Urban Drool

For the past three days, I have been an ignorant, grossly clueless, shy little 11 year old girl.

For the past three days, I have been sitting and getting back up again with marked care, over-doing the casual-there’s-nothing-unusual-going-on walk while desperately fighting the urge to tug my shirt down in the back so that it covers my ass. (excuse me – my BOTTOM!)

For the past three days, I have been speed-walking to the bathroom every hour or so.

Ahem. Ladies? I have got my period.

And here’s the thing – I have, apparently, forgotten how to deal with it. Couldn’t you just die? It first reared it’s ugly little head on Saturday evening. I thought “Oh! How novel! How droll! How very 2006 it is to menstruate! I should…I should…um. Hm. Don’t I need…some stuff?”

I mean, really. I only had two periods (2!) in the early months of 2005 before I got pregnant. And so that means that it’s been…around 16 months?

But no problem! I’m sure I have something under the bathroom sink. Yes?

Well, no. Unless you’re counting the box of mammoth-size-of-a-Cadillac-hospital-issue-sanitary-pads I was sent home with after Lucy’s birth. You know…to catch the hemorrhaging and left-over placenta.

Thank you, but no.

A trip to the store was in order, whereupon I procured a box of tampons and my favorite brand of panty liner.

So why have I spent the past 48 hours ruining three separate pairs of underwear? Because I have been out of practice for so long, that I apparently cannot remember to use BOTH a tampon and a liner, not just a liner, that will cause icky-blood-horribleness in your unmentionables and by the way, you went to work today with no spare tampons in your purse didn’t you Lumi so that the only one you currently have is currently…in use?

Ha.

I have not been this fucking clueless about my period since I was 11. And caught in a white miniskirt. In geography class.

Not to mention…shouldn’t I have been allotted a couple more months at least, before I had to start dealing with this again?? I am nursing and/or pumping at least 6 or 7 times a day. Isn’t this supposed to be some magical period-repellant?

I mean…SERIOUSLY!!!

Erg. And also: Bah.

This past week has been a little better. And it was not until yesterday that I really realized why: It was one of the first times since returning to work that I have not felt so amazingly alone. The Boy and I had been concentrating so much on the day-to-day survival of our new-found parenthood that I think we were leaving some very important areas of our life sorely neglected. Namely: our marriage. Us, as in, an intimately connected couple.

Last Friday night, we finally started to scratch the surface as to what was making me crazy, what was making him crazy, why we both felt that neither one of us were really emotionally supporting the other the way we should. The way we used to. We didn’t solve the problem. But we finally admitted to one another that there WAS a problem and we able to identify it’s source.

Here is a breakdown as to what some of the past 8 weeks has been like in a He Said/She Said kind format:

ME: I don’t want to be back at work.

Him: He is overwhelmed at times, being the primary caregiver at home.

ME: I was finding it difficult to empathize and be supportive when he would show signs of needing to vent about being the sole servant of our little dictator, because I wanted what he had. Wanted it so badly.

Him: He was finding it difficult to listen to me constantly complain and sob about being away from her because there was nothing he could do about it. And a part of him is feeling guilty maybe? Guilty that we don’t have a more financially stable environment; one that would allow me to stay at home with the baby, or only working part time.

ME: I was resentful that he was not more sympathetic-oh-honey-I-KNOW-how-HARD-it-must-be-for-you-at-work towards me. Resentful that he was not greeting me at the door every evening with a box of Kleenex to wipe my teary eyes (HA!!).

Him: He was resentful that I could not really acknowledge the sacrifices that HE has been making - earning his MBA while taking care of our pickle. Being a wonderful father and learning how to wipe spit up, answer emails, sing songs and finish a corporate dossier all at the same time.

Basically, we have both been so wrapped up in our own damn misery to spend too much time worrying about/trying to soothe the other’s misery. I felt alone. He felt alone. I felt dis-connected from him and our family and in that, from the baby. He felt dis-connected because he does not really have a “peer group” to speak of. Our neighborhood is not exactly teeming with young, professional stay-at-home fathers. No one around to really vent frustrations to, including me, from whom he was purposely keeping his frustrations.

And there was the constant black cloud of our mutual psychological wounds which stemmed from my time in the hospital. I think, like me, the Boy just recently started to fully acknowledge how horrible the whole thing was.

But last Friday? A step forward. And every day since then? Another tiny step forward. I am making an effort to come home in a more positive frame of mind. He is making an effort to listen more productively when I need to vent. I am making an effort to get him to open up more and talk to me, even if the only thing he wants to talk about was how difficult the baby was that particular day. We smile more and hug more.

And yesterday we spent some time really talking about how we both felt about Lucy’s birth and the aftermath and how we both feel about a 2nd pregnancy and birth.

I guess I didn’t realize how desperately I was seeking some validation from him about what I went through to bring her into this world until last night. Last night he talked about how amazing he thought I was for what I withstood during the days/hours/minutes leading up to Lucy’s birth. And I know now that he doesn’t (and never did) blame me for what happened. I don’t know why I ever felt that he might.

I sat there, at the Olive Garden, holding my baby. With a half-eaten plate of tortolinni in front of me. I looked across the table at the one who has been there with me throughout this entire sequence of events. The one who was there for all the fear and blood and tears of pain and tears of joy. The one who takes the most precious care of our baby. The one that I trust with my life. So why on earth was I ever reluctant to trust him with my heart?

And I cried a little.

And I knew that it was all (eventually) going to be OK.

**apparently this was on the Boy's mind today as well. You should head over to his space (link to the left under "Da Boys" becuase I don't know how to put a link in my blog entries yet) and read all about me in "Crazy Wives." He is less charitable towards me in his post than I was towards him in this post but...oh, well. It's still a good read. Talk about a serious "He Said/She Said kinda thing, yes?"**

I have me some PLANS y’all.

Plan #1 (a.k.a. “beef up da’ milk!”)

1) Begin taking 2500 mgs of fenugreek, 3 times a day. I HAD been taking some naturo-homeo-pathetico-crap called “Motherlove” and it did absolutely dick. It was pricey and it was in a liquid form that tasted ass-nasty. And after draining the whole damn bottle dry I noticed zero difference in the amount of milk or the ease of letdown while pumping. No good. New plan (per a lactation consultant) is to start with just straight, plain ol’ fenugreek. In capsule form. As much as my bowels can tolerate (I hear it can be kinda icky on the digestive system)
2) Start double pumping. I ordered the part I needed from the nice folks over at Bailey Medical last Friday. Hopefully it will show up in the mail today or tomorrow. Double pumping will (hopefully) not only produce more milk in the same amount of pumping time I am “allowed” at work, but also produce more milk-making hormones so that the pumping will be easier.
3) Stay top-less from the moment I get home from work every day. Stay topless and keep the pickle in my arms as much as possible to keep the hormones stimulated. It’ll be like a disturbing cross between the BadaBing and a dairy farm. I hope they don’t make me wear a G-String.

Plan #2 (a.k.a “get the hell back to downtown!”)

-- this primarily involves me quitting my job, which is a 40 minute drive there and a 40 minute drive back, and securing a position at a law firm downtown (about a 5-10 minute drive from my house, depending on what streets you take). I would have 1 ½ more pickle-hours to my day, and I could even take my lunch hour and go home and nurse her. And maybe get in a nooner while I’m at it.

We like to multi-task at our house.

Plan #3 (a.k.a. “please just ONE MORE baby…but NOT RIGHT NOW HOLY CRAP!”)

1) Start taking Micronor (BCP that can safely be taken while you are nursing) I started taking this yesterday. Only $10 a month at your friendly neighborhood Target Store pharmacy.
2) Continue Step 1 for the next 2 years.
3) Discontinue Micronor and begin 1500 mgs of Metformin (gag) in Spring of 2008.
4) Go with the Boy to Ireland in August of 2008 on a two week pub-crawl/uber-vacation/5 year anniversary trip and merrily, easily, BREEZILY conceive Squadge #2.
5) HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! (but seriously, wouldn’t it be nice?)

This weekend you bounced back and forth between very cranky (damn teething!) and happy as can be.

This weekend you made my heart melt (again) by cuddling up on my chest and falling asleep. For hours and hours. Twice.

This weekend you loved it as we all piled into bed together and sang you songs as you smiled and drooled and cooed and ahhed.

This weekend you made my heart melt (you know, again) as you howled and howled becuase your poor mouth was so sore.

This weekend you started to find out how to grab things and shove them in your mouth, by way of your left nostril, chubby cheek and right eyeball.

This weekend you (wait for it now!) made my heart (what?!?!) MELT (again and again) by holding my breast in between your tiny, chubby hands and shutting your eyes tight while you nursed and nursed and nursed.

This weekend I made the decision to seek some therapy - mostly so we can have more weekends like this weekend.

This weekend you gave me this smile...

You know that it’s been indescribably tough for me, being back at work.

You know that most days I am pretty miserable, being away from her.

You know that I have been determined to make breastfeeding a success – I’ve been talking about it from the time I was barely pregnant.

You know that I love to nurse her. That she loves to be nursed. That it’s the only thing I feel I have right now that is exclusively mine. Other people watch her. Other people care for her. Other people dress her in her little clothes and take her places while I am away. Other people rock her, comfort her, play with her, talk to her. I am so happy that she is so well cared for. I am so happy that you and our other family members are able to spend so much time with her, grow close and bond.

So other people feed her, yes, but not nurse her. That’s mine.

You know that I have been really upset lately at seeing my milk supply start to diminish. I know that you have been giving her several ounces of formula a day. I know that the 7-8 ounces of breastmilk that I struggle to pump and leave in the fridge isn’t enough to get her through until 5:30. It hurts to pump. My skin is pinched and raw. My breasts are always hurting. My nipples are cracked and even bleed a little bit sometimes. But I still do it. I HAVE to do it.

Because if I cannot stop my milk supply from diminishing, it’s going to disappear completely. And then there will be one more thing tacked onto the ever-growing list of “things that I was unable to do for my baby.” Just stick it right underneath “give her a gentle birth” and “stay home and be there for her, every moment of every day of her tiny, fleeting baby-hood.”

Knowing all this, why in the world would you think that it was a good idea to remind me that, becuase I went back to work, I am now completely unable to keep up with her enormous appetite? That I did “the hardest part” and it’s over now…just because she is starting to develop her own immune system? That she’s “past the time where you are vital. She is getting to a point where formula and cereal are OK.”

That “really, all the nursing means now is cost-effectiveness.”

Cost-effectiveness?
And me nursing her is just not important anymore?
…the hell???????

She is only 3 ½ months old! How can you NOT see that your words were like tiny little daggers being dragged through my heart?

I know that hurting me was not your intention at all. That you didn’t really think about how that conversation would make me feel. Maybe you think that you were alleviating my guilt that I cannot exclusively feed my own baby.

But seriously. The fact that every other sentence of yours started with “I know you don’t want to hear this but…” or “I know that you don’t want me to say this but…” might have clued you in that you were about to make me feel very worthless and upset.

Well. That last entry was great fun, wasn't it?

Thank you so much everyone for the reading and commenting and e-mailing and supporting and loving and "We are here for you Lumi" -ing. It was a difficult entry to write and an even more difficult entry to actually publish. It feels a bit like a scab that I am just now starting to pick at - a nasty little infected scab that has been sitting and festering for the past 13 weeks.

I know that I need to expel these demons at some point. I am toying with the idea of some therapy. Or maybe I'll just play the "sit around and see if it gets better" game. I haven't decided yet. The Boy does what he can, but I get the feeling that he doesn't quite get 100% what this feels like. It's not his fault. I think he is suffering under a combination of
a) not really being able to relate because he does not have the physical ties to the day of Lucy's birth that I do and
b) avoiding really talking about it becuase he harbors his fair share of emotional trauma from the whole thing as well. After all, it was he that had to stand there helplessly and watch me get banged up by the labor, suffer through the C-Section and then hold our newborn baby while I bled and bled and...bled.

But GAH!!...enough of that. I didn't want to re-hash all that shit today. No...today is for fun and squeee-ness and Lucy pictures. The boy has tons of pictures of the pickle on his site, and I REFUSE to let him show me up in this arena.

So...batten down the hatches and get ready for the Most Adorable Pickle In All Pickle-dom.



Here she is at a mere 5 minutes old. Some random nurse in the Operating Room took this picture. She is trying very hard to have her first poop.



This is one week later, about 1 hour after we arrived home. I carried her straight into our bedroom, undressed her from her icky-hospital garb, put this (entirely too large) outfit on her and took her damn picture. It was one of the first "normal" things I had done for her.



...and then we took a nap, because getting born and almost dying is really fucking tiring.



Here we are snuggling after a nursing. Because being born and almost dying also makes you very hungry.



We like to sleep in a great big pink-stripped bag.



We also like to show that we are totally punk-rock, and that our Auntie Pru is the only one who really understands great style.



We try to go on walks every night, so that mom can lose the (100 and) 15 extra pounds that she needs to lose. Ha!



Dad likes to live dangerously and prop me up with pillows and take goofy pictures of me after mom has gone to bed. Becuase Mom? Would totally never allow such things to occur on her watch.



...but it's OK becuase then dad and I take naps together while mom takes goofy pictures of us.



Mr. Harold used to be the baby until the Pickle kicked his ass to the curb. He is still deciding how he feels about the whole thing, but feels that he can emotionally commit to at least "babysitter" status for now, even if it will take him awhile to work his way up to "protective older brother."



We only had to dance and yell frantically for 13 mintues straight in order to get THAT smile to take THAT picture.



Lucy doesn't understand what all the fuss is about. She could have totally held up her head AGES ago if she had felt like doing it.



Again with the camera? You people wear me the fuck out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And there she is! So far, anyway. I think we'll keep her.

DISCLAIMER #1 : This is a not-fun post. It’s really just an attempt at some emotional release of some nasty-ass, scared and generally negative shit that has been brewing inside me since the baby was born. So if you? Want to skip? I? Will not hold a grudge.

(on the other hand, I, as always, value and treasure all y’all’s views and opinions. So if you will read and maybe let me know what you think, it would be 1000% appreciated.)

DISCLAIMER #2: It’s also really freaking long. And tedious. You may want to take a pee and grab a coffee or some wine before you settle in.

OK.

So. There is something that I have been wanting to write about for awhile.

Actually, no. That’s not true. I don’t want to write about this. I feel I have to write about this. About 2 months ago is when I wrote the first part of the story.. If you haven’t read it yet, g’head and hop over to http://aradiailluminare.typepad.com/Illumination_Maybe. It's the second to last post (I think)

................................................................................................................

Done?

OK. First, the facts: I didn’t get to see Lucy for about 10 minutes after she was born. They were cleaning her up and getting her all warm and bundled. I could hear the Boy talking excitedly with the nurses. He came back to where I was lying periodically to check on me and assure me that she was beautiful and wonderful and totally OK. He was finally allowed to bring her over to me and I saw her gorgeous face for the first time. But they would not release my hands (which were bound to the table) to let me touch her. The Boy was so thoughtful – I think he could sense how desperately I needed to feel her, so he held her down by my head so I could smell her and kiss her little face.

I distinctly remember him saying “She looks just like Pappa Rudi!” (his grandfather. Heh)

They eventually made him leave. I didn’t want him to leave, but they made him. He left to inform the grandparents and I lay there for another 30 minutes. Getting stitched and put back together. And it was all of a sudden very cold and sterile and scary and I was unbelievably sad. I desperately wanted to be given my baby and to be left the fuck alone. Random strangers had been poking and proding at me for nearly 4 days without interruption and I felt like I had reached the end of my line. I was looking around the operating room for a familiar face, but there was none. My midwife? Gone. The nice anesthesiologist assistant who sat by my head during the delivery? Over in a corner, writing her notes. The random group of OBs and surgical nurses? On the other side of the blue curtain, doing…whatever the fuck they were doing. Not that it would have mattered if one of them had bothered to speak to me – they were all complete strangers.

It was a very lonely and sad 30 minutes. I felt terribly claustrophobic. I HATE HATE HATE lying flat on my back, and here I was, immobile. I could hear my baby crying, but could not see her. My vision was blocked by the damn blue paper. STUPID FUCKING BLUE PAPER HANGY-THINGY!! It was all so medical and sterile and lonely and not how I wanted the first 30 minutes of my daughter’s life to be. Aside from a brief kiss on her cheek, I had not even touched her.

I was finally transferred to a gurney (and finally put in an upright sitting position) and they tried to hand me the baby. But I was shaking so hard from all the pharmaceuticals of the previous 2 hours that I could not safely hold her. So I was sternly told to not pick her up. Imagine. My baby is 30 minutes old, and I am too weak and shaking and BROKEN to hold her for the first time. They wheeled me into the recovery room, with the baby cradled on top of my legs, sort of wedged between my knees.

The next 4 hours involved grandmothers in the recovery room, my first nursing session with the baby (about 10 minutes after they brought me into the recovery room), having my epidural line removed, begging the bitch nurse in the recovery room for a glass of water (my lips were cracked and bleeding, they were so raw and dry), begging the bitch nurse in the recovery room to give me something to stop the incredible shaking (which was getting worse) and getting transferred up to my postpartum unit.

They took the baby away for about an hour to bathe and examine her and the Boy and I crashed in my new room for a much needed nap. (nap? heh. We both could have probably slept like the dead for 24 straight hours at that point. But, I took the 60 minutes of blissful unconsciousness without argument).

During these four hours immediately following the surgery I was still very much in a state of shock, but my main focus was on the baby and how incredible she was. I was dimly aware of some truly angry and negative feelings regarding how the last stages of labor and delivery had played out, but I was stubbornly ignoring them, deciding that I was going to concentrate on the baby. I was trying to regain a sense of peace and keep the angry shit at bay - floating around the edges of my periphery until I had time and energy to deal with them.

There was a shift change in nurses at the hospital right about this time. All joking and snarkiness aside, I thank the heavens for the nurse who was starting her shift and in charge of my care for the next 6 hours. I think she saved my life. I cannot remember her name, which is a real shame, so I’ll call her Karen.

Karen came in the room to introduce herself. She was an excellent combination of caring, personable, smart and competent. There were some kind comments made about how beautiful our baby was, and how she read through my chart and my goodness, I had a bit of a rough time of it, hadn’t I and if we needed anything here was the call button.

She left.
I started to feel…odd.
I started to feel…wet. Very wet.

I told the Boy that I thought I needed a change of my pads already. You see, a “certain amount of vaginal bleeding will probably happen, even after a C-section, because your uterus is losing the last small amounts of blood that were not suctioned away during the surgery” or so I was made to understand. So, I had been wearing mammoth-the-size-of-a-Cadillac-sanitary-pads to try and absorb the blood. I was also told to NOT try and change them myself (I was not yet even allowed to get out of bed), but call the nurse to have her change them for me. Bear in mind that I was still catheterized up the hooha (and into the bladder) at this point, and they didn’t want me jostling the tubing.

Anyway, it seemed that the next 30 seconds played out in slow motion. The nurse came in the room in response to the Boy’s request, I explained that I thought I needed my pads changed and I’m feeling a little odd and can she check me please and then she pulled back the warm covers of my bed and there was blood and so much blood and I heard a “ssshhhlllllump” and felt some very large and very wet things slide out of me and the Boy said “Oh my God” and there was more blood and the nurse yanked the back of the bed down into a completely prone position so I was once again flat on my back and I hate being flat on my back and she told me to not move and she ran out of the room and the blood kept coming and coming and coming out and all over me.

It was soaking the sheets and the mattress underneath. It was gushing down the bed and all over the floor. It kept coming and coming. And the nurse came racing back into the room.

The events of the next 40 minutes are simultaneously kinda blurry yet etched distinctly in my mind. The nurse paged the on-call OB, who was in my room in a matter of seconds. He threw back the covers and plunged his hand up my vagina, trying to locate and assess the reason for the bleeding. There was lots of loud and urgent speaking. There were many decisions being made very quickly. I was not informed of any of it. There were nurses. And then more nurses. It ended up that there was a total of 2 doctors and 12 nurses in my room. And then the doctor was so angry, constantly yelling at the nurses that they “Weren’t moving fast enough” and “Dammit, I needed that IV in her 10 minutes ago!” and “Page Dr. M____, we need him here STAT” and “Book another OR..tell them I need OR 3 ready in 5 minutes. We’re taking her back down.”

Then Dr. M_____ showed up. The head of Maternal-Fetal Medicine. This is the part where (later on) the Boy told me he got scared. This entire time they had him shoved in the far corner of the room, out of the way. I could see him. He was holding the baby tight against his chest, staring unbelievingly at the proceedings. He seemed to be keeping a relatively cool head, occasionally calling out things like “You’re going to be OK, honey” and “Hang in there…hang in there with me, OK?” But when Dr. M_____ showed up, the Boy told me that he started to get really worked up. Dr. M___ rushed into the room, dressed in a very nice suit. They didn’t ask for another on-call doc. They didn’t ask for a P.A. They asked for the head of Maternal-Fetal Medicine, a specialist who heard what was going on with me and apparently felt it serious enough that he rushed into the room to assess and assist. A guy…in a suit. That is what made the Boy seriously worry.

Another strange hand up…way WAY up inside me. And then one hand inside me and another two hands pressing down onto my uterus from the outside. And my catheter tube was yanked out of my bladder. This was absolute agony. These two men rubbed and massaged and pressed and pushed for endless minutes. Minutes that stretched into an eternity. The nurses were still rushing about. By this time I had a total of 5 IVs in me, with various tubes leading to various bags filled with various kinds of fluids that were separated amongst 3 IV stands surrounding my bed.

My perception of reality was so amazingly skewed at this point that this entire episode could have been 5 hours long, or only a matter of seconds. I later realized that it was about 30-40 minutes. Slowly things began to calm down from “emergency” to “critical” and then to “serious.” They cancelled the operating room. I was not going to need a D&C. I was not going to need an emergency hysterectomy. The bleeding was slowing. Then the bleeding was nearly stopped. The first doctor stopped yelling at the nurses and even took a moment to look me in the face (for the very first time since he entered the room) and said:

“I know this is scary. But you need to continue to stay very still. You’re going to be fine, but stay very, very still.”

I whispered, “I know.”

And the thing is, I think that I did know. I could see all the blood. I could smell all the blood. I could feel the blood pouring out of me. I did not know why I was losing so much blood, but I think I realized, even in my dim frame of mind, that if I screamed or panicked or tried to sit up or got worked up in any fashion, it would only make it worse. I need to stay still. To stay quiet. To breathe slowly and deeply and try and keep my heart rate low. If I got upset and my heart rate increased, the blood would start pumping out of me at an even faster rate.

So I knew. And I was quiet. And I stared for endless minutes at the Boy in the corner. Not allowed to come to the side of my bed. Not allowed to hold my hand. Clutching the baby to his chest. I am crying right now as I type this. I won’t forget that image ever, I don’t think.

This was the fifth hour of my baby’s life.

And then it was all over. And someone (I honestly don’t remember who) explained to me what happened. The uterus is just one large muscle. And my uterus, having been through 2 inductions, 21 hours of hard-core labor, way, WAY to much pitocin and then the incisions of the C-Section, no longer had any strength and was no longer working as a muscle. It completely gave out. All the blood in that area starting pouring through the uterus and out of me like a sieve. The doctors had been “vigorously massaging” (ahem) the uterus both internally and externally to get it to shrink down and had to actually push it back into it’s proper place inside me. The IVs were providing me with saline, antibiotics and more pitocin (does anyone else think that this last one is absolutely hysterical??). I was also the happy recipient of 2 (or maybe 3) blood transfusions.

Throughout the following 36 hours, the nurses were charged with checking my blood pressure, heart rate and temperature every 30 minutes. Every 30 minutes for 36 hours. Then it was every 60 minutes, then every 2 hours, then every shift change. There were many comments made from people wandering in and out of my room for the next few days…

“Oh! So you’re the one that I’ve been hearing about. Wow. What a rough time you’ve had.”

and

“Wow, you’re looking so much better then the last time I saw you.”

and

“I’m so happy that you ended up alright after all.”

and

“I just had to come and see you…see how you were doing.”

And every time they would leave I would ask the Boy, “Who was that?” He would answer “They were here in the room. When it happened.”

When it happened.

When it happened.

The natural, loving, gentle, friendly, happy birth with my Boy, my doula and our wonderful midwife that I so wanted was replaced with a cold, sterile, MEDICAL, stern, terrifying and ultimately, life threatening birth amongst total strangers.

I was in the hospital for one full week.

Most of the time I just kind of smiled and slept and answered questions and nursed the baby. And for several days – kind of pretended that it didn’t happen. Or at the very least, sort of down played the seriousness of it all, even to myself. Mostly to myself. I think I was not yet ready to acknowledge the horribleness of it all. And besides, there was my wonderful baby to take care of. So for the majority of the first several weeks, I concentrated on that. On her. Because the joy she was bringing me and the Boy was (and is) monumental. Mind-alterting joy. And I really, REALLY didn’t want that joy infected by all this negative shit.

I think that a lot of this is now re-surfacing and I am compelled to look at this whole thing full in the face because we are gradually moving past the initial “survival” phase. The baby is doing wonderfully. She is eating, growing, thriving. And thanks to the Boy’s determined efforts, she is on a (kind of) schedule of sorts. I am back at work (grrr….). Life is calming down and falling into place. Sort of.

The point is, I now have a moment or two every day to think. And thinking? Ain’t always good.

I can categorize all the muck-ity muck into two big “issues” (gah – I hate that word):

1) I feel horribly inadequate regarding the “birthing” aspect of being a mother. I am still so sad that Lucy’s birth was not anywhere near what I wanted. I wanted to push her out into the world with the Boy at my side, encouraging me and cheering me on. I wanted to hold her on my belly and wipe her off and hand her to her father. I loved the dim, quiet, homey-looking room that I labored in for days on end. I was really looking forward to birthing the baby in that same room – the room that I came to know so well from hours upon hours of rocking, squatting, moaning and laughing – soaking in the tub. I knew that room and I trusted that space. It felt safe and good. The operating room, in contrast, was so bright and sterile and unknown and scary. I felt so angry and frustrated with myself that I could not see her, hold her, comfort her. To hear her cry and cry in the OR and not be able take her in my arms and tell her I loved her and welcome her into the world. To not be the very first person to cradle her in my arms and have her hear my voice. It’s awful. And to feel so….violated. I wanted a midwife and a doula because I wanted to surround myself with women that I knew and trusted. I wanted the moment of the baby’s birth to be such a happy time. Instead, so many strangers were put in charge of my care and the delivery of the baby. Sometimes I think that I could do it better, do it right if I had the chance to have a “do-over.” I want to take back those last few hours and put right what went wrong. I guess…in simpler words…I feel guilty. I feel like it was my fault.

2) We want more children. And I am absolutely terrified that this will happen again. My midwife had a serious talk with me at my 6 week post-partum appointment. She told me that any future pregnancies would be “carefully monitored” and that my chances of another C-Section are greater than normal due to the post-surgical hemorrhaging. Also, I will not be allowed to go past my due date. I will not be induced. If I do go into labor on my own, I will only be “allowed” to labor for about 10-12 hours tops. There will always be a rather significant concern that my uterus will give out at any point towards the end of a pregnancy or during labor. If that happens, I could start bleeding out again, and they may not be able to stop it next time.


Great.

So. I guess that’s about it. In summation: I am very pleased with the care we received at the hospital I was at. They saved my life and took very good care of Lucy. (they charged the Boy nearly $75 total in parking for the whole week we were there, but hey, can’t have everything). But it was scary and I feel sort of traumatized and violated by what had to happen in order for all of us to come out on the other side alive and in one piece. One thing that I am eternally grateful for is that none of the events surrounding Lucy’s labor, birth and the aftermath have affected my relationship with her. Not one thing has interfered in our bonding and nothing has diminished my incredible love for her.

But there is all this…leftover stuff. And it’s ugly and it hurts. And I want to come up with a way of expelling it somehow so that it does not plague any future pregnancy and birth of future children.

That’s all. I love my baby and I love my husband and I sure am glad that I didn’t die.

I am working on a post.

It's very long and very tedious and to be honest, not all that nice n' pretty.

I have not written about some stuff, and I feel it's nearing time to "release it." Ugly, negative, swirling around in my head stuff about the emotional aspects of my labor and delivery (and aftermath) of the baby.

Bear in mind, it's got absolutely NOTHING to do with the baby or my relationship with her. Nothing at all has interfeared in my bonding with her, my gargantuan love for her, and my unflagging joy in her each and every day. Thank God for that. It's all about me and how I feel about the process of her birth and how I am afraid I will feel about giving birth to any future children. (with PCOS! Ha HA! Laugh with me now...)

I write a little bit of this post every day, and will probably publish it sometime early next week.

So why the warning? Becuase it's ugly. And some of you may feel cruddy (or scared) after reading it. And I want to make sure that you don't feel like you have to. Read it, that is.

That's all for now.

I still haven't decided how I feel about this...but...

the Boy found my blog, girls.

Shit!

Or, you know, not. Again...haven't decided.

One thing I did decide however is that I will continue to write as if he (or any other member of my family) never saw and never will see it. So, there you go.

A really interesting by-product of this situation is that he decided that he would create a blog of his own. I think it is high time that he did.

I also think that it is high time that anyone who wishes to go over and meet him.

http://andthentherewaspickle.blogspirit.com/

Read, enjoy many pictures and give him some lovin'.

Have fun ladies!

My little pickle,

Today you are 3 months old. Wow. That seems so old to me, compared to the little wrinkled squadge-face your father presented me with 3 months (and about 12 hours) ago.

This has been an absolutely huge month for you. You have developed in quantum leaps in the past 4 weeks. You are eating my boobs dry, and I can barely pump enough milk at work on Monday for daddy to feed you on Tuesday while I am away. Some days, he runs out by 2 or 3 pm and ends up slipping you a few ounces of formula to keep you from shrieking until I get home at 5:30.

5:30pm. It’s become my favorite time of the day. I see you for the FIRST time since 7:15 that morning. Yesterday at 5:30 was absolute GOLD when you saw me and grinned that big gummy grin of yours and then…and then…you LAUGHED!!!! A loud, raucous belly chuckle that lasted for 2.5 precious seconds. I will remember that sound for the rest of my life.

More updates over the past month include your ever-deepening friendship with Mr. Bee (who sits to the left of you in your bouncy seat), a continued quiet hostility towards Mr. Blue Racoon (to the right of you in your bouncy seat), the ability to ROLL OVER OH MY HEAVENS SAVE US ALL JOE PESCI and your fondness for patting down my boob as you nurse. Dear, what the fuck are you looking for exactly as you fondle on and underneath my boob? Gold nuggets? An unregistered hand-gun? Spoilers to the first episode of Deadwood (June 11, 2006 cannot come soon enough)?

Fucking Hoople-head honey. Say it with Mommy now…”Fuuuuucking Hoooople-head.”

You also have taken to holding 10-20 minute long lectures about 3 times a day where you stare at your father or I and proclaim any or all of the following in rapid succession:

ooooOOOOoo!!
Uuuhhhhhhhhh!!
Mmmmmmmm!!
allllllll-AH! Alllllll-AH!

It’s this last one that has us pissing our pants with hysterical laughter. There you are, a tiny little daygo baby, so Italian that you probably have olive oil and red wine running through your veins instead of blood, and you frequently like to call upon Allah, the merciful.

We need to talk about the state of your poop, my pickle. You have been, from the time you were hours old, a hearty and healthy pooper. I could count on you going at least 3 times a day. The poop was proliferous and falling from the ceiling, just like it should in a healthy little squadge. Now? NOW? I have no idea what happened, but in the past 36 hours you. have. not. pooped. And you? Are getting very cranky. And dad? Is getting concerned.

Dear. You need to understand that your daddy is nutters. Absolutely barmy at times, and you doing things like UPSETING THE UNDERSTOOD SCHEDULE OF THE DAY tends to make him a bit antsy. When you get older and ask me “why?” I will hand you Webster’s Dictionary and tell you to look up “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”

But seriously, you seem to be getting pretty uncomfortable. So honey, can you just please poop already?

I am at work right now, and I cannot wait to get home and see you. I love you so very much. Working is not getting any easier, but maybe I just have to accept that your existence in of itself has caused absolute emotional turmoil for me. But you know, in a good way. You’re my pickle. My little squadgling. My Lucy-Goose-Juice-Buckets and no one in the universe is more important.

Warm sloppy kisses all over your belly,

Mama