THE BIRTH STORY

My intention was to write the birth story immediately after the Boy was born and start writing over at Out of the Rabbit Hole. That didn't happen.

So, now, uhem, almost ten months later, I'm going to write that birth story (damn it!) with little or no editing so I can just get the thing done (sorry!) and move over to Out of the Rabbit Hole. This is an infertility blog, not a mommy blog. It seems appropriate to shut the shop and move over there.

So, here goes (as best as I can remember):

My due date was early October and my parents made the trek out here and were waiting patiently for the Boy to be born. I was afraid, however, that the Parents would have to leave before his arrival. So, we waited. And continued to wait. It was now almost a week past my due date and, fearing that I may never a) give birth or b) give birth but never again be able to go out in the evening (best guess!) I got discounted tickets to go see The Master Builder. The Husband and I arrived before the Parents - I can't actually remember why. We stepped gingerly around a construction site to get there. We milled about the lobby of the theatre – which was dark and cool, with flickering lights. The Husband and I sat in the back row - thankfully, because I was completely uncomfortable throughout the show - getting up periodically to stretch my legs. Forty some odd years earlier, my mother went to see a play when she was pregnant with my sister, was incredibly uncomfortable, and went into labor that night. Anyway, when we got home, I laid down while the Husband took the dogs out on a late night walk. I heard a POP and had a little bit of pain. It was odd. And weird. I waddled to the bathroom and well, I'll spare you the gory details but I was pretty convinced that my water had broken . . . I cried a little (I was scared!) and then called the doc on call and it was Dr. Arrogant Rude – the doctor I had feared delivering me the most. Perfect! Of course he told me to come in immediately. I told him I would – even though I had no intention of coming in. It was kind of liberating, “Ha! I will not come in! I am having no contractions and you can’t make me! Yes, I know all about the infection risk, etc., etc. I’m waiting. I know all about you and your obsession with the horrible pitocin and your mad desire to induce, induce, induce! I will not be fooled!” So, we waited. Once the sun came up and Dr. Arrogant Rude was likely off his shift, the Husband drove us to the hospital. And well, they sent me home. No evidence of contractions (even though I believed at this point that I was having them) nor was there any evidence that my water had broken. Oh, and the person who sent me on my merry way? A twelve year old physician’s assistant. So, we went home and I continued to feel like I was having contractions. Since we were told that I was in fact, not in labor and not having contractions, I tried to just occupy myself (which at times involved laying down, sitting on my exercise ball or showering) and endure the non-labor-labor pains. Then my sister called and told me the same thing had happened to her and she had the same exact contractions for several weeks and so not to worry, nothing was happening. My sister, the nurse (by the way, over the years, I’ve learned to do the exact opposite of her advice, this time, however, I was vulnerable and listened to her. Wrong!). Anyway, this continued to happen throughout the day and I continued to endure the “non-labor-labor pains”, convinced that if this was not in fact labor, when I was in actual labor, I would likely go blind. So I continued to soldier on. The Husband went to the store. The husband watched TV. The Husband asked what was wrong (whatever this is - it doesn’t feel great!), the Husband helped me onto the exercise ball and counted with me through a contraction. Then the Husband went to bed. I took a shower. I tried to watch TV. I tried to play on the Internet. I couldn’t really do anything and the pain at this point was becoming, uh, painful. In fact, at this point, sitting alone in my house, I convinced myself that since it wasn’t labor pains, I was having severe gas pains. So, I began walking rapidly up and down the hall because I thought that it would get rid of it somehow. Then the pain became nearly unbearable so I called the doc on call. She essentially told me that she couldn’t tell if I was in labor or if it was gas pains unless I came in but that that was up to me (wait, really?). I got off the phone and then took a good look at the spacing of the contractions, which I had been noting, on a small piece of paper. Alarmed, I decided that either I needed to go in so that they could relieve this horrific “gas pain” or I was on the verge of giving birth AT ANY MOMENT because the “contractions” were minutes, as in less than four minutes apart. I screwed up the energy to rouse my husband by yelling at him from the living room. There was no response. Again I called out his name. Nothing. Finally, I yelled as loud as I could and I’ve never seen that man move so fast. We’d been arguing about taking a cab versus him driving (he wanted to cab it) but at this point I just said, “You’re driving” and he said, “Yes.” The drive over was dark and quiet. The pain lessened somewhat (I’ve heard that happens when a little adrenalin takes over). We drove up to the valet and the parking lot attendant was sleeping or too involved in his crossword or iPhone to notice us. The Husband about lost his mind yelling at the guy to get our car. Then, not really thinking, the Husband asked me to carry up some of my stuff, which I quietly did. All I could think about was the fact that I would not be able to tolerate hanging out waiting at triage to be admitted. Luckily they got me right in and asked me to give them a urine sample (I think?) and when I came out, I told the nurse, “I can’t stop peeing.” She tried not to look amused and said, “Perhaps your water just broke?” Apparently my water just broke. Then the doctor came in felt around and asked me if I wanted drugs and I asked how far along I was because frankly, if I was 1 cm dilated then I wanted EVERYTHING thank you very much. “8 cm” he said, then quickly, “And now your 10 cm. You’re having a baby!” WHAT???? I couldn’t believe it. I seriously couldn’t get my head around the fact that I was in labor and I was about to have a baby. There were a few snickers about that fact that everyone hoped that when they were in labor they thought it was just gas pain and then there was a lot of hooting and words of encouragement because everyone was excited that I was going to give birth sans drugs. And then I pushed not knowing what the heck I was doing and then the Boy was born. I’m missing a little bit here: an emergency ped doc attended because they feared meconium aspiration but he was OK and I was not expelling the afterbirth (sorry, again, ugh) and was having a bit of a bleeding issue. Oh, and by the way, why doesn’t anyone tell you how much it hurts afterwards? Yikes. Tearing, stitching, etc. And he was beautiful. And I was completely in shock. Totally, utterly shocked. And I still am. And he still is beautiful and wonderful and amazing.

Thank you so much for reading (although at this point, probably no one is reading anymore). The blogosphere kept me from going completely, utterly, mad during the "Troubles." So, again, thank you and I hope you'll visit me at Out of the Rabbit Hole.

Use Your Head, I Say

The husband's folks, sister and nephew were in town. They left, with the exception of the mother, this morning. For us or me, family visits breed chaos - and in the case of the husband's family - I become hugely stressed. There is usually some stupid argument where someone says something I find offensive or I find troubling in some way - and instead of letting it go - we get into a (stupidly) heated argument. I was very good this time - and refrained from "engaging." The mother-in-law is now here for two weeks as our nanny granny. God help us. God help us all.



Today the Husband called because I left half of the breast pump at home (again family visits=chaos) and he was running it over. I assumed he was bringing the Baby. When he got here and no baby, I burst into tears. I'm really mad/sad/hurt. The problem with the Husband is that he can become strangely rigid about many, many things. Like, for example, naps. We've learned that if the Baby doesn't get enough naps he can be a nightmare to put to sleep at night and then wakes up with much more frequency than normal. So, the Husband has become somewhat psychotically rigid about naps -sometimes trying to put the baby to bed when he's clearly not sleepy and then there is a battle of wills where the husband rocks the baby maniacally until he WILL FALL ASLEEP. And it's frankly, annoying (we've also joined ww and he's become fairly psychotic about that as well - even trying to persuade his sister to not have a retirement dinner out for their father and letting him cook at home - it should be noted that his weight loss to date is almost twenty pounds and mine is, um, well, four). However, one little sojourn during the day isn't really enough to do too much damage - especially considering the fact that the Husband takes the Baby out to the Park to see a friend of his at least weekly and sees me once per week as well. I'm really unclear as to why he didn't feel the need to bring the baby - I could have breastfed him, spent time with him, etc. It's better for me and better for the Baby to see me, his mother, upon occasion. As it stands now, I see him for about an hour in the morning and an hour at night. I'm really weepy about this. Sometimes, the Husband is . . . e-x-h-a-l-e.



This is where we went last night to celebrate the Father-in-Laws retirement:




Image via flickr: smaginnis11565

New Milestones

The other night, very late, the Bambino awoke and began crying. I then went searching, half-blind, for his pacifier. I knew it was in his co-sleeper somewhere. When I couldn't find it, I was forced to trudge off to the kitchen. When I returned, the Wee One had found his pacifier himself and had it in his mouth. Now, for some people this may not be such a big deal - for me, however, seeing as I had never seen him do this before, it completely cracked me up. He is also now rolling over - which means that I can't just plop him down in our bed anymore - especially when the other night he lay there sleeping, rolled over and landed in the c0-sleeper. He was not pleased. He's now sitting up as well. This is quite a crazy development. Obviously I know that he will meet these milestones at some point - but it's shocking to me each time it happens. Recently I sat with him in our glider, looked up at the Husband and said, "Is this real? Am I really holding our son?" Sometimes, I really just can't believe it.

Thank you to all who voted on my photography project - if only I'd learned about the contest earlier. At any rate, it's a project I've been thinking about for a long, long time. So, thank you.

As I told all my friends on facebook about the project, many of whom did not know about the recurrent miscarriages, a friend of mine e-mailed that she'd like to get together. She also told me that she wanted to meet because she's just had her second miscarriage and she wanted to talk to someone who understands. I can't tell you how much this killed me. It's so upsetting to think about ANYONE having to go through miscarriage, let alone one of your good friends. I'm so glad, however, that because of my "coming out" that I may be able to be there for her. So, perhaps it's a milestone for me as well - I've come out to a bunch of people and nothing horrible happened. It's a hell of a lot easier to do so, however, when you feel as though you are through it and not in the thick of it.

New Happenings by the Boy

So, the Boy, a few days ago, awoke from a sound sleep, saw his father sleeping, and said, loudly, "Hey!" in order to rouse his father. I know, I know, he's just over five months old, he couldn't possibly have said, "Hey." But there it is. That's what it sounded like, at any rate.

This morning, I was on the far side of the bed - and we'd just put the Boy on the side of the bed where his co-sleeper is - he rolled all the way from one side to the other and landed, quite snugly, against my side. He seemed fairly amused by the whole thing. I think he's been secretly rolling onto his tummy - despite his obvious dislike for it, for sometime now.

I haven't been checking infertility blogs too much lately - but was thrilled to see that wordgirl is knocked up!

I have been having a good time looking at craft and photography blogs. I'll post some links to some of my favorites soon.

Ah, the Boy. He is scrumptious.

Perfect

I remember going out to dinner with my in-laws somewhere downtown, in the middle of a cold winter. My mother-in-law, who was talking about how worried she was about her daughter, announced that she didn't worry about her son, because he was, you know, perfect. Perfect in every way. I couldn't help but to roll my eyes. My husband, as wonderful as he is, is not perfect. And the fact that his mother thinks this is so, is something that I can't help but to find annoying. I really wanted to start listing those things which make her son in fact, not perfect. Which is kind of a strange reaction from one's wife. But I don't believe in perfection. Perfection just doesn't exist. And I think someone who thinks that their son is perfect, is well, not living in reality. Maybe that day or maybe it was another day, she said that I'd understand once I had a child. And perhaps, in a way, I do now. It's not that I believe that my son is perfect - it's that it would pain me greatly for someone else to see flaws in my son. It would really wound me. It's a strange thing. I want to protect him from hurt. And someone thinking he is not perfect, is, well, or would be, hurtful, I suppose. So, in a way, I understand now. Which is annoying because I sure as hell don't want to agree with my mother-in-law. I also understand that the term perfection, in this context, means that he is happy, that he is well, that all is right. And he seems to be - he is great and happy and thriving. He is our greatest reward. I cannot believe how lucky I am. After all this time, after all this want, I finally get to be around this wonderful, wonderful boy.

And since I am most definitely not perfect, I am going to attempt to write that letter to my son, the one that I thought I'd do every month and I've managed once:

Dear son:

You are now five months old! You now wiggle around and flip over from your tummy to your back. We think you learned this because you hate to be on your tummy. However, you are starting to tolerate it for a little longer now. You squeal with delight when Daddy tickles you or says something funny and you laugh politely at Mommy's jokes. You and Mommy fall asleep together most evenings and Daddy has to try about fifty times to wake up Mommy so they can eat dinner. You are adorable when you sleep. You have also started grunting when you are dissatisfied or unhappy about something. You grunt in a most displeased way until we pick you up from whatever terrible predicament you have found yourself, such as sitting in your bouncy seat for too long or laying on that boring old play mat. We love that you are so assertive! You used to love to stand rod straight on your legs - however, now you like to make your legs like jelly and bounce up and down. You are really paying attention to your surroundings now, too. Today you put your hand in Mommy's hair and took a long, curious look at it through your fingers. You do love to talk and you have a wonderful voice. You have a lot to say! We love listening to you.

We love you very, very much.

--Mommy

Happy Valentine's Day

I am now taking Wednesdays off. It's fantastic. I am so glad to have done this. Next issue? Nipple confusion. We're trying to work through it. Stupid bottles.

Onto other news - our beautiful boy rolled over on Friday. We are so incredibly thrilled. And because we're his parents, of course we think our kid is incredibly brilliant and obviously very advanced. I posted about it on our baby blog. Then a friend of ours, whose baby is just about two weeks younger than ours, commented on our blog that their baby rolled over on the same day. The same day? How can this be possible? Should this annoy me? No. Should I find this incredibly irritating? No. But I do. I really, really do. It was this special thing that our kid did and now it's just not. Kind of rained on our parade, so to speak. So now I've decided she rolled over earlier than our baby because she spends all of her time on the floor, being neglected. This is of course, totally untrue but it makes me feel better. Gah. Parenthood and all its petty splendor.

Happy Valentine's Day.

14 Weeks

I spent fourteen weeks home with the bambino. I'm back at work this week and spent most of last week crying thinking about returning. It's been a rough morning. When I try to talk to the Husband about going back home for three more months or at least going part-time he's incredibly resistant. I don't really understand why. He says things like, "We can't afford it" or "What will that do to your career." It's amazing, because I couldn't care less either way. I never thought I would feel that way - but what's more important than the well-being of my kid? And I'm not talking about taking off six years - that would be a serious financial burden - I'm talking about three more months. Three more little months. And we have savings. And we'd have to do things like not get take out quite so much but that's really hardly a sacrifice. Of course, I have know idea how my boss would react and that does concern me but again, in ten years, will I really care what these people think? I'm trying to continue to breastfeed and its incredibly hard. I don't really have a proper ending here because I have to run out and try to scrounge together some items I neglected to bring with me for the breastfeeding extravaganza . . . but mainly, I just really wish I had had the OVARIES to tell my boss and the Husband that I needed to take off three more months. The Husband is home with him and I think that may be the real reason for the resistance - he hates his job and loathes the idea of going back. However, I don't see why he would have to go back - he's on paternity leave earning an income - why does he have to go back? How lucky would our kid be to have two parents home for three months? Sigh. I know the reality is that I am too scared to ask my boss (even though I'm allowed seven months off under the FMLA) so I'll just continue to come to work, continue to be miserable, continue to feed my kid compromised breastmilk (apparently frozen isn't as good as fresh), continue to feel like this is a mistake.