Natural Birth

Baby A in the bassinet as viewed from my hospital bed.

"Oh, I'm doing it all-natural. I want an authentic birth experience."

"You know the drugs go straight to the baby, right? Personally, I couldn't imagine doping my kid up in those first few minutes."

"You'll forget the pain. Just keep pushing through, and you'll have one of the most real and true experiences you'll ever have."

"Women have been doing it forever. You can do it. Just don't give up."

There seems to be a cult-like mentality around the unmedicated birth. (I won't call it the "natural birth" experience, because it insinuates that any medically-assisted birth is unnatural. Trust me; even the fully medically-guided births happen because nature is seizing you by the uterus and making this happen.) Women brag about how they endured the pain, and they and their baby are better for it. They insist that it's the only way to have a memorable and meaningful birth. They romanticize and fetishize the birthing experience, trying to control for every component of the event so that it can be as picturesque as possible.

For others of us, that idea may be entirely impossible to achieve, and it seems crazy to even try.

I had no illusions about my pain tolerance or my ability to get through labor and delivery completely unmedicated. From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew I wanted an epidural. My husband was on notice to signal to the doctor to start prepping the epidural the moment we arrived at the hospital. I wanted birth to be as easy as possible, and if there was a way to avoid going through unnecessary pain, then bring on the medical assistance!

Turns out, I didn't have much of a choice.

My little one didn't seem ready to move, even once I hit my due date. He hadn't dropped, and showed no signs of moving toward the exit. The little due was apparently comfortable, and was going to enjoy an extended stay at Chez Mom.

So at my 40 week appointment, my doctor decided that if Baby A didn't come on his own, she was going in after him. We scheduled an induction for the next week, and I was sent home to walk and bounce on my yoga ball as much as possible in the hopes that the movement would shake him loose.

Thankfully, the very next day, Baby A reluctantly agreed to move things along. But it was at his own pace. Around 10pm Wednesday night, I started contractions. Oof. Not fun. They hit pretty regularly every ten to twelve minutes throughout the night, each one lasting between 30 seconds and 2 minutes. Now, if you've never had labor contractions, let me tell you, they aren't easy to sleep through. They feel like intense menstrual cramps, and they are pretty insistent.

So for about eight hours, I was up every few minutes, timing the darn things. By morning, they had closed the gap to every 8 or 9 minutes. I started to get excited. I called my mom and my sister to let them know that things were finally getting started. My husband stayed home from work, and I called my doctor.

My doctor was glad to hear that things were moving, but told me to just stay at home and relax until the contractions started coming every 5 minutes or so.

Okay, I could do that. I was getting closer, after all. Just another few hours, and I could go to the hospital and meet my little man.

Well, the contractions started to get more intense, but it took until about 4 that afternoon before they got down to the required 5 minute intervals. Finally, I thought, we can get this show on the road.

Ha. By the time I got checked into the hospital around 6, my fairly intense, and fairly painfully contractions had gotten to every 4 minutes, but when the doctor checked me, I was only dilated about 3 cm. ... I had been enjoying the pains of labor contractions for over 20 hours, and I had made essentially no progress.

The doctor told me to settle in for the long ride. From that point on I was not going to have any food, and I was confined to the bed until the baby came. My doctor prescribed pitocin to speed things along, and my husband and I settled in. My family dropped in to check on me, and I sent them home, since it looked like we'd be in for several more hours. My husband popped in a movie while the nurses hooked me up to all sorts of monitors to keep an eye on me and the baby, and they kept upping the pitocin in the hopes that something would happen.

The contractions continued increasing in intensity but not frequency. By 10pm, about 24 hours after they had started, I was only dilated to 5 cm. The pains were pretty intense, but completely manageable without pain medication. In fact, despite my earlier vow to demand an epidural upon arrival, I was convinced at this point that I could manage just fine without. Sure, I was uncomfortable (okay, I was in quite a bit of pain), but even dialed up to a whole other level, I was convinced I could do this without the meds. After all, there were predictable points where the pain disappeared and I could breathe. I could do this.

Then the doctor told me the time estimate. If I continued at the rate I was currently at (with pitocin increasing the frequency of contractions and trying to push things along as quickly as possible), we were looking at another 15-20 hours. On top of the 24 hours I'd already been without sleep.

So after 40 something hours of no sleep and near constant pain, I'd have to push? No, thank you.

I got the epidural. That blessed, welcome numbness that allowed me to sleep for four straight hours that night. For four hours I couldn't feel a thing below the waist. Couldn't roll over, couldn't push if I wanted to, couldn't do a thing but rest and relax. It was wonderful. Sure, the insertion of that ridiculously huge needle into my back was easily the most painful part of the process so far, but the relief that followed made it all worth it. With a little uninterrupted sleep, I could do this.

That total, blissful numbness was never repeated. I got several additional doses of the medicine throughout the next 15 hours, but never again was the sensation of giving birth taken away. I could feel my contractions again, though the edge was smoothed over. I certainly felt the need to push at hour 40, and I definitely felt like I was being split in two when I finally pushed my baby boy out, but I made it through the process.

If I hadn't had that epidural, I would have gone nearly three days without sleep, two without food, and in near constant pain. I wouldn't have made it. That epidural made it possible for me to give birth the way I wanted without having to experience a C-section. however, if a cesarean was the only way to deliver my boy safely, I would have done that as well.

My birth experience was as authentic and real as any unmedicated birth. I may have been a little woozy after the fact, but I guarantee I would have been just as out of it after such a prolonged experience without any sleep or food or relief of any kind. My little boy arrived just as safely, if not more so, because I was able to get a few hours of rest in the middle of the marathon madness that was his birth. And at the end of the day, it is my choice. I took my doctor's advice and had a safe and healthy delivery which culminated in the arrival of a perfect baby boy. He was alert with eyes wide open from the first. He didn't even cry until he got his first sponge bath.

So I won't be joining the cult of "natural" birth. I'll stick to the one that works for me and my kid. And whatever kind of experience comes out of that works great for us.

Keeping an Eye on the Ball

Baby A, passed out on his ball.

If my last post wasn't a big enough indicator, then I should probably go ahead and spell it out for you. I've had my baby boy.

Actually I had him about 12 weeks ago.

Whoops.

I thought the first couple of weeks would be easy. Newborns mostly eat, sleep, poop, and cry, right? So while I'd be busy with the feeding, the changing, and the comforting, I'd at least get to write when the baby slept, right?

Ha!

Newborn babies do not sleep very predictably. Don't get me wrong; they sleep a lot. Up to 20 hours a day. But they don't do it all at once. Or even in spans of longer than about 2 hours. And that means that I, as the all-encompassing food source, did not sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. So when the baby finally fell asleep, I should have been getting my own rest, right?

Ha!

Sure, sweet Baby A loves to sleep. And he's good at it. Sleeps through loud noises, parties, adults talking, movies, anything you throw at him, he can tune out to sleep. But for the first month or so, he would only really sleep in someone's arms. He wanted to be held, swaddled, cuddled, comforted, nursed, and settled snug in your arms at all times. You could lay him down in his bassinet for a little while if he was really deeply sleeping, but within thirty minutes to an hour, he'd come out of deep sleep and realize no one was holding him. Then he'd cry until someone came to rock him, dance him, and soothe him back to sleep.

Part of this was because he was just so uncomfortable. It seems our sweet thing had a bit of an underdeveloped digestive system and had persistent uncomfortable gas. And he couldn't get it out. The kid couldn't burp properly, and he couldn't manage to work it out the other way either. We tried everything to help him: prolonged burping sessions, baby massage, gas drops, gripe water, you name it. He just couldn't let it go.

Until we discovered our secret weapon: the yoga ball. Just a few minutes of vigorous bouncing, and Baby A would release that gas and be all smiles until he settled down for another nap. It's amazing. Just cradle him in your arms or set him on your lap and start moving, and the kid would grunt a bit and then relax.

If you have a baby who just can't seem to settle down, who seems to be uncomfortable for no discernible reason, or who cries whenever he's laid down on his back, try bouncing him for a while on a yoga ball. It has done wonders for us.

Now that he's a bit more developed, he sleeps like a champ in his own crib in his own room. It's wonderful. He even naps thanks to a brilliant schedule suggested by my sister (more on that at a later date). What that means is I finally have time once again to take care of myself, clean my house, cook dinner, and, joy of joys, write!

With any luck, I'll be able to resume updating here and keeping a better log of Baby A's development and my journey as a new mom.

A Baby's Laugh

Baby A laughed today. It's the third day since he began really laughing. The first day, it was me spitting my tongue out at him as we bounced on the yoga ball. Yesterday it was Daddy tickling him. Today, it was me pretending to gobble his stomach.

There's nothing like a baby's laughter to turn your day around.

Before I had Baby A, I would look up baby's laughing on YouTube when I had a bad day. Just a few seconds of a full baby belly laugh, and I'd feel better. A few seconds more, and I'd be giggling along with the kid.

It's something else when it's your own kid, though. Your stomach flip flops, and you get a catch in your throat as your entire spirit lifts. You find yourself laughing in spite of the spit up in your hair and the pain in your back. You repeat the action, whatever it was that got him going. There it is again. That laugh. It's a rush, and you'll do anything to get him to laugh again.

My kid's laughter is my drug.

Being Enough

Over the past several days, a theme has come up again and again: the idea of being enough. Mothers (and fathers, too) are forced to deal with the idea of having it all, being the best possible mom and still leading a fulfilling personal life either through a career or personal achievements. Many feel the pressure to always be on the top of their game, delivering Pinterest-worthy birthday parties and holiday celebrations, while maintaining immaculate, well-organized homes, preparing magazine-ready meals, and attending to every individual moment of their children's lives. At the same time, they shouldn't give up on their own dreams, so they should excel at their jobs (but only while their kids are in school), and find personal fulfillment away from their families.

Sounds intimidating.

Then I came across a few articles. The first is a satirical blog post from a 1970s mother. This woman does her own thing throughout the day and lets her kids fend for themselves for the most part. She feeds them and makes sure they aren't killing each other or themselves, but for the most part, she lets them do their own thing while she does hers. While we can laugh at the obviously harmful things she inflicts on her kids (secondhand smoke, an 11-year-old babysitter, Tang), the point remains that just a few generations ago, parenting was perhaps not quite so demanding as it is today. No one expected the mother to attend to every need and provide educational entertainment every minute of every day. Kids weren't scheduled to within an inch of their lives so that they could be competitive in the future, and parents didn't have to schedule their every waking moment around improving their children's lives.

The second article was about the fact that in the end, just being a mom is enough. At the end of the day, parenting is not about how much money you spent entertaining your children. It's not about huge outings to Disneyworld or extravagant holiday celebrations or any of the big gestures. It's about being there in the in-between moments. It's dinners together with the family, or card games in the evenings, or baking cookies together or car trips to visit family.

I know, growing up, it was the little moments that really stood out for me. I remember my mom painting my sister's and my toe nails while watching The Cosby Show before bed. Or my dad washing our hair and pretending he used to be a stylist for Madonna. Or walks to the park with my grandmother. Or finding four leaf clovers with my mom. Or dancing with my dad when he played the music too loudly and we couldn't sleep because everyone else was still awake.

Just being there as a mother, just being present is enough. You don't have to outperform the other mothers, or measure up to the Pinterest boards of professional party planners, florists, and decorators. Just be there and make the effort, listen to your children and love them, lead them, and let them lead their own lives, and that's enough to succeed as a mom.

As for the other part? I think it's important to maintain a life separate from your kids. My husband and I had a discussion about this the other night. He worried that as Baby Boy's birth approaches that I've slipped into this identity of being a good wife and mother while neglecting myself. That I've been so focused on getting the house ready for a baby and filling the role of the dutiful housewife, that I've been forgetting the things that made me, me.

He's right. I've been so excited and nervous about the impending arrival of my little one, that I've failed to keep up with my writing, to follow through on my own passions, and to be the driven woman that he fell in love with.

It's understandable. Having a baby is a huge life change, and it's okay to be focused on that for a time. And once Baby Boy arrives, I'll be hard-pressed to find time for myself for a while as I adjust to caring for him.

But after that, after I've adjusted, after I settle into this new role as mother, is it enough for me to just be "Mom"?

I don't think it is.

I want things for myself that don't involve my husband and don't involve my children. I have dreams that are just for me, and interests and passions that are wholly selfish. That's okay. That's actually a good thing. I think it's important to have my own strong identity and to follow my dreams. It doesn't mean it's okay to forget about my husband and child while I pursue them, but it is okay to find a balance between myself and everyone else.

So if dinner is frozen pizza some nights because I was too busy finishing up a chapter or editing a short story, that's okay. If I fail to fold the laundry or leave a pile of dirty dishes in the sink or forget to vacuum for a month because I was caught up in doing my own thing, it doesn't make me a failure as a wife or a mother. No one is going to judge me for any of that, and I don't need to beat myself up or feel guilty for it either.

I may be about to become a mother, but that doesn't mean I need to give up on me. I'm enough as I am, and I can find a balance between my roles as wife, mother, and writer. I don't have to be perfect at any of them, so long as I take each of those roles seriously. It's enough to be me, and as long as I am committed to being there, being available, and loving my family, I've succeeded. Being true to myself and to my own dreams is just as as important as being a mother.

Pregnant Women are Smug?

A few years ago, an awesome comedy duo released a brilliant song. Then they released an amazing video to go with it.

It's funny, it's insightful, it's, in many cases, highly accurate.

My friends actually introduced me to this one when I first told them I was pregnant. We all laughed, and I promised not to be too self-satisfied on this journey.

Frankly, I think I've done a pretty good job, but then most pregnant women probably think they are the exception. I've admitted that pregnancy is not a magical time full of life-affirming feelings and getting in touch with my inner goddess or whatever. Pregnancy is hard, often uncomfortable, and as terrifying and weird as it is awkward and tedious. I'm exhausted, emotional, stressed out, and frequently sore and in pain thanks to random bodily changes that I had no way of anticipating. I haven't tried to sugar coat any of that when my friends ask me how things are going, and I've done my best to quiet down the complaining, because, after all, this (or the end result) is something I want.

So the other day, I was a bit put off when a friend of mine started humming the above song when I said a single positive thing about being pregnant. The friend had asked if I was enjoying my pregnancy, and I admitted that while "enjoying" was putting it in more positive terms than I would usually choose, that there was something unquestionably cool about doing what I'm doing. I think I used the term "bad ass" to explain how strong and proud I feel that I can actually make a person, despite the many discomforts and weird sensations that go along with it.

My friend hummed the song, and it instantly shut me up. After all, I didn't want to appear "smug" about my pregnancy.

But, in a lot of ways, that's really not fair. I am more than happy to applaud my friends when they accomplish awesome things or do something they are proud of. I am genuinely happy for them and will celebrate with them, because they are my friends. They usually will celebrate with me, as well, when I achieve something of note, or do something impressive. Why is being pregnant different? Yeah, it's a biological process, and there's little I'm consciously doing to stitch together this person inside of me. But for anyone who doubts that it requires a great deal of effort, patience, and energy to accomplish simply surviving a pregnancy with a smile on your face has never dealt with round ligament pain, back aches, or feet stuck in their ribs.

I think I'm allowed to be a little bit proud of myself for what I'm doing here, and I don't think it's unreasonable to feel that way. Pregnancy is hard, and I would hope that I deserve a little more respect for what I'm going through. Yes, it's my choice to be knocked up, and it's my choice to give up my body and my free time to create the family I want. I know, or at least had an idea, of what I was signing up for when I embarked on this journey. That doesn't mean I don't deserve more than to be mocked when I actually take pride or feel excitement or joy in what is happening to me.

So while I enjoy the video and appreciate the humor of mocking the sanctimonious high some women get when they get knocked up, I don't appreciate it being wielded as a weapon by people I care about to get me to be quiet about my experiences or downplay what I'm going through. It's not nice, and it shows a distinct lack of respect for me as a person and as a mother to be.

Defending Life Choices

A friend of mine recently complained about how many people have been questioning her decision not to get married or have kids. She says that she is constantly having to defend herself and her life against those that naturally assume that when you get to a certain age that you are to settle down, pair up, reproduce, and stagnate. She says she has gotten pressure from her friends, from her family, and even from strangers about how it's obviously time to take those next steps and start having kids

I have had just the opposite problem. Now in my third trimester, I am obviously pregnant. Gone is the little bump that only I can see, and instead there is the massive soccer-ball sized mound that attests to my current position on procreation.

And I'm having to constantly defend my decision to have kids.

It may be a testament to where we both are in our lives and the people we surround ourselves with, but many of my friends cannot fathom why I would subject my body, finances, and future to the whims of a small person who will inevitably become the center of my world. As many arguments as my friend has faced about why it's only natural to have children, I have had to face down the logical and reasonable arguments about why it is utterly insane to bring any one new into this world.

Luckily, I haven't had to defend my choice to my family, as they are more than supportive and excited, and frankly, most strangers seem to derive a great deal of excitement and joy in asking whether it's my first, boy or girl, and how soon I'm due. But it has been a surprise to find that for many of the people in my life, the idea of having a child is not only crazy, but irresponsible and selfish.

It's interesting to compare the arguments my friend and I have faced. The arguments for having children have mostly revolved around the idea that it's "natural," "it's what people do at [her] age." "it's what the woman's body is made for," "nothing else will give [her] more purpose or joy," and "it's [her] responsibility to her family and to her future." Mine on the other hand have been more logical, revolving around the incredible responsibility, the amount of sacrifice, and the contribution to the overpopulation of the planet (yes, really).

The thing is, the arguments against having a child are harder to fight against than the reasons to actually go forward with it. Why do people have children when they will have to give up sleeping in, to give up the freedom to do what you want when you want, to give up the time to devote to yourself and your own personal dreams and instead focus on someone you will, of course love, but might not even like that much? Why put your body through the pain of labor, the indignity of losing your figure, the months and months without regular wine or cocktails? Why would you give up hundreds of thousands of dollars, setting yourself up for debt and giving up the freedom that comes with an unfettered cash flow? Even if you really want children, why not adopt? Why contribute to the overpopulation of the planet by insisting on having your own kid?

I don't think the reasons to have a child of your own are entirely logical, but I also don't think they have to be. Many people will of course fall into the idea of parenthood because of the very reasons my friend has had to defend against: it's natural, it's traditional, it's biological, and it's common assume that it is one of the purposes of human life. There are very strong religious arguments in favor of procreation, but there are also political, intellectual, and ethical reasons to have kids.

But I don't know that any of those played a crucial part in motivating me or my husband into it. (To be fair, my husband's reasons are probably very different from mine, and, I imagine, the fact that I strongly wanted children was one of his prime motivators.) For me, family has always been an important part of my life. The relationships I have with my parents and my sisters as well as my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousin, have all been strong influences in my life. Making them proud, living up to their hopes, and just being a part of a family have been important to me, even when I was off pursuing my own interests and dreams. There's never been a question that I wanted to spend my life near them and be a part of this family for the rest of my days. My family is part of how I define myself, and I'm proud of that fact.

Having children and continuing that family with my husband is one of my main goals in life. My husband is the most important person in my life, and one the best ways I think I can show my love for him is to build a family with him. To create a new family unit that is as defining and pivotal as my extended family. To build something new and wonderful and important that is truly a reflection of us and our love for each other. That to me is a worthy goal, and pursuing that will likely be the most important thing I do with my life.

My life is wonderful as it is, and I imagine I could be happy without children. I could continue writing, enjoying time with my incredible friends, building a financially secure future with my husband, and doing our own things until we can't anymore. But I think I would regret not pursuing something a little bigger, a little better. I think children can make my life fuller, allow me to love so much more, to be a part of something so much greater than myself. Sure there's the biological urge, and the idea that it is what you do when you're happily married and moving into middle age. For me, though, having this baby is about building something bigger for me and my husband. We're building a family. And that is reason enough.

The Bump

No one else can tell yet, and frankly, it's hard to see anything in the mirror, but I'm actually starting to get a bump. I can feel it just beneath the skin. Instead of the soft pudge I used to get when I gained a little weight or the bloat I've been feeling for weeks, this feels different. It's tauter, more solid.

It's so weird to feel my body changing like this. I'm finally starting to keep down food on a regular basis and actually getting hungry (Ok, I'm starving all the time!). I'm also starting to get a little more energy than I had in my first few weeks. At first these positive changes actually worried me. With the negative symptoms, I had something I could hold on to: there's clearly a baby in there making me feel so awful and refusing to let me even smell bourbon.

Now that I have days where I feel good, I start thinking that something awful has happened and I'm not pregnant anymore. I know that's strange, but this whole thing is still so new. I'm adjusting to what my new normal is, and any change has me thinking the worst.

Then, a few days ago, I had a little stomach ache and put my hand over my belly as if to comfort it. That's when I noticed. It felt different. It didn't feel like my stomach. The shape had changed slightly, the density of it was different. I tried sucking in, but even though I could still make my stomach look fairly uniform, I could still feel that tiny bump.

I'm not going to lie, I teared up a bit at that. Every day there's just another reminder. This is really happening. My life is changed. I'm going to be a mom. I just hope I'm a good one.