bowl on the shelf without eating a single Goldfish, and came back to ask me for a bite of my cereal.
Honest to God, I could rip my hair out some days. Every morning, I found myself shouting, "I've fed you seven times! I've been awake for FOUR HOURS and haven't eaten. Leave me alone for five minutes before I put you back to bed until dinner."
Grocery Shopping
Grocery shopping with four kids is so annoying that it deserves a post of its own. Some day, I will write that post. For now, though, I'll share this morning's annoyance.
I wear Muffin in a Beco carrier while we shop. I pray to the gods of the grocery store that Beam will cooperate and ride in the front seat of the shopping cart (she won't.) I direct Toast and Big Kid to hold onto the cart or walk beside me and NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING.
It never fails that the kids somehow end up wandering back and forth in front of the shopping cart, "leading the way," so to speak. They don't know if we need grapes or cereal or to restock our supply of vodka, so they have no idea where to go but yet, they end up in front of the crazy train. After running down two toddlers and fruitlessly trying to tell them to go left or right, I finally snap. I tell Toast to hold onto the cart. I tell Big Kid to hold his sister's hand. The conversation goes the same each and every time.
"You guys cannot walk in front of the cart. Hold your sister's hand and follow me."
"But it's STICKY!"
"HOLD HER HAND."
"She's so gross!"
"HOLD. HER.HAND. NOW. or you will not get a cookie from the bakery."
Relenting and taking his sister's hand, "Fine. Beam, you are SO GROSS."
Somehow, we manage to get out of the house with clean socks and buy fresh food at the grocery store. But I still don't get to eat it.
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