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.