Cough. Hack. Sneeze.

Our first house-wide cold attack came two days ago. I should say that one out of the three of us started getting sick two days ago...and that "one" was Sprout. Here's where things get kind of funny. All babies, it seems, develop the ability to "fake cough". Whether they do it just to grasp for our attention, or whether they are discovering the ability to make new noises that emulate our own, it doesn't matter. It is super cute, and almost always triggers the response: "Oh, you're so sick!" Whoops.

Sprout was coughing, and making this other odd noise that sounded remotely like she was trying to blow snot out of her nose whilst humming a delightfully happy tune, and I was simply making fun of her! Meanwhile, her throat was probably burning like crazy (like mine was the next morning), and her nose getting stuffier by the second.

I awoke the next morning with an awful itchy, burning sensation at the back of my throat and nose. As the day progressed, I began coughing. Sprout continued her cough, and I felt like a terrible mother for teasing her the day before.

Short blog today, because I am stuck between feeling feverish, and feeling like I might just vomit if I cough one more time. Moral of the story - how the heck are we supposed to know as parents if our children are actually sick when it's something as mild as a cough and/or cold?! Beats the heck out of me!

*Hack* *Cough* *Sneeze*

Sorry, Sprout.

xoxoxo

Mommy

So much for writer's block...

Whew. I think I finally ran out of steam. That comment alone will probably provoke great peals of laughter in those who know me well. I can definitely be a little long-winded, even when I'm just talking. If you're just tuning in, check out the previous blogs. They're a little massive. I just don't know what to write about. I've been thinking about it, and I think I'm going to open up the floor for questions - if there's anyone out there that wants to ask something about my previous blogs, or just general questions, feel free. Ask, and you shall receive. Maybe I'll get a little controversial today. Sure, why not.

I believed in God before I had Sprout. My husband comes from a very religious family, and was brought up going to a private Christian school, etc. etc. Me, on the other hand...well, I started going to church with my friend S. in junior high, and through my tumultuous teenage years I actually developed a strong sense of my own faith (and self). Since husband and I have been together (6 years in Sept, 2010), I have found an even deeper connection to God, and have grown monumentally in my faith. That being said, I'm not going to pretend like I haven't had my doubts.

Whenever troubles arise, I find myself wondering what I must have done to deserve the bomb that has thrown my life into disarray. When I had my miscarriage before conceiving Sprout, I spent an entire week in manic-depressive mode. I'd be fine one minute, and the next, I'd be sobbing aloud that I had to have done something horrible to deserve what I was going through. Eventually, I came to terms with things, and decided that the old "everything happens for a reason" cliche should be my focus. It's funny, but some people really don't recover well from miscarriages - I was fine. Once we had the go-ahead from my obstetrician to start trying to conceive again, we were absolutely ready. And all it took was one try. I know that for some people, it's the repeated miscarriages that make the thought of even trying again pure fiction. I understand that - I really do - but mine just made me think about my whole life in an entire new light.

It took us over a year to conceive the first time. Not sure why. It could have been because I was on birth control for over 8 years prior, and my body just wasn't ready to sustain a pregnancy. With Sprout, like I said, it happened right away. I know the exact DAY I conceived her. During the first 12 weeks, I prayed a million times per day that it would work out this time, and that I would get to meet my little one growing inside of me. On Sprout's birthday, when she finally arrived after our long, long wait (even though she was 10 days early), I took one look at her and finally understood my purpose. What I didn't understand was how anyone who has witnessed or experienced the miracle of birth could still say that they don't believe in anything. No higher power, no celestial being...nothing. I'm not going to be pushy about it, because everyone is entitled to their own opinions and own belief system, but here's the thing: it is a miracle in itself that so many babies come out relatively unscathed from the collision of particles that created them. As one person put it "man goo + woman goo = baby". Isn't that weird? Having a child has made me reexamine the wonderment of human reproduction, and I have found myself staring in awe of my child time and time again.

No matter how much was taught in Biology 30, I still don't fully understand how our reproduction works. Don't get me wrong - I get it. Birds, bees, all that. Obviously Sprout is here, so I understood enough. I just...don't...understand. It is unbelievable to me that my child, who is smiling, laughing, and playing now, began as a rapidly dividing bundle of cells. Microscopic. Not so much now, she's in the 90th percentile for weight (and 50th for length...she's a little round). She learns so much every day, and is constantly changing. Between her birth, and the death of my beloved grandfather in January, I have a newfound hope. Maybe it is due to wishful thinking that life does not end in death, and that we have somewhere else to be that will bring no pain, no suffering, and new beginnings. I cannot help but believe now that my grandfather is in heaven, and that if my beautiful girl were taken from me, she would be there as well. If it ends up being a false comfort, so be it. I would much rather have some hope for life beyond earth than no hope at all.

Faith is what gets us through life. It propels us through new beginnings, new births, and keeps us afloat in times of great sorrow and loss. What do people do without it? I think that inadvertently, everyone has faith. It doesn't necessarily mean faith in God, but simply hope. We hope that what we do in our lives is remembered as good and just, and we hope that whomever we have affected during our short earthly stay was positively so. Sprout inspires me to live the way we were meant to live. Her birth came at exactly the right time. During my grandfather's swift battle with cancer, she made everything else appear to make sense. Here was this beautiful new life, arriving at the end of another. The circle begins again.

I'm not saying that people can't have their own opinions and beliefs. I'm simply stating that I look at my child and see pieces of myself and my husband, and it completely reinforces everything I thought I believed prior to meeting her for the first time. Every child is a miracle, no matter how they are conceived and whose womb they come from. So if you have a child, pick them up and give them a hug and a kiss. Let them know you don't take them for granted. If you believe in God, don't be afraid to say it. If you don't, it's your loss.

Oh boy, I've done it again. Whoops. Long blog. I guess I didn't have writer's block after all! Questions are still welcome. Sprout is crabby after immunizations today. Time to start the silly mommy show. Tune in next time for...I have no idea!

"5 Green and Speckled Frogs" song on it's way Sprout...

xoxoxo

Mommy

But Mom...You Promised!

I said last time that I would write about my struggles with food. I'm not sure if this will be as novelistic as the previous posts, but maybe that's a good thing. Hopefully the blogs have been informative so far. I try to bring my experiences in motherhood to the table in an altruistic manner, but sometimes feel like I'm just blowing off steam (which I also am, I guess).

Here's my dilemma - I've always been a "tiny" person. I'm not very tall (5'6"...ish), and before I got pregnant, I weighed in at 118lbs. That was before the first pregnancy. I had a miscarriage before I had Sprout. I gained a bit of weight in the 12 weeks I was pregnant with the first one, so when I conceived 2 months after my D&C, I was still carrying extra luggage around (134lbs). The day I delivered, I weighed 176.4lbs (after I was told this, I just about passed out...). Sprout weighed 7lbs 6oz at birth, and I had a ton of retained fluid and my dual placentas adding to the weight. I came home almost 15lbs less! Whew, enough with the poundage. Anyways, I was never really concerned with my weight gain or postpartum loss. I figured that I had enough on my plate trying to adjust to being a new mother without putting pressure on myself to get into my pre-pregnancy jeans.

**Side note: I still don't fit into my pre-prego jeans. I don't think I ever will again. Even though I'm getting down in the weight department, my body shape has drastically changed. I now have hips, which I didn't have before, and I don't think they're going anywhere. Not that I'm complaining, I like my new body...with clothes on. The right clothes.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, food. Weight gain/loss. Okay, I know how crucial it is to take in enough calories when you're breastfeeding, but it's really difficult! Those of you with children will be able to relate, I'm sure. Baby goes through growth spurts almost constantly, it seems, for the first six weeks, and needs to be nursed every 1.5 - 3 hours. Factor in basic housework (dishes, laundry, floors, bathrooms, vacuuming, etc.), diaper changes, naps, showering (usually the last thing to happen), keeping up with financial tracking and bill paying, entertaining visitors (not there for you), and maintaining some sort of relationship with your spouse, and food kind of gets lost in the mix. I really tried, and the husband was a huge help. Before leaving for work, he'd bring me peanut butter toast or cereal so I'd at least have something to tide me over until I could find time to scarf down a snack or two. My diet for the first 2 - 3 months consisted of the following:

Breakfast - Cereal or Toast (two pieces)

Lunch - Nonexistent. Sometimes an apple or yogourt, if I was lucky.

Supper - Whatever husband made when he got home. Lots of soup. Didn't eat until 8pm.

Snacks - What snacks?

Eating an extra 500 - 600 calories? I don't think so. The weight began to fall off faster than I realized, and I continued to not take care of myself. I think my wake-up call came at my mom's group when we had a visit from a dietician, who I spoke to privately after the class. When I had to stop eating dairy, most of my quick meals (pasta with alfredo sauce, creamy soups, etc.) and snacks disappeared from the menu, leaving me wandering amidst a fridge and pantry both stocked with forbidden foods. My biggest issue was the pumping thing. I've already explained how time consuming it was/is, and I won't again. I'll just reiterate the fact that between pumping, feeding, sterilizing, freezing, washing, and baby, I barely had time to throw myself together and put clothes on in the morning. Food, unfortunately, was not the priority. The dietician informed me that I was not only depleting my precious calcium stores - I was also dropping "good" weight. After I stopped the dairy, I lost an additional six pounds , which brought me down to 128lbs - a whopping 48.4lbs less than the day I delivered. In four months. That is a ton of weight to lose in a short period of time, and I'm still feeling the effects.

I'm going to be the bitch who complains about losing weight postnatally, I guess. I am still struggling to make sure I get enough calories in during the day. I also have mom brain, and forget to take my supplements all of the time. I haven't started exercising yet, because I am afraid that I will break my poor, malnourished body! My saving grace? My husband, and friends. The girls and I get together now one day per week to mass cook meals for an entire week of dinners, which is amazing. I have asked my husband to constantly remind me to have a snack, or keep something to eat with me in my purse or diaper bag if I'm going to go out, and he's been pretty good about it. I just have to be more aware of myself and my health. It will benefit everyone in the long run, I'm sure. More energy to play with Sprout (and husband), less irritability, clearer thinking...they all sound appealing. The Squawkbox is squeaking in her room again...no time for blogging. It's long enough anyways. If anyone has any good dinner recipes with NO dairy in them, post them in the comments please! I'm desperate to find new go-to meals when we're in a pinch that don't involve milk and/or cheese. Thanks for indulging my need to blog about BMS (Busy Mommy Syndrome - my new eating disorder).

Hold your horses, Sprout.

xoxoxo

Mommy

Can you count the number of times I say 'poop' in the following blog...?

I was told a number of lies whilst still prego with Sprout. One of the biggest ones was about poop. In every book and blog, and on each message board I subscribed to, I was informed that my baby, if breastfed, would have poop that smelled remotely like buttermilk or buttered popcorn. A little sweet, but not like poop at all. Wow. I'm not sure what these people were eating, or what exactly they snorted in their teens, but Sprout's poop (from day one) smelled like...well, poop! There were even times that I thought I might gag a little because she literally reeked like a cute little rotten egg. Sulfur. Urp. After the meconium cleared out (which only took two days), she developed the usual nasty mustard-seed looking stuff. If you don't have a child and haven't ever been exposed to a breastfed baby's poop before, it goes through phases.

Phase One: Meconium. Sticky, tar-like black substance that oozes out and is notoriously difficult to wipe off a baby's chubby little rear. Tip - use Vaseline. Made my life waaaaay easier. I still use a tiny bit to protect Sprout's girlie bits, and she has yet to develop diaper rash (hooray!).

Phase Two: Yellow Mustard Seeds. The bowels of a breastfed infant don't quite come with an instruction manual, but as long as their poop suddenly turns to the exploding bursts of yellow seed-looking things, you're on the right track. I had experienced this once before with my nephew when he was a few weeks old and the health nurse came out to the house to weigh him. My sister stripped him down to his diaper, and was asked to have him fully in the buff as to get an accurate measurement of his weight. She obliged, and while changing him said something along the lines of "I hope he doesn't poop on the scale!". Poop on the scale, he did not. Instead, as she was carrying him over to the scale from the travel bed, he proceeded to explode all over her living room rug. I had to laugh. I ended up cleaning it while they finished their visit. If you have any children, I'm sure you'll remember this phase with some sort of hilarious story about how your baby sprayed seedy poop all over yourself, your spouse, your furniture, or even your pet. With Sprout, it was always me who got the bum-hose attack. Thanks, miss. I'll remind you of this at your future nuptials.

Here's where things get a little off-kilter. After the seedy poop, breastfed infants are supposed to shift to a new phase: yellow, runny, almost diarrhea-ish (gross - believe me, I know), also-exploding poop. Sprout had this for a little while, but not for long. Her poop changed at some point, and although I haven't exactly pinpointed when, I'm sure it was when I started being able to time-manage a little more and get in more food/snacks during the day. Being a breastfeeding mother, I wanted to ensure that Sprout was getting enough nutrients, and that I was also getting up to my crazy expected caloric intake. If you are nursing a baby, you are supposed to take in an extra 500-600 calories per day. I laughed so hard when my family physician told me that at our 3 week checkup. When you're trying to breastfeed a non-compliant baby every 1.5-2 hours, when the heck are you supposed to eat?? I finally got a bit of a handle on the sustenance thing for a while, and because of the calorie requirement (and my worry of depleting my own calcium stores), I upped my dairy intake. I am a big milk drinker. I love all kinds of dairy, especially the not-so-good for you things (butter, ice cream, cheese, etc.). I don't think I am truly lactose intolerant, but my IBS definitely does better when I drink Lactaid milk, so that's what I was consuming at the time. Sprout started developing some strange symptoms that seemed to increase almost daily for about 6-8 weeks. She got a rash, mostly on her face, scalp, and neck, that always got worse within an hour of feeding her. It was a red, pinprick-type rash that everyone always told me was "just heat rash or baby acne". I'm a first-time mother, so I just thought I'd run with that and forget about it. The next symptom that showed up was an increase in the amount that Sprout would spit up after eating. It was gross. Almost enough to be classified as vomit. The last symptom, which had already been around but hadn't been connected to the others, was her poop. Normally, a breastfed baby will start out pooping several times per day. Sprout had poop in her diaper every time we changed it. Until we found out what was wrong, I just thought it was totally normal for her to have pooped a little every couple of hours. And like I mentioned earlier, it wasn't the consistency or colour it was supposed to be. It was darker, brown-ish, and full of mucous. What wasn't mucous was pure liquid. It soaked into her diapers like urine. Plus, she always cried when she had to poop. The family physician, at first, just said that some babies don't like the feeling of having to defecate. It's something new that they've never had to do before, and it takes a while to learn exactly what they are doing, which made sense to me. As the days and weeks went on, the symptoms got worse, until she started having blood in her stool. It began as black and dark red flecks, and quickly moved to bright red streaks and puddles in her diaper. We took her into the family physician right away, and she told us it was most likely a cow's milk protein allergy.

Most everything that you eat as a breastfeeding mother is broken down to the point where even a child that may be allergic to peanuts later in life will not sport a single hive if their mother eats a peanut butter cookie and then nurses them. I thought that milk protein meant lactose (even though lactose is a sugar, not a protein...duh), so even though I was told to cut out dairy, I still had the occasional piece of cheese, and ate yogourt daily, which are both lower in lactose than regular milk. Lessening the amount of dairy I ate seemed to make a bit of difference in Sprout. Her rash was still there, but better; she spit up less often, but still did; but her poop never seemed to get better. In fact, it got even worse. She began having what we affectionally called "cappuccino foam" poops. We'd go to change her diaper, and she would poop mid-change (that's always fun) and it would come out like brown cappuccino foam, with chunks of mucous and red blood. I called the family physician back, but they informed me that I wouldn't be able to bring in Sprout for a week and a half. A baby. With bloody poop. I was livid. So I took her to the local walk-in clinic and was referred to a pediatrician. Ped-Doc got me in within a week.

At her appointment, I was given way more information about what a cow's milk protein allergy is, and how Ped-Doc was absolutely 100% positive that's what she had. Cow's milk protein is notoriously difficult to digest. Even an adult's mature digestive system has a difficult time. It is also one of the things that doesn't get broken down as much in breastmilk. Though the allergy is rare, it is not as unheard of as congenital lactose intolerance (galactosemia) or other digestive disorders. Ped-Doc went through a very thorough history of Sprout's symptoms, and after examining her and viewing a sample of her rash, and her poop, told me that I had to lay off the dairy. Completely. No more yogourt or cheese...or ice cream...or butter. At all. Not a hard thing to do when it comes to the health of your child, but apparently hard for others to understand. There is a blood test available for further investigation of milk protein allergies; however, it has been proven to be very inaccurate in children under the age of two. Actual allergy scratch-testing is also not done under the age of two due to inaccuracy. The good news about all this: Sprout will most likely, as 75-80% of kids do, grow out of this allergy between the ages of two and three. It will be a matter of exposing her to dairy products and seeing how she does with them, starting at around 9 months of age.

The hardest part for me is that I have lost my source of good fat and extra calories. Oh yeah, and calcium. Since I have stopped eating dairy altogether, I have lost 6 pounds. As a new mom trying to get back into shape post-natally, you'd think I'd be jumping for joy, right? Wrong. Those 6 pounds were not of fat, they were of muscle mass. I could literally feel my body starting to protest and get sluggish after the first few weeks. I'm currently trying to supplement my diet with prenatal vitamins and calcium chews, and by eating more hard-boiled eggs (I hate eggs) and avocados for protein and calories, but it is really difficult. Gone are the days of having cereal for breakfast, yogourt as a snack, and cottage cheese with raspberries before bed. All of my go-to quick meal/snack options have been thwarted by my daughter and her picky body. I am looking forward to the day when I can stop pumping milk for her and start eating dairy again. Hence, I am working my ass off day in and day out trying to pump enough excess that I can stop sometime in the next 3-6 months.

There isn't really a lesson or moral of the story today. I just wanted to share Sprout's story about the allergy thing because I've been asked about it a lot. She is doing so much better now that I have stopped the dairy altogether. Her poop is completely normal - light brown/yellow-ish, a little thicker than it used to be, and she only goes every 3-5 days (kind of irregular...there will be a few days of break, and then once a day for a few days, and then another longer stretch). Funnily enough, as gross as her poop used to be with the foam, bubbles, mucous, and blood, my poor husband can hardly change her diaper without gagging, and he used to be totally fine! Maybe it's because it looks more like real poop now, I don't know. Either way, I'm not going to lie - I love watching him squirm! Sprout is up from her nap and currently babbling away to the monitor, getting more frustrated by the minute that nobody is there to listen to her chit-chat. I'm coming, love. Next blog will be about my struggles with food. I think. Unless I come up with something better. Anything will probably be better than poop.

Sorry, Sprout. On my way.

xoxoxo

Mommy

P.S. Counting the title, there are 27 'poops' in this blog. Oops, 28 now...

Why didn't anyone tell me...

Today's blog is brought to you by the word 'Why'. Why, you ask? (Oh, I'm so witty, I know...) For lack of a better topic to write about, I thought I would share my personal thoughts on the things that I wish someone had told me about pregnancy and motherhood in general before I got pregnant. I'll try to keep it to 10...I really will.

1. The Widening of the Hips

Let me take a moment to describe to you exactly what happened from the moment of conception to the time I was 8 weeks along in my pregnancy. If you have been reading my other posts, you will already know that I absolutely knew very early on that I was pregnant. I had all of the classic symptoms (minus the morning sickness), and was expecting to have to purchase maternity clothes by around 5 months. To give you an idea of what I was basing this crazy notion on, my sister was able to walk out of the hospital three days after a Caesarean section wearing her pre-pregnancy jeans. We also put her wedding dress (purchased pre-prego) on her when she was 4 months along. No problem. My mom hardly gained any weight when she was pregnant with both me and my sister, and even had trouble trying to pack on the pounds during her pregnancy with my little brother, which she was advised to do. Me, on the other hand...apparently the fact that I lacked hips in the first place was a huge factor in what happened to my body those first two months. All of a sudden, I had garish, deep fuschia gouges all across my lower back, inner thighs, and ass. Not only that, but I couldn't fit into any of my pants! So much for trying to wear my regular clothes for the majority of the pregnancy. I tried so hard to keep from buying maternity clothes (which I knew I would just grow out of...) that I actually ended up bending over - at home, thankfully - and ripping the seat out of two pairs of pants!! At 8 weeks post-conception, I already had horrific stretch marks, and had to ditch my jeans for maternity jeans...which brings me to the second point...

2. Maternity Pants - Why Don't We Wear Them ALL The Time?!

If someone had told me how unbelievably comfortable maternity pants would be, I would have bought at least one pair to wear on "fat days" (around the time of my period) and at Christmas and Thanksgiving so I could stuff myself without it showing. After being forced into them at 8 weeks, I wondered why all pants weren't manufactured this way. Let me explain. Maternity pants, even the denim, are really stretchy. We're talking almost spandex. Very forgiving. Not spandex like Lululemon pants on someone who shouldn't be wearing them, just...comfortable. They have give in all the right places, and don't threaten to split when you bend down to pick something up off the floor. Another thing they don't do when you bend over - NO plumber's crack!!!! That beautiful tummy panel wraps all the way around the waistline of the jeans, and eradicates all of those public panty-viewing sessions. Nobody wants to see that, especially on a woman who is prego...like, mego prego. So maternity pants...another plus is that you can wear them after you have your baby, and not feel like you're constantly in sweats until your pre-pregnancy jeans fit again (or don't, in my case). The maternity clothes they sell now are pretty stylish, and there are a ton of options for wardrobe pieces. For example, I bought a ton of dresses for the summer when I was in my second trimester that I could probably still wear this year without looking like I'm trying to hide my jelly belly. Those of you who don't own a pair of maternity jeans - buy one. You won't regret the money spent, and you will be happy to have something you can wear when you're feeling a little...bloated...over the holiday season, or during the crimson tide.

3. Pee, Pee, and More Pee (or "Stay Away if You're Squeamish")

I had been told by a friend that urinary incontinence was very common post-delivery due to stretching and damage to the internal portions of your bladder, ureters, urethra, etc. What they failed to tell me was that you can have leaking during your pregnancy. I went to the doctor on three separate occasions thinking that I was leaking fluid. I was, just not amniotic. It was urine. You'd think that if you were leaking pee everywhere that you'd recognize the smell, right? Wrong. When you're pregnant, your urine has a totally different smell. That, and the horrid amount of discharge present makes for a difficult assessment of the puddle in your underwear. My obstetrician told me that amniotic fluid smells somewhat like maple syrup. When I was actually leaking amniotic fluid, it smelled nothing like maple syrup. I didn't think it smelled like anything. I was pretty sure it was pee, actually. I had a wicked cold, and was coughing hard enough that I was sure Sprout's head would just fall out. Every time I coughed during those last fateful days of my pregnancy, I felt like I was losing a little fluid. How was I supposed to know? I was huge, and pretty certain that I couldn't break my own water by coughing. After I delivered Sprout, I was super concerned about having incontinence. I've been fine, and it's been over four months. Thank goodness.

4. Oh, Crap. Literally.

That whole thing about pooping on the table during delivery? Not going to lie, definitely happened. And those people who told me "Oh, you won't even notice it if you do!" were total liars. I knew exactly what was happening, and believe me - having your knees up to your ears and being wide open to the world down there with a big spotlight shining on your girlie bits is awkward enough without the presence of shit. I'm not going to give explicit details about it, but it was really gross. And mortifying to have the nurses cleaning you and the table up pretty much after every push. For an hour. I'm just glad that I didn't invite anyone else into the room during my delivery. My husband, who was incredible throughout the whole thing, claims not to have seen (or smelled...) any such poop, though he was up by my side holding my leg and coaching me through my contractions. Maybe he is just lying about it, but either way it made me feel a lot better afterwards. Pushing a baby out in front of your spouse is one thing, but pushing out...well, you catch my drift, I'm sure.

5. Opt For The Epidural

Nobody ever told me that an epidural might not work, or that there was such a thing as not being a good candidate for one. Already went over this story, so I won't elaborate, but let me just say - not being able to have an epidural during labour "the next time"...pretty much makes me not ever want to have a "next time".

6. Stretch Mark Cream

IT. DOESN'T. WORK. If you're going to get them, you're going to get them. Apparently, there are products on the market that help to fade stretch marks after the fact. I used Bio- Oil, body butter, tummy butter, stretch mark oil, stretch mark cream, etc. Nothing helped. I still ended up with them everywhere. When I asked my obstetrician, she laughed at me. She said that nothing you put on your skin will stop them, but you will have a very soft belly and hips! She was right, unfortunately, as she always was.

7. Breast Is Best

I thought babies came out with some sort of magical manual when it comes to breastfeeding. I'd know when to do it and how to do it, and so would she. Again, not going to elaborate too much, but I was completely unprepared for how difficult it actually was.

8. See..Madonna....Seemadonna...Simmadonna...Simmadownna...Simmerdownnow...

Hormones. Bah. If you had PMS before, just wait until you have had a baby. Or maybe you already have. If so, I'm sure you can relate! Nothing compares to the newfound patience you will have for your child, or it didn't for me, anyways. And likewise, nothing compares to the absolute impatience you will have for your spouse, siblings, parents, in-laws, etc. If you're like me (and most moms I have talked to are), nobody will do things right for the first little while. You will hate your husband (or wife) with a passion, and will not try to hide it. Every little thing will set you off to the point where you might just feel like throwing, say...an apple...at said spouse. Not joking. There was a big applesauce splat on the wall behind the bedroom door for a few days. I don't know if it was actual postpartum depression. Could have been, but it's definitely much better now. I think that the stress of breastfeeding/pumping, having a 7 month old, 35 pound puppy, lack of sleep, second dog, relationship stresses in general, and the hormonal shifts that seem to constantly occur in the first few months post-natally all just piled on top of me until I seemed to break. My mom and sister actually had to come in and do damage control. That was the day we decided the puppy had to go. We loved her, but it was way too much for me to handle. Picture this: I'm in my housecoat pumping (I have a handsfree pump), Sprout is in her swing (fairly unhappy), and I've let the dogs outside. The doorbell rings, and it's a neighbour informing me frantically that my dog has scaled the fence and is out of the yard. Cut to me, in housecoat with yesterday's makeup on and my hair in pigtails, running down the street after my dog in my husband's shoes with my pump still going strong. I'm pretty sure the only thing that wasn't quite "white trash" enough was the lack of cigarette hanging out of the corner of my mouth, and a set of pink foam curlers in my hair. The dog got sent to the humane society, where she was adopted out in less than a month. Hardest decision we've had to make, but one of the best ones since Sprout was born. Our house is much more peaceful now.

9. How Do You Spell Baby? D-I-V-O-R-C-E!

Want to know the ultimate test for a relationship? Have a child together. Bringing a baby into your lives will either make or break your marriage. I have much more respect now for those couples whose marriages did not make it through the first year of their child's life, because I can absolutely see how easy it would seem to walk away. I'm pretty sure I've told my husband I want a divorce at least four times in the past four months, and been very serious about it. I actually contemplated calling my lawyer a few times, just to see what my options were. I'm not saying it's like this for everyone, I just wish someone had told me how difficult it would be. One thing I will say about the change is that as more time goes on, the more positive the change in our relationship becomes. We have grown together through this experience instead of apart, and have fallen more in love with each other because of our shared love for Sprout. It really could have gone either way, but I am so fortunate to have such a supportive spouse, and one who will put up with the case of the crazies I seem to get every so often. And likewise, he is lucky I don't make him sleep on the concrete floor in the basement when he's being a total asshole (which, according to him, never happens). Anyways, just expect change. That's all I'm saying. It takes a while, but you will appreciate it more and more as your child grows and life continues to change.

10. Love...love love love love love.

From the time I was told I was having a girl, I knew I was going to love my daughter. People had mentioned to me the possibility of not feeling connected to my child right off the bat, and how that was totally normal. Many mothers don't really bond with their babies or feel love for them immediately. There are some who even say that they resent their children for the first few months. I never had that issue. Luckily, I had (and still have) such an amazingly calm and easy child. Other than the breastfeeding issues, Sprout was a dream baby. The first couple of months were normal, feeding every 90 minutes to two hours, lots of burping, diaper changes, no long stretches of sleep, etc., but I didn't expect anything different. She barely cried. I know how extremely fortunate I was/am, and I still don't take the good days/nights for granted. Nothing will ever compare to the way that she looks into my eyes with the absolute purest love. She melts my heart, and even when she is crabby and whining, I can't help but smile at her. I am in awe of my daughter every single minute since she left my womb, and I think I will be for the rest of my life. The thought of how she came into this world still boggles my mind. Human reproduction is a miracle in itself. All of the factors that have to come together to create new life...it's just incredible. If anyone had told me that I could love Sprout as much as I do, I simply wouldn't have believed them. I didn't think this kind of love existed.

So there you have it. 10 things. I kept my promise today, although this is still a long post (sorry). I love you, Sprout. And husband. And dog. Most of all, I love my new life as a mommy. Good night, and sweet dreams my Sprout. Have a good "Daddy" day tomorrow. As much as I hate going to work, it's all to make a better life for you.

xoxoxo

Mommy

Breastfeeding: A Manual for Munchers

Let's have a quick (or not so quick...) chat about breastfeeding, shall we? I wanted to initiate feeding Sprout within the first 30 minutes after delivery, and was lucky enough to do so within about 15 minutes. The experts say that attempting a feeding in the 30 minute post-delivery window aids in the little critter developing a good latch, and helps with milk production. I was so nervous about what it would feel like, and constantly pondered whether or not it would be weird to have a teeny set of jaws clamped firmly around my nipple(s). Not weird at all, thankfully. The strangest part was the nurses who "helped" initiate that first feeding. Here's a tidbit: they drag the baby around in your arms to position him/her correctly, and then grab your breast and shove it into their mouth (the baby, not the nurse...sheesh, mind out of the gutter, people). Baby either latches or doesn't, and they re-attempt, or they don't. Formula feeding was out of the question for me. I had smelled the stuff, and wouldn't feed it to my dog with a good conscience. Or so I thought. Anyways, Sprout apparently had what looked to be a good latch, and despite what I had been told in prenatal classes, the nurses informed me that it would be "uncomfortable" for the first few weeks.

I handled it okay the first couple of days...and the first couple of weeks...and then I had some pretty bad issues. I got plugged ducts in both breasts, and frantically spent 24 hours feeding Sprout every 2 hours (which she was doing anyways) and doing vigorous massage with heat packs on between feedings. I had cracks on both nipples and ended up with thrush. Sprout continued her "perfect" latch, and by 3-4 weeks postpartum, I couldn't even feed her with a nipple shield without thrashing my legs around every time she nursed (not only during latch - the whole feeding). My nipples were beginning to turn white, and my milk supply was getting lower. I had three different nurses come visit me at the house (one lactation consultant), and all gave me good advice, it just didn't change anything. Certain positions made it a little more bearable, but all in all, it didn't get any better and the damage continued. I went to see my family physician, and she referred me out to a lactation consultant at the public health unit. "Awesome," I thought, "someone who will figure this out for me!"

My first visit with the consultant (let's call her...Lacto Lady) pretty much resulted in the same advice I had already been given, and my hopes for a miracle fix went spiralling down the drain. Lacto Lady said that Sprout looked to be latching correctly, although she did notice that she was sure biting down a lot, and very firmly. I just about said "Um...HELLO?! She's not only biting, she's clamping down almost constantly between sucks, clicking her tongue to the top of her mouth (imagine how that feels over and over), and pulling back whilst biting my nipple!" But...I didn't. I just went along with the advice, said that I'd try everything she suggested (which I did), and come back the following week. The second visit consisted of Lacto Lady marvelling at the damage that Sprout was continuing to do to my battered nipples, and her shrugging her shoulders and telling me "Oh well, some babies just don't take to breastfeeding." I was absolutely crushed.

I didn't want that to be the end of me feeding Sprout. As painful as it was, I always looked forward to the sweet little look on her face while she sucked (and bit), and her little kitten paws kneading my breast on either side of her face. So cute. Plus, as a mother, you have a few jobs that are purely yours. One is to provide life-sustaining milk for your child. My supply was still dwindling, and I was having to supplement Sprout with an ounce of formula every once in a while (she has only ever had 7 oz up to this point). I felt like a failure. Every attempt at feeding resulted in tears, usually for both of us. Combine that with postnatal hormones, a bit of the baby blues, and a grandfather with end-stage lung cancer in palliative care...I was a bit of a basket case for a while. I was determined to not give up, so at 6 weeks, I was referred to see the breastfeeding specialist (Doctor, not lactation consultant...let's call her Dr. Milk) at the hospital in E. I had such high hopes, because I had heard that she really did work miracles with moms having feeding issues!

I literally skipped across the parking lot with Sprout in her stroller to my first appointment with Dr. Milk. My heart was racing with the excitement of possibly retaining that precious bond with my daughter. I was examined by two interns before Dr. Milk came into the room, and both said that they had seen severe cases like mine, and thought there was a great chance of turning things around! Yippee! The examination continued of both myself and Sprout, and I was even told at one point that I had "nice hardware" - a comment that forced me to stifle a ridiculously violent case of the giggles. After the thorough look-over, I latched on my little Sprout and she began to chomp away. Various attempts at repositioning her did nothing to assuage my noticeable discomfort, and even the nipple shield at this point did not even slow the razor blades that continuously sliced through my breasts. Dr. Milk's response to this? "Hmmm...she really clamps down, hey?" Ummm, yes. She came to the conclusion that because of all of the compression (you could see the line from where she flattened my nipple by biting when she unlatched), and because my nipples had turned completely white (not thrush, just the colour of the actual skin itself), Sprout had actually severely damaged the blood vessels in my breasts and nipples. And when I say damaged, they were white because she cut off my blood supply. I was given a few exercises to do, but in the meantime, Dr. Milk suggested that I buy a medical grade pump to maintain my milk supply and possibly aid in healing my poor dairy cows. "No pacifiers, and try not to give her a bottle more than once or twice per day. It may take up to three weeks to get going again," she said. I was supposed to go back and see her twice in that period, and did. To no avail. The damage was so beyond fixable while I was still nursing her that by the third visit, she sat me down and told me it was time to stop. If I was able to keep up my milk supply and bottle feed Sprout breastmilk, that was good enough. Good enough for whom, I wondered. The thought of giving up, and possibly not being able to provide enough milk to feed my little Sprout absolutely broke my heart, and though I continued to try (and still do, occasionally...) and nurse once in a while, I gradually transitioned to solely pumping milk for her by the time she was 12 weeks.

And that brings me to pumping. Exclusive pumpers usually do not last much beyond the 12-15 week mark, in terms of milk production - and sanity! Let me put it this way - nobody would ever choose to pump milk for their child full-time. It is more work than breastfeeding and formula feeding combined. To keep up my supply, I have to pump for 30 minutes every 2-4 hours during the day, and every 6 hours overnight to make sure I don't end up with plugged ducts or mastitis. On top of that, I have to bottle feed my child on demand, which is usually also between every 2-4 hours during the day, and lately, she has been waking up for a nighttime feeding (she was sleeping through the night for a few solid weeks). Then, I have to wash and sterilize all of my pump parts, bottles, nipples, etc. and separate the milk into either bags for the deep freeze or bottles for the day. In between all of that, I have to make time to play with my Sprout, eat (blog to follow regarding the eating disorder that is known as BMS - Busy Mommy Syndrome), do the housework, make supper, and get myself ready for work three times per week**. Rinse, and repeat. We used to have two dogs. Now we have one. Catch my drift?

**Side note: I am a registered massage therapist and infant massage educator. I take 7 clients per week in the evenings and on Saturdays while my husband watches the Sprout. So add working, and having to pump at work into the mix.

I am so sick and tired of people saying that I brag about how much milk I have stored in the freezer (currently up to 115 four-ounce bags). I have worked my ass off for the past four months to feed my child and keep my milk supply up, and I have been fortunate enough to do so. Not only that, I am proud of the fact that I have been able to continue solely feeding her breastmilk. That is the one thing I have left to hold on to after my hopes of breastfeeding Sprout were shattered. Do I have a fairly compliant child? Most of the time, yes, but that does not mean that she is perky and ready to play every minute of every day. She is, remember, a baby. Just like the rest of us, she has her crabby days and nights (usually 2-3 per week). I look at all of the other moms that I know that can breastfeed, and my heart breaks whenever I have to stuff my engorged breasts into those fucking silicone tubes and then feed Sprout a bottle. Do I resent those of you who are currently breastfeeding? If I'm being honest, maybe a little. I even envy those who can just afford to formula feed, because it would make life a hell of a lot easier. Mostly, though, it is just envy, not resentment. What I am honestly getting tired of though is people saying how funny they think it is when I finally admit to needing a day of rest. For the past four months, I have been a very active Mommy. I cart Sprout around everywhere with me. We go to the mall, run errands, go to classes, we swim, take the dog for walks, and visit friends and family. In between all of that, I still have to find time to pump, whether it is in the vehicle or at someone else's house, and eat, which has been an issue (Sprout has a Cow's milk protein allergy...more on that later). I guess what I am trying to say is that although I love my life with my little girl, and wouldn't trade the time I do get to spend with her, I would give anything to be able to spend more time with her, breastfeeding.

So the next time anyone wants to try and tell me how easy my life must be because I am pumping, bottle feeding, and I have a good baby (which I do, I know how fortunate I am that she is as well-behaved as she is), or complain about me being able to pump as much milk as I do, I'm pretty sure I might just punch them square in the face. Did I try hard enough to continue breastfeeding? Did I make enough of an effort? Sometimes I doubt myself, but I remember what the first nurse said that saw the damage Sprout had done: "If I were you, I would have already quit. I don't know how you are still doing it and not losing your mind." That was at three weeks. Everyone usually has a difficult time with breastfeeding. Babies don't magically come out of the womb knowing exactly what to do. We are all built differently, and so are they. It is a learning experience for everyone. I am so incredibly grateful for the ability to pump enough milk to feed my child, and to have extra feedings to store for a time when I can hopefully stop pumping. All I want to say is that those of you who can breastfeed should think twice before complaining about it - especially in front of those who are not able. That, and I am damn proud of the milk I have been able to produce for Sprout. If someone wants to call that out as me having an ego, go for it. I dare you. Off to the mystical milking machine...everything I do is always for you, Sprout, out of pure love.

xoxoxo

Mommy

Flashback to day three...oh, the horrors!

The first night and day after delivering a baby is a blur. A happy, emotional, frustrating blur. Breastfeeding is a strange and unnatural feeling, no matter what your expectations were beforehand. Nothing will prepare you for the amount of blood loss, although mine would have been considered hemorrhaging if I hadn't had a dual placenta. I guess I should explain that a little more (Roma, this one's for you). When my placenta was delivered, there were actually two of them attached to one amniotic sac, with the umbilical cord running down the centre of the sac and not actually attached to either placenta. Contrary to popular belief, this does not mean that I was carrying twins at any point. To my gross excitement, it was even more rare! My obstetrician delivered the monstrosity and exclaimed "Cool! Dual placenta!! Check it out!" and proceeded to bring it over for me to examine (hooray for a doctor knowing you that well). If I had only grown one placenta with the placement of the cord the same, Sprout would have been a low birthweight baby. The nutrients would have had to diffuse across the membrane over to the cord instead of running directly into it, had it been attached. Luckily for her, two placentas grew separately on either side of the cord, allowing twice the nutrients to march across and dive into my little pork chop. My placenta was the star of the hospital for 24 hours, put on display for all nurses, students, and doctors to fawn over. I was extremely proud. Me, the biology nerd, producing some medical spectacle for everyone to learn from! So there was the breastfeeding thing, the bleeding thing, the lack of sleeping thing...what else...oh, right. The puffy thing. I was so swollen the day I went in to be induced, I literally didn't recognize myself. The pictures of the day I delivered her look nothing like "me". I could leave entire hand prints in my lower legs, especially around my ankles and feet. Uggggggghhhhh, my feet! They were horrible. They fell asleep all the time because of all the extra pressure from the fluid, and my toes looked like they were about to get swallowed by the dome precariously wobbling above them. You think that they're going to go down the day after you deliver. Everyone says the swelling doesn't last, and that you pee out all the extra fluid you've been hauling around. Well, in my case, it seemed to all run down my legs and pool even more into my feet. Think you've seen a set of cankles before? Not until you've seen photos of my postpartum nightmare.

We got discharged and went home by 10:30 a.m. the day after I delivered Sprout (not even a full 24 hours...they tried to kick me out at 9 a.m.). We got her dressed (and took a bazillion pictures of her first outfit) and my husband chuckled constantly as I fumbled and swore at my "going home" outfit that I had bought for myself. Apparently my approximation of how much smaller I would get the day after popping her out was a bit of an overestimate. On the way to the hospital, I wore a set of sand-coloured UGG cardi boots - the cute ones that fold down with the big brown buttons on the sides - and figured they'd fit even better after I got rid of all that swelling the day after delivery. WRONG. Dear husband laughed even harder as he had to come over and hold my boots while I tried to jam my already-size-nine-before-swelling clompers into them. I just about gave up, and was pretty close to tears when they finally went on. Poor feet. When we got home, and I took the boots off, I had imprints from each row of knit wool neatly pressed into the tops and side of each foot for over four hours. All in all, the swelling lasted about two weeks, and continued to go down until I could finally fit in my "cute" shoes when Sprout hit the 6 week mark. Nobody told me it would last that long.

So day two hits, and it's awesome. I'm totally loving being a mommy. Sprout is eating like a champ (although the pain I'm feeling will prove to be an issue...more on breastfeeding to come), and I've never been more excited to see something pee and poop as much as she did in the first few days! She loves her bath, likes to snuggle, is warm and smells good, and barely cries! Actually, she still didn't cry much until she hit the 6-8 week mark, and even then it was more of a temper issue. Still is. Back to day two, though. The health nurse comes out to the house and does the heel stick metabolic screen test, and is an absolute moron. She tells me to hold Sprout tightly against my chest - not her favourite position - and not to let her wiggle too much while she squeezes the blood out of her teeny little heel. That goes over like a lead balloon. Sprout starts howling harder than we've ever heard her, and the idiot nurse lances her heel so deeply that there are issues stopping the blood flow afterwards. And apparently the educated one can't even construct a band-aid for Sprout's heel. We were not impressed.

**Side note: Sprout did have a bit of jaundice, nothing major, and had to have another blood test two days later. The nurse who came out for that one suggested a miracle option: breastfeed while doing the blood test. Case in point, test was done, Sprout didn't make a sound. Awesome nurse = 1; Moron nurse = 0.

Day Three. Hell day. Or night. I don't even remember quite when it started going downhill. I was a little more than sleep deprived by the third night, and Sprout had started her breastfeeding issues (separate blog on breastfeeding to come). I think it was around 7 or 8 p.m. that things began to fall apart in a BIG way. Did you know that you can laugh and cry back and forth for almost ten hours straight? Welcome to hormoneville. My poor husband. As if the labour and delivery experience wasn't stressful enough, we had just spent the past two days absolutely in love with each other and marvelling at how easy this whole parent thing is, and now he was standing in the doorway of the ensuite gaping at me as I bawled on the phone at 3 a.m. to a nurse on Health Link. "I - sob - don't - sob - know - sob - what - sob - I'm - sob....DOING! Sob sob sob sob..." Not the first time (or the last) that they've gotten that phone call before. Making me feel so much better about my situation, the nurse said "It's day three, honey, everyone crashes on day three. It's inevitable, you can't run on adrenaline forever." Sigh. Thank you, nurse. Another non-idiot to add to the tally. We made it through the night, obviously, and although there were more issues later on with the breastfeeding thing, we were back on track the next morning.

Looking back, I wish I could have held onto those first days. All of it, the emotions, the memories, the first bath, diaper change, the little outfits, hats, blankets; setting up the bassinette, the monitor, the swing, the change station. Everything changes so quickly. Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't trade the 4-month-old smiles, giggles, and eyebrow raises for anything right now, but they do grow fast, and I think every mother wants to hold onto their child being a baby for as long as they can. I think my next blog will be about breastfeeding. Hold onto your hats, people, it's going to be a wild ride. For now, cuddle your baby if you've got one. If not, cuddle your spouse. If no spouse, find a pet or a blanket to cuddle. Everyone needs some love, and everybody needs to be held. It's in our human nature. Coming to cuddle you now, Sprout.

xoxoxo Mommy

Wherefore art thou, pregnancy?

Where do I even begin? I look back at the past year, and I can't believe that I am already here. Whoops, clarification: here = staring down at my now four month-old daughter snoozing away in her crib. Some days I feel like it's taken forever, but most leave me gasping for breath while I watch her perform whatever new trick she has learned. They grow so quickly, and learn so much in so little time.

Back to where this all started...don't worry, I'm not going to describe anything for you. Obviously, baby was conceived how most babies are conceived, and I'll leave it at that. For privacy issues, I will refer to said baby as "Sprout" from now on. So Sprout began growing, and I was very aware of that fact from quite early on. At about three weeks post-conception, I woke up at 2 a.m. with the urgent need to pee. PREGNANT. I knew it. The next morning, I rushed out to the drugstore and bought four pregnancy tests (because you just have to be that sure). I could barely contain my excitement (and my first morning pee, which I specifically - and painfully - held onto for the test). I got home, ripped open the first box, and three minutes later...nothing. Negative. I was certain though, so I took a second one. That single line could have very well been a knife jabbing into my seemingly empty uterus. Completely disheartened, I called my family physician and made an appointment, just in case I felt the same way the next day.

2 a.m. - awake to pee, yet again! As I sat in the velvety black of the bathroom with the moonlight shining through onto the wall, I wondered - is it just wishful thinking? I only miscarried three months ago (a story that may or may not be told at some point), so it could very well be my overactive imagination tricking my body into a hysterical pregnancy. Oh, the family physician...so blunt and brutally honest. Pee test was negative at the office, so she sent me for a blood test (reluctantly) because I told her that I was 100% sure I was pregnant. The tests were just wrong. The first blood test came back negative, but my HcG levels (human chorionic gonadotropin - what all blood and urine pregnancy tests look for) weren't zero, so they sent me back two days later. The waiting just about killed me, honestly. And then...

PREGNANT! I was so excited! I called my obstetrician right away, and she put me on a regimen of 12 weeks of Prometrium (progesterone supplement to make my womb "sticky" - think that game where the human velcro suit dude trampolines onto a giant velcro wall) and baby Aspirin up to 34 weeks (prevent those nasty blood clots). Long story short, I got through the first 12 weeks without much of a hitch. No morning sickness, other than weeks 9-10 (only vomited twice...once was hot dogs...big mistake), but stretch marks and giant hips that forced me begrudgingly into maternity pants at 8 weeks.

**Side note: Wow, blogging has made me realize the amount of ellipses and parentheses I use on a regular basis. Ah well. Call it a character trait that may or may not separate my extra-special blog from that of others.

The weeks and months went on, and luckily I hit my second trimester in May/June, which made summer so much more enjoyable! Although I couldn't sit and sunbathe as much as I wanted to, I hate winter with the fury of the depths of hell, and I don't think I could have stopped myself from jumping off even a proverbial bridge if I had to be pregnant in -20 degree weather. I don't really want to go into details about it, but I had to go off on modified rest (meaning I could get up, shower, make meals, let the dog out, and then hang out on the couch all day) at 25 weeks due to a massive amount of muscle separation and tearing down the centre of my abdomen and on either side along my inner ribcage. Ouch. It was awful. The bigger I got, the more I tore, which led to more pain. Plus, I wasn't allowed to do much, so I found a new hobby - FOOD. Mmm...summer was awesome. I learned how to barbecue from watching Food Network, and made up some pretty awesome recipes (I'll blog some of those later...proscuitto wrapped apple slices on top of Rickard's White beer-barbecue sauce marinated pork chops...).

Fall rolled in, and the anticipation of meeting this little Sprout who was now taking up so much space in my once 28 inch ribcage was building daily. Once I began seeing my obstetrician weekly, I awaited the words "any day now" with bated breath. Labour began extremely slowly on a Thursday afternoon, with contractions very mild and erratic. By the evening, I figured I should get checked out "just in case" little Sprout was about to make some sort of an appearance. 2cm dilated, 50% effaced. Irregular contractions. Pre-labour. Boo hiss. I had a cold at the time, and was coughing forcefully enough that I was pretty sure I was leaking some kind of fluid, just not amniotic. I didn't mention it to the nurse. Should have. By Sunday morning, nothing had changed, so I went back. Again, I didn't mention the fluid. I figured that if nothing else, I'd have the OB check it out on Tuesday at my regularly scheduled checkup.

Tuesday morning. Doctor's office. I told dear husband that he should not drive his 1.5 hour trek out to his work site on the off chance that Sprout would be born today. He thought that was a ridiculous idea, but indulged his now scarily puffy and large pregnant wife. Good thing. Because of the possible fluid leak for several days, I was told "We're expediting this baby's arrival. Go home and pack your bags, eat some lunch, and meet me at the hospital. You're getting induced. Today." Induction. To a pregnant woman, and one who had previously viewed an induced labour and delivery, that was the just about the scariest word someone could have uttered in reference to my own delivery. What was the scariest, you ask? Why, Caesarean, of course.

Again, no gory details. I was induced at 3:00p.m. on Tuesday, November 17th, 2009. Full labour, with contractions less than 1 minute apart, began by 7:30 p.m. First attempt at the epidural came at midnight of November 18th, 2009. Left side numb, right side comfortable enough that I thought I'd get some sleep. No such luck. 12:30 a.m., water broke. Thought I peed all over myself and the catheter fell out. Luckily it wasn't quite as embarrassing. Sprout's heart rate began decelerating after that, so I was put on oxygen and monitored for a few hours. Turns out the nurses were idiots and forgot to take out the Cervidil after I got my epidural, which caused the heart rate issues. Cervidil out, happy sprout. Not a happy mommy, however. The first epidural quit working at around 6 a.m., so another was inserted. That one numbed my lower legs. That's it. I could again feel the full-on back labour and contractions all the way from my chin to my knees, I swear. But my calves felt awesome. At 8:30 a.m., I was 4-5 cm dilated and 90% effaced. My daughter was born at 12:01 p.m. after one hour of pushing (I was pretty proud of myself) by a nurse named Petra, and a very scared young nursing student. The OB showed up to deliver my dual placenta (that's right, I was special enough that I had two) and check out the baby, and I was thrown headfirst into this deep dark ocean of motherhood.

What. The. Hell. Do. I. Do. Now.

As if the birth/labour experience isn't weird enough anyways, afterwards you have so many people poking and prodding you, grabbing your boob and shoving it in your child's mouth to "help you get started with breastfeeding", telling you that you "need to pee", etc. etc. I honestly don't even really remember much of that evening, or the next day. The one thing that I can say about the whole thing is that I was absolutely shocked at how fine my V felt shortly after delivering my 7lb 6oz, 18.5" child. I was told for months prior to "freeze maxi pads...you'll need them" or "you won't be able to sit for weeks" or "the recovery is the worst part - worse than the actual delivery itself". Honestly...I felt fine. I had three stitches from a small amount of tearing, so sitting forward on the couch didn't make me feel like doing a salsa with Sprout around the living room, but I didn't ever have to freeze anything. I think I took two Advil in the first 6 weeks, and that was mostly for headaches. Maybe it was the love for my child that worked like some kind of celestial novocaine and numbed my downstairs for the first 6 weeks. And speaking of which...

Nothing will prepare you for motherhood. The ups and downs, hormones and crazies, postpartum baby blues, divorcing your husband (more than once...per week)...it all goes away the second you look into your child's eyes and see the love that they have for you. I continually stare at my daughter in amazement, and wonder how the hell I got so lucky. The bad days are bad, but the good ones wash away the sleepless nights and difficulties that you encounter in the tumultuous first few days, weeks, and months. And with that, I leave you probably bored to death with my first BIG blog. The next ones will be shorter, that's a promise. As a child, I was always reprimanded for writing not-s0-short stories...and poems...and essays. I will do my very best not to overwhelm those of you reading. Good night, my Sprout. Sweet dreams.