Postpartum Paranoia

I've mentioned it before but it bears repeating - I am a paranoid nutcase. This is not good considering that even the most reasonable, normally sane people turn into paranoid nutcases when they have a baby. So, in my case, I suppose this makes me doubly paranoid and doubly nutty.

I told you in an earlier post about my son's premature birth, and the circumstances surrounding his early arrival only solidified my belief that giving into my paranoia is a good thing. It was my paranoia that allowed the doctors to discover a problem with me that would otherwise have gone unnoticed and, let me tell you, getting that sort of positive reinforcement after a paranoid freak out moment only encouraged me to be triply paranoid after little man arrived. Add to that the fact that he spent 9 days in intensive care at the hospital before being sent home and you end up with the perfect storm of paranoia.

I really didn't want to be a paranoid mom. I try not to roll my eyes too noticeably when I hear other mothers speak of their constant fears that their little Timmy might trip on his shoelaces and plummet down a well belonging to the creepy serial killer from "The Silence of the Lambs" and that's why he's only allowed to wear footwear with Velcro now ... and other such nonsense ... But I do strongly believe that while a healthy amount of loving concern is natural, there's also a point where a mother's paranoia goes too, too far. And let me tell you - the first few days that little man was home from the hospital my level of paranoia sailed well past the "normal" line and soared straight out into crazyville.

The first thing that happened is that GAR and I bought a baby monitor. On the surface this doesn't sound overly cautious, but we bought a monitor designed for only the most paranoid of parents - the Angelcare system. It was recommended to us by many, many paranoid parents who told us that this monitor literally saved their baby's life. How? Well thanks to a special Angelcare movement detector hookup, this monitor sounds an alarm if your baby hasn't moved or breathed in 15 seconds. "What peace of mind this gives you!!!" every paranoid parent everywhere declared.

Ah yes, what peace of mind this alarm gave me when it went off 8 times in one night - blaring as I frantically ran to my baby's cradle in hysterics to see if he was still breathing. Peace of mind as I sobbed through days on end of not sleeping because I refused to put my baby down for even a second - convinced that if I did he really would stop breathing (as fortunate as I was to make it through childbirth and the weeks following without any feelings of postpartum depression - and trust me, GAR the counselor monitored me closely by asking me thinly veiled questions to assess my mental health - I still nearly went delirious from sleep deprivation and paranoia alone). Peace of mind as I checked my newborn back into the hospital to be hooked up to even more monitors for even more examinations (and more hours of not sleeping on my part as those alarms were also going off constantly, further convincing me that my baby was in peril). Peace of mind as the doctors laughed off our concerns by saying such gems as "First  time parents, eh?" (which I don't get ... Are you implying that if I had other kids I wouldn't bother getting this one checked out because, hey, I can afford to lose this one?) and "No one knows what causes SIDS. If he's going to die in his sleep there's nothing you can do to prevent it." (Thanks doc! That's reassuring...) Ah yes, thanks to this alarm I got so many countless hours of "peace of mind" that I can't even count them all here. 

Truth be told my little man was setting off all these alarms simply because he's a really shallow breather. Even the high tech hospital alarms couldn't detect his teeny little baby breaths. So basically we really were panicking over nothing. But thanks to my paranoid hospital check-in I was able to confirm that little man really does suffer from acid reflux - which my pediatrician swore wasn't the case - so score! Another paranoid belief of mine was true ... See, more positive reinforcement! (Which is also probably why I convinced my pediatrician to refer little man to a cardiologist ... Who discovered a hole in little man's heart ... Which I'm told is most likely harmless but, nonetheless, further reinforces my paranoia. It really is a vicious cycle.)

But I've toned it down a bit now. Honestly I have! I returned the baby monitor and now little man sleeps right by my side (in a special cradle that tilts him upright 30 degrees so he doesn't choke on his acid reflux, of couse) - but, hey, at least he's completely monitor free! Baby steps people!

Still, I'm convinced there's something wrong with his belly button. It's an outie and it kind of looks like it's giving me the evil eye when I change little man's diapers. The doc says it's normal but I'm not convinced. Maybe I'll stay up a few more hours googling it ...

Boobies

I was promised big boobs ... and I feel duped.

Okay, I know I said I would share more baby related stories but, let's be honest here, you don't want to hear about my baby 24/7. Oh yes, you will hear LOTS more about him because I am totally already THAT type of mom. But I think we both would like something a little different for a change and, since I have very little else to talk about right now, the topic of the day is my boobs.

I have long labored under the delusion that pregnancy gives you big knockers. Frankly I feel that this is a lie that should be squished right here and now because, seriously, I was massively disappointed when I found that this was not the case (for me anyway). Oh sure, my A cups did spillith over a tad more than usual, but not so much that I really needed new brassieres. Or, and this is me spreading a little TMI just for the sake of demystifying any mistaken glamour you may have around this subject, my left boob didn't require a new bra, whereas my right breast would have faired well in a bigger size because (and this is something I was never warned about) my boobs grew at totally different speeds until they were totally lopsided.

Not fair!!! So terribly cruel! My ta tas had always been small but at least they were nicely proportioned. Pregnancy stole that from me and left me with one slightly bigger, not at all cosmetically attractive, hooter.

All my friends assured me that they would get bigger still. "Wait until the milk comes in!" they cried. So I held out hope. I prayed to the boobie fairy and waited for the sweet, sweet mother's milk to fill out my cans.

And lo - at last the day did come where my boobs grew to the size of actual melons. It happened ... It finally happened! My A cups were literally busting out of everything I tried to use to contain them. They really were enormous (btw, I can't even begin to fathom what happens to the boobs of women who have big breasts to begin with - it must be quite a sight to behold). I felt like a porn star with these things. Not just because they were comically large compared to my normal build, but because they looked ridiculous overall. Like two rock hard perfectly round cantaloupes shoved down my shirt. They looked fake ... Like a bad boob job. They weren't even remotely sexy or attractive like I'd always imagined. It was all a terrible lie!!

Worst of all is that, even if they had looked good, GAR wouldn't have been able to enjoy them - these new jugs were strictly for baby. Hands off buddy!

Now my milk has all dried up ... and my melons shrunk back down to the size of apples again. I mean, they disappeared almost immediately. What a jip! And the cruelest injustice of all is that they did not even shrink back down to looking just the same as before I got pregnant. No! They shrunk down all uneven. That's right - my pesky right boob is still bigger! It's now like I've got one Granny Smith and on one side and a teeny crabapple on the other. Thanks a lot boob fairy! I mean, thanks for nothing. And, dear reader, let this be a lesson for you because, really, this is the type of shit that no one ever warns you about.

I've always hated the term "boobies" anyway. There are so many reasons, but I think this video says it best.

 

Love your ta tas ladies!

Abrupted Development

You guys, I had sooo many more pregnancy related blog posts planned for you. But now I guess they’re all a little moot (and perhaps you’re happy that you won’t be bombarded with my tales of maternity anymore) … I mean, now that my baby has arrived … a mere 6 weeks ahead of schedule.

If you read my last several posts (which are all months old by this point) you already know that I was feeling a little crunched for time trying to get ready for baby’s arrival. And him coming so early did mean that many items on my “to do” list never really got done. But I DID finish watching every episode of “Arrested Development” before my little man made his arrival … so there, I completed SOMETHING (oh, and I also completed my childbirth prep class in time … a class that I completely did not need all in the end – you’ll see).

Here’s the thing – while in utero my little man was a very active fetus. He was bopping and jumping and punching me constantly from the inside out. He had baby ADD for sure. And then, a few weeks before he was born, he did this massive belly flop inside of me and, from that point on, he just sort of laid there. Oh sure he’d jab at me now and then but, comparatively, he had really settled down. I thought maybe he was simply running out of room in there – perhaps his sleeping quarters were getting a bit too tight – but when I saw my doctor one morning 6 weeks before my due date I mentioned the baby’s reduced movements offhand. My doc was not concerned. But, just to ease my paranoid mind, he decided to hook me up to a non-stress test to check everything out. Basically the test just involved having a lap band wrapped around my belly for 30 minutes to monitor little man’s heart rate over an extended time. That’s it. Oh sure, every now and then a nurse would come in and place this item that I can only describe as a vibrator against my stomach (to see if that would get a rise out of the baby … which sort of seemed like cheating to me), but otherwise all I did was sit there.

But I failed the test. Little man’s heart rate inexplicably would drop for no good reason. Not a huge amount mind you, but enough that my doctor sent me to hospital for further examination.

The hospital triage staff regarded my arrival with annoyed skepticism. “Why did my doctor send you here?” they said time and time again. Oh sure, they hooked me up to heart rate monitors, completed ultrasound workups, everything they were asked to do, but they were clearly baffled by my presence. GAR and I passed the downtime between exams by making plans for the upcoming weekend. I emailed with work to keep them posted on my current whereabouts. A nurse named Cherry (for once I am using someone’s actual name on this blog … no need to protect the “innocent” in this case) would pop in every now and then decked out in scrubs with cherries on them and a necklace with cherries on it … you know, just in case you didn’t “get” the deep meaning of her name … and give us updates but that was it. The heart rate monitor beeped away, showing that little man’s heart rate was squarely in the “normal” range of 120-180 beats per minute.

Until suddenly the beeping of his heartbeat got slower … and slower … and soon it read 60 … and I panicked. I mean I FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. I wanted some sort of alarms to signal … flashing lights and sirens to alert the medical staff. But no such thing happened. And when no one came running I hysterically cried out for GAR to run into the hall to find Cherry … or ANYONE who could help me.

Cherry came into the room making excuses for where she was and why she hadn’t been aware that anything was wrong. Then in ran about half a dozen other medical professionals who seemed just as freaked out as I was. Suddenly I was having an oxygen mask placed over my face, an IV needle put into my arm, and was being frantically briefed that they were going to need to cut the baby out of me immediately and that this involved many risks to myself and to little man … risks which were being rattled off to me at breakneck speed as I choked back tears. One of the nurses/doctors/random strangers in the room demanded that I remove my pants – a task that was nearly impossible to accomplish with an IV in my arm and a heart rate monitor still strapped around my midsection – so I told GAR to remove them for me … which he did in record speed … while Cherry jokingly remarked “Whoa, he’s done that before!” Ummm … Is now the right time to crack wise Cherry? Is it?

Then the strangest thing happened – I got fisted. A doctor stuck her entire hand up inside me to “stimulate the baby’s head.” It was awkward, but it worked – little man’s heart rate suddenly went back to normal. And then everyone just left the room. Alarm canceled I guess? Though I didn’t feel better at all.

We were left alone with Cherry who offered dubious explanations for what just happened. She told me not to be worried about the fact that my baby’s heart almost just stopped completely but told me they’d be keeping me overnight for observation just in case. I told her that I was still really freaked out and that I felt like something must be wrong any maybe we did need to get the baby out of me immediately. Cherry, in all her infinite wisdom, said this would be a bad idea because even though most babies born 6 weeks early are fine some still end up “riding the short bus.” EXCUSE ME? What?? Yes, THAT makes me feel soooo much better.

And then she left the room … again … And little man’s heart rate dropped down to 60 … again … And GAR had to go running for help … again …

And this time even being fisted didn’t do the trick. I was told I really was being rushed into surgery for reals this time. It was sort of a blur. They were pumping something in through my IV and wheeling me through the hospital in a flurry of commotion. I couldn’t see GAR anymore but I knew he was within earshot somewhere so I cried out to him to call my mom or my sister to let them know what was happening. Once in the operating room I was surrounded by tons of new doctors and surgeons who all kindly introduced themselves to me and, while I appreciated the niceties, I was so shaken I couldn’t really retain the information being thrown at me. I had been told that since it was an emergency c-section I was going to have to be put to sleep. But, thankfully, little man’s heart rate stabilized for long enough for them to put a spinal tap in my back so that I could stay awake and, equally importantly, GAR could be present for the surgery. The spinal tap worked quickly (although I was still acutely aware of the fact that I was pantless in a room full of strangers – hey I’m only human) and when they brought me a large pile of paperwork to sign (which I can only assume released the hospital of any liability should anything go wrong … not that I took the time to read any of it) my hands were like wobbly lead and I could barely manage a scribble for a signature (though they did insist I make the date legible – a nearly impossible feat given the amount of numbing medicine being pumped through my veins).

Finally GAR was beside me in scrubs and I was being cut open … not that I was aware of it in the slightest. I mean, I could feel some tugging – I wasn’t completely oblivious to the procedure – but there was no pain at all. And when they told me it was time to pull little man out I could feel it happen … sort of. It felt like a giant weight had literally been lifted off of me (probably because it had … literally). But I was still scared. This was all happening far too early. Would my son be too little? Too underdeveloped? Would he have to ride the short bus as Cherry had so eloquently stated? I listened as my little man cried for the first time and when they read off his weight – 5 pounds, 6.5 ounces – I sighed with relief that my preemie, at the very least, wasn’t totally malnourished. GAR peered over at him and told me what was happening (then he peered over and saw my sliced open stomach and innards all on display – a poor move on his part if I do say so myself) until finally they brought my little bundled up munchkin over to me and placed him on my chest. I couldn’t really move much but I touched his cheek and examined every teensy bit of his exposed flesh (which wasn’t much – just his cute little face). But I knew it was short lived – they told me that little man needed to go to the NICU – and soon he was wheeled away. I was stapled shut (I couldn’t feel it but I could hear the staple gun firing, which was a little jarring) and rolled off to recovery until I could feel my legs again (which took so long to happen that they repeatedly gave away hospital rooms that had been reserved for me).

During the many hours I spent in recovery all I wanted to do is see my little man some more. I sent GAR down to the NICU to take photos of him to show me on his phone, which was nice, but no replacement for actually being able to hold the little dude myself (something I wouldn’t really get to do for quite some time – a fact that caused me much grief in the days that followed his arrival). I also used my time in recovery to Google what had happened that caused little man’s early arrival. The OB who performed my c-section informed me afterwards that the reason for little man’s plummeting heartbeat was discovered when they removed the placenta and saw that it was detaching from my uterus. In my case the placenta had detached approximately 20%. I learned from my Googling that placental abruption (as it’s called) is, in fact, a very serious condition that results in death of the baby 24% of the time (and also has a rather high maternal death rate as well). While I didn’t have any of the risk factors that generally lead to a placental abruption (tobacco and/or cocaine use, a car accident or other jarring physical accident, diabetes, or a handful of other listed potential reasons) one thing was immediately clear – if things had gone differently … if I hadn’t been paranoid about little man moving around in my belly less than usual and if I hadn’t been sent to the hospital that day for a full workup … I very likely could have lost my baby (and as I’ve told others what happened to me I have, unfortunately, been told stories of babies who were not as lucky as my own).

Not that I meant to take this in such a morbid direction – sorry about that. But all this leads me to the truth … which is something that no one ever says – the day I had my son was NOT the happiest day of my life. Furthermore I think it’s bullshit when anyone says that (it ranks right up there with other lies that people spread … like how when you try on your wedding dress you’ll “just know” it’s the one, or that as a woman you really can “have it all” – the perfect career, the perfect family, the perfect size 2 waistline – without comprising a thing … all of which make us women feel like failures and causes us to lie through our teeth to swear we feel the same even when it’s not the case). Even if everything with little’s man birth had gone exactly as planned it would have still been a day full of pain and worry and cold tables and backless hospital gowns. But, in my case, it was a day of immense fear, panic, stress and countless gut-wrenching emotions. There is no doubt that my little man is the single greatest thing in my life and that nothing has ever brought me as much joy and wonder as he already has in his relatively short existence, but I assure you that EVERY SINGLE DAY of this past (nearly) one month has been far better than the actual day he was born.

I have so much more to share with you. Good times, more comical times that I can share with you with the proper amount of levity you expect from me … and yes, okay, more paranoid freak out moments as well. But, until then, I shall simply share with you some cuteness. Enjoy!

 

"Holding" little man in the operating room.

 

Little man in the NICU.

Sleeping peacefully and sporting a teensy little preemie onesie after coming home. AWWW!!

 

Family photo in little man's (still not entirely completed) nursery.

 

All grown up! (Well that's how I see him now - at 4 weeks old ... or negative 2 weeks, depending how you see it.)

Firsts

Right now my life is full of “firsts.” My first pregnancy with my first child who will be the first baby I will raise (and, let’s be honest here, also likely the last), which opens the door to endless firsts in my future … his first diaper change, first bath, first night home from the hospital … all the way up to his first driving lesson, first date, first job … and so on. I am so excited about all of these firsts, even if I am a little clueless as to how to deal with them all – How will I respond the first time he asks me how babies are made? (Is the stork still a viable lie to tell to tide me over for awhile? I doubt that reading him my post about his conception would help clear things up much.) Or wonders if Santa is real? Or God for that matter? (Though for now I suppose I can just focus on how to swaddle him properly, supporting his wobbly head and stuff like that, and save the worrying about his potential existential questions until at least after he’s said his first word or two.)

But, this past weekend I did get to experience a few firsts with my 6-month-old niece and, while it still in no way prepares me for the challenges before me in motherhood, it was incredibly exciting to get just a small taste of what it’s like to see things for the first time through her eyes (plus I got in some more practice with feeding and changing diapers, got a sneak peek at just how insanely jealous our pups will be once there’s a baby living permanently in our house, learned how to use my diaper genie and how to eat one handed while holding a baby with the other, experienced a eureka moment when I figured out that putting a baby in an exersaucer buys me just enough time to do my hair and makeup, and got a crash course in which types of toys are best to slobber on vs. which get totally snubbed by discerning infants like my niece).

And GAR totally nailed his first attempt at installing an infant car seat (thanks to the good people of YouTube who like to post their own homespun “how to” videos).

I must say that living in Orlando has its perks, and one great thing about the “City Beautiful” is the endless amount of entertainment options available. But, of course, when it comes to my niece there really was one very obvious first that needed to come first out of all the firsts (got that?) – A trip to the Magic Kingdom.

And how could she possibly go to “Mickey’s House” without meeting the main mouse himself?

She also got to experience her first train ride (and monorail ride for that matter).

And she *almost* got to take her first Dumbo flight … but she fell asleep in line instead.

Plus, I learned a few things too … like how, with a baby, it takes you 5 hours to ride the train, meet Mickey and *almost* ride Dumbo (a series of events that takes about 45 minutes sans baby). I also learned that the line to meet Mickey is only 20 minutes whereas the line to meet the Disney Princesses is 70 minutes. Where are people’s priorities?

Oh, and of course, my niece also got her first pair of Mickey ears! I mean, this cuteness is TO DIE FOR!

My sister and I also got a little “girl” time sans baby while GAR got his own first – A whole night of babysitting duties. While I can’t speak to how he faired that evening since I was not there to witness it for myself (though I do know he learned all about the “witching hour” while we were away. And, just like “happy hour” at any TGI Fridays, it lasted much more than simply an hour), I did get a call when I was merely 2 minutes from the house frantically inquiring about the whereabouts of pacifiers in our home … leading me to believe it was quite a learning experience for my dear husband. Nonetheless, he proved to be quite the capable babysitter that evening, even if he did expose her to “Maury” paternity tests (as I left the house he was explaining to my niece who was and was not the father of the babies on tv … and I’m fairly certain this scenario will play out very similarly when I return to work after maternity leave and GAR is left in charge of our son’s daytime tv watching habits).

Plus, it was all for a good cause – My sister and I got to go see Boys II Men and New Kids on the Block in concert (and 98 Degrees but, really, aside from Nick Lachey’s abs, we didn’t really care about that)!

My sister also threw me a lovely baby shower. And, while it wasn’t the first one I’ve attended, it was the first where I was the one who’s pregnant. I opened so many baby gifts – tons on teensy little onesies that my baby will soon be donning for the first time … books that I will read to him on the first of many sleepless nights … toys that he will touch, explore and examine upon first inspection … and so many other thoughtful presents that filled me with joy (and also trepidation – A tube that I use to suck snot out of my baby’s nose? REALLY??) Just thinking about all the firsts that GAR and I will soon have with our little one really does make this (normally not so sappy) gal feel all giddy inside. Damn, when did I become so cheesy?

And before my niece left we tried out one more first – Her first dip in the pool. (WARNING: Photo of pregnant lady in a bikini coming up)

Seriously guys, I wish I could have captured her excitement about the whole thing and shared it all with you. She loved the water. I could have stayed in there with her all day while she smiled and kicked her little legs like a natural Michael Phelps (and yes, I do know that Ryan Lochte is technically the new swimming “it” boy, plus he’s a Floridian, but there’s no way I’m comparing my precious little niece to him especially since, at 6 months old, she’s already wayyyy smarter than he is). And, thankfully, I got some tiny swim trunks and swim diapers as a shower gift so I know that this swim with my niece was just the first of many swims she’ll be enjoying with her baby cousin in the future.

Now she just needs to make another visit so we can experience a whole new world of firsts together. Thankfully it looks like she’s already plotting her next trip!

While my due date is still 2 months away I still can’t help but feel like it’s right around the corner. This is especially true now that I’ve experienced another first – This weekend I also felt (and even saw … my entire stomach was shaking and jiggling like a possessed mold of Jell-o while it happened) my baby move into the standard “head down” position. It was truly a surreal experience. Of course I would need an ultrasound to confirm all this, but it was rather obvious what was happening as the lump in my stomach where (what I always assumed was) his head normally resided started moving downwards in front of my eyes, while the kicking of his feet in my abdomen started pedaling its way upwards. And now it’s obvious from every jab I feel that he’s completely readjusted in there. Oh yes, this shit just got real … and I’m getting really anxious to finish the nursery … now.

But first, one more photo. My baby belly really does make for a great little seat for my niece … for now.

Denial? No, That’s Just a River in Egypt

Last week I went to Publix and the bagger literally pointed at my stomach and said “Congratulations!” Now, I’m not saying that I don’t look pregnant – I do – and, of course, I would much rather have someone assume I’m pregnant as opposed to simply just packing on the extra pounds, but I was still slightly horrified. No one should ever accuse a woman they don’t know (or even one they do) of being pregnant. I think that when you actually spot a baby coming out of my nether regions THEN you can safely assume I’m pregnant … and not a moment sooner. And I’m sure that almost all women would be with me on this one. Being falsely accused of being pregnant is one of the most heinous crimes that could possibly be committed. Even if you are absolutely convinced a woman is knocked up I assure you – it’s just not worth the risk to say anything. (Although I should note that a former boss of mine recently informed our VP that I was “pregnant, not just fat” and I thought that was probably not the best choice of words either. I dunno, call me overly sensitive but ...)

Perhaps part of the reason I took this seemingly harmless remark about my obvious “pregnant-ness” so hard is that I’m still in complete denial that my belly is growing so rapidly. For some reason my brain hasn’t registered this – or refuses to process it – whichever. I just keep acting surprised when my stomach gets in the way of things. I knock into my kitchen counters when I’m trying to reach for something that is now, thanks to my tummy, clearly out of reach. I am thoroughly amazed when I can’t bend over easily. Heck, I even knocked some poor guy in the head with my belly when I tried to shimmy between two closely placed tables at lunch. Each time I thought “Huh, what’s happening?” before I was finally able to put the rather obvious puzzle pieces together.

But today I went to return some non-maternity dresses to Old Navy because, weirdly, they totally didn’t fit me right at all (why? They ARE my size ... that's odd) – and I was also wearing non-maternity clothes at the time (with the elastic waist on my skirt sitting well below my stomach ... you know, like how Al Bundy used to wear his pants) – when some guy in the store says to me “You 2 go ahead of me.” As I looked at him quizzically (2 of us??) he smiled and, of course, pointed to my stomach. Ah yes, me and the baby. Now I remember.

Of course I knew this would happen eventually. For awhile I was able to deny it though. In fact, the bulk of my growth thus far has sort of come in spurts. It was only a month ago that people would see me and declare “Are you sure the baby is ok in there? You barely look pregnant at all!” And so you couldn’t blame me in thinking ... HOPING ... that I’d look a little more like pregnant Princess Kate than pregnant Kim Kardashian. But, just like any tabloid “star,” the reviews of me looking “too skinny” turned quickly into deflating declarations of my rapid, burgeoning growth. Well, it was good while it lasted.

And, as someone who is now quite obviously with child, I have to say that I haven’t really been taking enough advantage of this whole “being pregnant” thing. I haven’t really played the pregnant lady card to get what I want very often at all. Thankfully someone I have no recollection of ever meeting before stopped by my office today just to tell me how big I'm getting (thanks random lady!) and it reminded me that I really should be milking this for all it's worth.

So I called and scheduled a pre-natal massage. Why not? I deserve it. (Though, did you know you have to get a doctor's note saying it's okay? I don't get it – it's just someone rubbing me, right? Do I also need to get a note saying it's okay to drive my car over speed bumps? This is madness people - madness!) And this weekend I'll also be trying out a little pre-natal yoga as well (though I really don’t know how my belly won’t get in the way of me being successful at that). But I know I should be taking this so much farther. Why am I pumping my own gas still - aren’t the fumes bad for me? GAR should be doing this for me. And I hauled in groceries yesterday with very little assistance. Why did no one offer to carry them for me? Come to think of it, should I really be forced to do anything for myself at all anymore? Where is the chivalry? The compassion? Shouldn’t everyone be doing their part to help this humongous pregnant lady out?

Or maybe I’ll just keep doing all those things but carve out a little more “me time” while I still can. That’s really more my speed. Plus, I’m not really THAT big ... you can hardly even tell ... barely ... just a little ...

 

Oh, but I did let GAR convince me that I’m entitled to use the “expectant mom” parking spots (where you can find them). I really don’t “need” to use them (not yet anyway) but this is summer in Orlando after all and I don’t want to look gigantically pregnant AND sweaty. Vanity wise that might really push me over the edge.

So here I am. Full disclosure, this photo was taken by GAR who, despite his many wonderful attributes, has never been great at getting a good belly shot of me. I am, in fact, much bigger in person than this photo lets on. That said, I am now convinced that this is the only outfit that makes me look even remotely "thin-ish" anymore and I will likely be wearing it daily from this point forward. Ha ha - no one will ever guess I'm pregnant in this dress!!

An Education that Gives Me More Than Just a Naked Ricki Lake

GAR and I have been joking for months that, despite all the apprehension and nervousness we feel about becoming first-time parents, we really have but one mission to focus on (at first) – keep the baby alive.

I think that most new parents feel this way in the beginning. After all, newborns are so tiny and frail … and their head is still soft and squishy in parts … it’s hard not to think you’re for sure going to “break” him. I mean, what do I know about caring for another human’s life? You’re just going to let me walk out of this hospital with a fragile little baby and no training? Heck, I need a permit to go fishing but not to assume total responsibility for the health and well being of a defenseless infant? It’s just wrong! You are putting your trust into the wrong hands! I drop my cell phone 10 times a day and you’re handing me this wiggling thing? Bad idea mister. Bad idea.

It really is ridiculous if you think about it. There’s nothing that occurs during the 9 months I’m carrying this baby inside of me that in any way prepares me for what it will be like to actually care for this child once he’s out of the womb and in my arms. And yet people do it every day. People who are, as a general rule, often seemingly much LESS capable than I. People who qualify as adults merely due to their age in physical years, not in mental ones. And yet somehow, miraculously, their kids survive (I’m not saying they raise them well or serve as great role models or what have you – that is a post for another day – but in the sheer matter of keeping the baby alive they are able to succeed). So surely, SURELY, mine will too.

So perhaps babies are slightly more hearty and resilient than I imagine. Nonetheless, I do think it’s still my job to go ahead and educate myself on how to care for my baby now. This seems like the type of information I should know … even if, oddly, there is no law, rules or regulations requiring me to do so. I guess I’m just a real nerd like that. But it seems I’m not alone in my pursuit of knowledge on this topic. When I went online to sign up for prenatal classes at the hospital I found that they were booked for weeks to come. I am, it seems, dreadfully behind already!

Well, actually, that’s not exactly true. Not ALL of the classes were full. In fact, the “basic infant care” class which, per my reasons stated above, seems like to most critical one to take for first timers like GAR and myself, had lots of availability. Tons of openings. Apparently everyone else who’s pregnant knows exactly what they’re doing and thinks caring for a new swaddling dependent will be a breeze … a task that requires no training. No, in fact the class that was so full I had to schedule it a little too close to my due date for comfort is the all-day “childbirth preparation” class (though I am still uncertain why a class on giving birth, which is, relatively speaking, a fairly small part of the whole “having a child” equation is 8 hours and the class for actually caring for said baby in the months and years that follows is a mere 2 hours. But it’s not my place to question such things when I am, thus far, completely uninitiated into the club of people who know about this stuff).

This has led me to one, fairly major, conclusion – people are more concerned about physical labor pains than they are about the years of labor they’ll endure once that pain has passed. And by “concerned” I really mean “terrified.” Perhaps they’ve reached the same conclusion I have – that people everywhere manage to keep their kids alive, surely they can do the same. Perhaps they think they don’t need training for that part. But, if there’s one thing that every first time mother seems to be completely flabbergasted about it’s how she’s going to fit that giant (albeit squishy) head and broad shoulders through such a small opening … and how to minimize the pain and trauma it will surely bring about. And she wants as much information as possible about it.

But I don’t. Actually, the less I know the better. Now, it must be stated that I am not one who is of a delicate deposition. I am not too bothered by blood and pain and all the gross, horrifying stories people just love to tell you about childbirth. I am not naïve about it. I get it. I know what happens. I know it hurts like Hell. I am harboring no grand delusions about it. But, aside from the basics, I don’t really feel like I want to think about it too much in advance. The day will come when it must be done and, by the end of that day … or the next (or so) … it will be done. So why worry myself about it? I mean, one way or another that baby is coming out of me. And even if I have no clue what I’m doing, I will (lest I’m trapped due to a hurricane or some other unforeseen freak occurrence) be surrounded by trained professionals who DO know what they’re doing. And that’s a heck of a lot more than I can say for what things will be like once I check out of the hospital and GAR and I are truly on our own to figure this whole “parenting” thing out for ourselves.

So, while I am worried sick about how to care for a newborn, I am not too concerned about childbirth itself. In the grand scheme of things it’s really the very least of my worries (and, using my same logic as before, I’ve known plenty of true wimps who’ve made it through the ordeal just fine. If they can do it I am quite confident that I can as well). And, if I weren’t such a geek about being educated, I wouldn’t even take the childbirth class at all. I mean, why discuss and worry about things that are, to some degree, out of my control? But of course I signed us up anyway. You know, gotta learn all those breathing techniques that I’ll never actually be calm enough to perform when it comes time to use them. Heck, I’m sure we’ll be so rattled that I’ll be lucky if GAR even remembers how to drive me to the hospital when my water breaks (or doesn’t break – I’m sure I’ll learn all about what can, or may not, happen in my class). In this case, getting there really may be half the battle. So at least this class will, if nothing else, serve as a nice trial run for getting from our house to the hospital. And that’s almost worth the price of admission.

Plus, I am strangely curious to check out the food selection in the cafeteria. While it’s not exactly the same as checking into a luxury hotel for a couple days I know I will, at some point after I managed to get that baby out of me, be wanting to nosh on something. Now THAT is the part of childbirth that truly terrifies me – the cafeteria food!

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve decided to start off this whole education business with a little private “at home” viewing of some DVDs I’ve been given. But, as I said, I’m really trying to stick to the ones that highlight how to care for an actual baby. I already watched a documentary that showed Ricki Lake’s natural homebirth. Like I said, I’m not too squeamish generally, but naked Ricki Lake truly is a sight that cannot be unseen. Wish me better luck with this batch of videos!

Damn It Jim, There’s Not Enough Time!

So I saw the latest “Star Trek” movie this weekend (hence the title of this post and the reference to someone named “Jim” who, for the purposes of what I’m talking about here, doesn’t really exist). Nonetheless, the “there’s not enough time” feeling is really overcoming me at the moment and there’s no better therapy than putting off all those things I don’t have time to do and using that time to tell you about how stressed I am about not having enough time (got it? Also, apologies to my husband, the mental health professional, who would likely argue that there are, indeed, MUCH better therapy options … options which he gets paid a pretty penny for).

You see, something monumental has happened – I have entered my third (and final) trimester. GASP!! PANIC! FREAK OUT!!!

Yes, I know I was experiencing all these same emotions in my last post, so please forgive me for belaboring (pun intended) the point, but this new milestone has sent me headlong into true meltdown mode as I try to feebly craft a list of “must dos” for my life over the next 12 weeks (assuming the wee one stays tucked inside until his due date, which is always the variable you just can’t really fully prepare for completely). And, of course, people just LOVE to tell me stories about how their baby came a month, two months early – cue the hyperventilation!

And all of this has led me to one conclusion … something I’ve known for a long time actually but have been afraid to come right out and admit to openly – that I have serious control issues.

Now, if you know me you’re likely laughing right now saying “Isn’t that cute? Like EVERYONE didn’t already know that.” And you’re right. It’s no big secret. If you’re not playing kickball the way that I like I will take my ball and go home. At work I am less than cooperative about giving up ownership of any projects and will drown myself in extra hours of hurried typing to get everything done on my own rather than share the burden with anyone else. And at home? At home I demand nothing but perfection from poor GAR and constantly agonize about everything in my residence that is not completely up to my standards (which, if you’ve read my previous posts, you would know is just about everything).

Oh sure, there have been some ways in which I’ve been able to “let go” a little. And, yes, having “perfect” home is a big one. GAR and I have been living under construction for 3 years now and, in general, I have accepted this fact and even, for the most part, embraced it. But, call it crazy pregnancy hormones … or some buried nesting instincts finally poking their way to the surface … but lately I have been less than thrilled about the “partially finished” nature of everything around me. What I used find exciting and full of adventure when it comes to home improvement now feels like a burden as I frantically race to get it “all” done before baby arrives. Everyday my list of “honey dos” grows exponentially and yet the countdown until baby’s b-day is constantly getting smaller. I know it won’t all get done in time. I know I’m setting myself up for failure by pressing for it all to get done in time. I know that most of it doesn’t even NEED to get done in time because, let’s face it, this kid needs little more than milk, shelter and a place to sleep (but did I mention that we don’t have our crib yet? Aggghhhh!!!) so, really, I need to cut myself some slack here.

But I can’t. I won’t. I keep driving myself nuts insisting that everything be exactly how I want it. I keep trying to control it. But I can’t. And I realize that I’m going to have quite a lot of things that are out of my control soon … so what I really need is to learn to let it go (some of it anyway). But how?

If you were an avid watcher of the show “Friends” like I was you may recall that Monica had similar problems “letting go” when she and Chandler were starting a family. This is one of my favorite parts that I still think of and it makes me laugh.

Monica: It's just, I think, there's never gonna be a right time to have a baby. I mean, now you're unemployed and in a little while you'll find a new job that'll keep you really busy. There's always gonna be a reason not to do this, but I think once the baby comes, forget about all those reasons.
Chandler: I guess. It's always gonna be scary when we have a baby.
Monica: It's gonna be really scary. I mean, god. When we have a baby, there's gonna be so much that we're not able to control. I mean, the apartment's gonna be a mess, I won't have time to clean it. What if the baby gets into the ribbon drawer? Messes up all the ribbons?! What if there's no room for a ribbon drawer, because the baby's stuff takes up all the space!? Where will all the ribbons go!?!
Chandler: Should we go make a baby right now before you change your mind?
Monica: Yes, please!

So here I am, trying to get my ribbon drawer in order, but I also know that soon I’ll have much bigger fish to fry and that ribbon organization will just have to take a backseat. But it is a total mental shift. And I think that, just as my baby will be growing and learning each day, I’m going to have to approach this whole thing as a learning opportunity for myself as well. He is going to have complete control over me – when I eat, when I sleep (if at all), when I shower – you name it. He shall be my tiny little Christian Grey (without the S&M stuff and billions of dollars), controlling me and acting as my puppet master, and I will have to do as he wishes – ribbon drawer be damned! And if I think there’s not enough time to get it “all” done before he gets here well then I am in for a rude awakening about how much time I’ll have to get anything at all done once he is here.

Perhaps it’s best to start with baby steps. To accept that there will never, ever again in all of my life, be time for everything, and that these next 12 weeks (give or take – but, seriously kid, try to stay in there for 10 more at least, okay?) of feeling like I’m behind … feeling out of control … feeling like something’s got to give – that THIS is how it will always be from now on. This is just the loss of control that happens before I totally lose control forever. And it’s best if I learn how to embrace it – just like I learned how to embrace living in a house that’s in a constant state of upheaval – because that’s my life now and, when I look at it, that’s what I really want. I want a crazy, hectic, somewhat insane life full of diapers, playtime and bedtime stories, even if I know that also means dirty dishes in the sink, unplucked weeds poking through the cracks in the driveway and home improvement projects that have long ago fallen by the wayside.

Still, if I could just get a few ribbons organized first that would be great. You hear that kid? Just a little more time. No rush.

In the meantime, please enjoy these adorable photos of my niece that I took while in Michigan this weekend (while I was away and, therefore, not accomplishing everything on my “to do” list at home). It’s hard to believe that soon she’ll have an even more bitty cousin!

The Great American Nest-Off

Not that it’s a competition or anything, but my husband is totally out-“nesting” me.

To tell you the truth, I’ve been doing a pretty poor job of nesting in general (unless you count the completely out of my control act of growing a baby inside me as nesting … in which case, I guess I’m “doing” a lot … while not actively doing much at all). GAR, on the other hand, has become a man on a mission. He is determined to make our nest (a.k.a. our home) the perfect place for our baby to grow. His home improvement efforts, both big and small, have really ramped up these past few weeks/months. In fact, at times it’s hard to convince him to leave our “nest” at all on the weekends because he is either working on a project or tired from working on a project.

I, on the other hand, am torn. While I don’t want to disrupt his makeover mojo, and I’m certainly more than overjoyed to see him embrace some of the projects he’d normally avoid, I’m also keenly aware of the fact that our time to simply enjoy life as a twosome is quickly slipping by us. And, while I’m somewhat limited on the types of activities I can still participate in (and the energy with which I have to actually enjoy said activities), I feel the need to balance my time spent nesting with time doing impulsive activities that, in the future, would require a babysitter and potentially weeks of advance planning.

So I’ve been doing what I do best – activity planning. Last weekend I took GAR to the beach and Memorial Day Weekend I’m flying up to Michigan to see my family (and my niece – squeal! I love that little baby pumpkin), and this weekend I’m even dragging GAR to a movie double feature because, even though we’re not people who go to the movies very often at all, I always hear parents complain about not being able to go out to the theater anymore. Truth be told though, I won’t miss going to the movies per se, but there are a lot of freedoms I know I will miss – and I’m desperately trying to cram everything in before it’s “too late.” In a way I’ve had this “kids make it impossible to do anything ‘fun’ and selfish anymore” mentality my whole life – which is why I’ve waited until my mid-30s to have a child in the first place. And, frankly, if biology didn’t set a time limit on me I would probably still be holding out … saying I’m not ready … becoming the oldest mom in human history (okay, not quite, but you get my point).

GAR, on the other hand, seems to have already settled into “daddyhood.” He appears content to build our nest and wait for the egg to hatch. And my lord I love him for it. I NEED one of us to be the semi-settled down one in this equation and he is much more suited for it than I am. And, when I do drag him to the beach … or a theme park … or a roller derby match-up … wherever – he passes the time by saying “I can’t wait until we can bring our baby here.” He’s not even thinking about being in the here and now, he’s already thinking – dreaming – about the future. And it’s so darn cute. Totally naïve and unrealistic about what life will really be like with a newborn, but so, so very cute. He’s excited, just as I’m excited – we just handle this excitement in different ways (mine more resembles a quiet panic … but I promise it’s really just unbridled enthusiasm MIXED with a healthy dose of freaking out).

So I’m trying to nest along with him. I started a little “clean out the kitchen” project weeks ago that I’ve been moving forward on at a snail’s pace (I mean, I try … but shelf paper is really not that exciting, whether I’m nesting or not). And when I actually tally up all the things I want to get done before baby arrives I realize that I really should be in full-on mega nesting mode if I ever want to get it all done in time (or, realistically, I should be giving GAR even MORE to do around the house. But I doubt I could tear him away from the projects he deems necessary for baby – like building a toy abacus practically from scratch … because our infant, who will have few motor skills or the ability to hold his head up on his own, will no doubt need an ancient mathematical calculation device immediately upon birth. Yes, THIS is truly a critical thing to get done).

But there is one nesting instinct that has hit me hard and, frankly, it’s one that shocks me to my core – I can’t stop baking. It’s a compulsion really, and it’s totally new territory for me. I mean, I’m baking things I don’t even really like – all the time – and I have no idea where these urges come from. A year ago I wouldn’t even have been able to tell you if we owned a cupcake pan (or a rolling pin … or flour …), and now I’m whipping up something a few times a week. I would chalk it up to pregnancy cravings but that’s not quite right … it’s more like pregnancy has kicked into high gear some sort of previously unbeknownst to me domestication gene that has long been repressed inside of me. I get knocked up and wham – I’m freakin’ Betty Crocker all of a sudden. I truly am barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. Hmmm … Perhaps this whole motherhood thing won’t be so foreign to me after all. It looks like maybe I’m already becoming a little more “mom-ish” every day (minus the short haircut, high-waisted jeans and lack of knowledge on current pop culture).

What I really need, however, is to get off my ever-expanding, cookie loving arse, stop playing cruise director as I try to cram endless pre-baby activities into my social calendar and, you know, sign up for a child birthing class … or maybe even read a book about what to do when this baby actually arrives (as opposed to spending all my time reading novels for pleasure because I know I won’t have time for such frivolities in just a few months) … and simply “prepare” myself for really becoming a mother. But I have to get there mentally first.

Maybe tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to hit the hay early – after all, I need to stock up on future missed sleep now, right?

Now You See Him, Now You Don’t

I’m fairly certain my baby is Dwight Schrute.

I have to be honest, I’ve struggled with whether or not I wanted to write this post for some time. I generally try to keep things on this blog lighthearted and, frankly, the subject I’m about to explore is not a “fun” one. In fact, my doctor is so absolutely against people ever knowing about my Dwight Schrute baby that he reminds me at every appointment that I must never tell anyone – ANYONE – about it. And yet, it’s exactly his persistence on this subject that makes me more and more certain that I have to let others know about it.

How do I know I’m carrying a mini future paper salesman inside me? Do I suddenly have an unquenchable desire to devour and/or plant beets? Do my ultrasound pictures depict a fetus wearing a yellow hued button-up shirt with short sleeves? Not quite. But for those of you who are not avid watchers of “The Office” (and even for those of you who are but require a small refresher), I give you this evidence:

Yes, much like the not-so-loveable Dwight Schrute, our dear little boy also began his life as a twin. And (also like Dwight) we watched on ultrasounds as this twin disappeared and was reabsorbed by our one, remaining fetus (whether this will one day give our son the strength of a grown man and a tiny baby is yet to be determined however). This is actually the result of a relatively common thing that happens to women who are pregnant with multiples. It’s generally referred to as Vanishing Twin Syndrome. While the reasons that it happens to any individual are partially unknown, the general consensus on the subject is that, for whatever reason, the “weaker” baby is unable to make it full term and, therefore, is naturally weeded out through a process of womb-based natural selection.

Generally this happens very early on in a pregnancy (in my case at around 8 weeks pregnant), though I’m sure when it happens later on it can be even more traumatic for everyone involved. And, while we now know that it’s actually a fairly common occurrence, since early ultrasounds are not performed on everyone (and since they are a relatively “new” thing to do in general), there’s really no way of knowing just how often this happens. Any one of us could have also started life as a twin (or triplet) and we’d never know. Without an early ultrasound to show you that yes, you were at one point carrying more than one baby, there aren’t necessarily any signs that this was ever the case. Nonetheless, it’s estimated that upwards of 30% of twin pregnancies end up resulting in Vanishing Twin Syndrome. And, due to the increased number of multiples conceived through assisted reproductive technologies (like my own little fetus was), this number is even higher for women who didn’t conceive their baby naturally (upwards of 50% in these cases).

So, now that I’ve bored you to death with some medical lingo let me get to the real point of why I decided to write about this today. In short, I wanted to tell you about this because it’s something that happens … it’s even, relatively speaking anyway, “normal.” And yet, no one ever talks about it. When GAR and I went in for our first ultrasound and learned we were pregnant with twins our doctor (at the time we were still seeing a fertility specialist) told us that, in her professional opinion, the one baby was just too much smaller and weaker than the other to survive. She told us this casually, and repeatedly indicated (in not so many words) that it’s “no big deal” and is “quite common” and sent us on our way. I, of course (despite the many years of medical work in her favor), was skeptical. So what if one baby was smaller? He/she had a heartbeat … I could see him/her on the ultrasound … surely I just needed to eat more and take it easy while this second baby “caught up” size wise.

So I gorged myself on enormous quantities of pad thai (and assorted meals composed of “pregnancy super foods” I had researched, of course), plopped myself on the couch to rest and willed my second little embryo to absorb everything he/she needed to survive. But it didn’t work. At our next ultrasound the bitty twin was just as small and, this time, he/she had no heartbeat. Despite my best efforts I couldn’t do a thing to “save” my baby’s twin and, realistically, there really never is anything I could have done. There had been no warning. No adverse symptoms. The other baby was simply “gone.” Again I was told by my doctor, without any mincing of words, that this is normal and nothing to concern myself about because yay! – You are having a baby!!!

But, truth be told, I was a bit broken up about it (and GAR was even more devastated than I was because he really believed we could “fix” this … whereas I had done my research and knew it was a long shot). GAR and I had only wanted one child but, nonetheless, to have 2 (even if only for a short time) and “lose” one felt incredibly sad. However, we made a choice – and that choice was to allow ourselves to feel sad about it but not overwhelming so. Instead we chose to focus on that same facts our doctor did – the fact that we are, after all, having a baby. And, really, nothing could make us feel any more ecstatic than that.

Nonetheless, since I had done some research on the matter, I knew that not everyone who experiences Vanishing Twin Syndrome handles it as well. On internet chat rooms and discussion boards I found countless women who were absolutely inconsolable about their loss. The lack of understanding around the subject was evident with every story I read and, since doctors all seem to share this same “it’s totally normal and nothing for you to fret about” philosophy, I saw that women who experience this aren’t getting the moral support they need around this subject either. On one hand the doctors are right – this is common. There is nothing you can do about it. That baby was never going to make it. And, yes, you SHOULD be allowed to feel happy about the baby you are having. But, as common as this problem is, it’s so little known that, as parents to be, we never even realize it’s a possibility and, therefore, we’re completely mentally unprepared for how to handle this when it does happen. And often we feel “guilty” celebrating the fact that we’re having a baby when, in fact, we know inside that we once were carrying two.

Our only knowledge of Vanishing Twins (if we have any knowledge at all) are of characters like Dwight – controlling little weirdoes who we can just imagine devouring their twin in utero in their first unborn act of dominance. And for this I do blame the elaborate cover-up that doctors like mine are orchestrating. While my current doctor means well when he tells me not to ever tell anyone about this I do think it does more harm than good. He is concerned that someday one of you will tell my son that he was supposed to be a twin and that it will upset him. And he’s right about that. This could happen and it WOULD be upsetting … not the least because, as I just explained to you, realistically, he was never going to be a twin – his brother or sister was never going to make it. So why torture him by even bringing it up? But, where he’s wrong is that, if I don’t talk about it, people will continue to have no idea that this sort of thing happens. And I think people should know.

For awhile whenever a nurse would look at my chart she’d exclaim “Congrats on the twins!” and I’d have to explain to her that no, I’m not having twins anymore. I didn’t get upset about it really. But my doctor did. He was concerned it would upset me and so, again in my “best interest,” he removed any reference to my “other baby” from my chart. I didn’t know that you could just delete someone’s personal medical records like that, but he did. And now, on an ultrasound, there’s just one baby – my healthy baby boy – that can be seen. The other fetus has, as the name suggests, “vanished.” So now there’s really no record of that baby’s existence. And that’s what really bothers me. After all, as I said before, there really aren’t great stats on just how common Vanishing Twin Syndrome is and here is at least one case (and I’m guessing there’s many more since this same doctor sees many women who have experienced this – does he remove all evidence from all of our charts?) that won’t be tracked – can’t be included in the stats – either.

GAR asked me the other day if I ever think about our “other baby” and we both agreed that sometimes we do. I imagine it’s the same for anyone who’s ever “lost” a child, although I can’t even begin to comprehend the pain one feels to have suffered a full miscarriage or abortion. It must be truly heartbreaking in a way that I, frankly, don’t know how I’d be strong enough to handle. Thankfully, for those who have experienced that sort of loss there is a great deal of public understanding (well, maybe not so much for abortions – a mentality that needs rethinking in a big way that I can’t even begin to explore here) and many support options. As for me and GAR, we have certainly been able to keep our focus on the positive and we are nothing but excited for the upcoming arrival of our son. But we have kept the early, teeny little ultrasound pics of “Fetus B” … tucked away in a filing drawer. Our reams and reams of ultrasound photos for our now solo fetus – from tiny lima bean up to our baby’s current “Barbie” size (though I doubt he’s got those unrealistic proportions … those size knockers on a male infant would be downright disturbing) – are now too numerous to hang all on our fridge door, but we’ve still got at least a dozen on display. And when I think that, in just a few short months, they’ll all be replaced with photos of our newborn I could pretty much just dance with glee (although, really, GAR is the one who’s more likely to break into a random “jig of joy” – a pretty common occurrence for him).

And while I joked about Dwight earlier, I doubt our baby will be born with a giant forehead, poor eyesight and an unreasonable hatred for anyone named “Jim.” But for certain he will be hell-bent on dominating our hearts. And in that he will succeed.

Mama’s Boy

If you couldn’t tell by last post, I’m not the type of gal who’s particularly impressed by “macho” men (though I do greatly enjoy the song “Macho Man,” and I saw the Village People in concert this weekend so I’m still pumped from that – whoo!) In fact, while I wrote about some ways in which some parents are failing their sons by raising them to be too aggressive, too bullyish and, well, just too “dickish” in general, I could write volumes upon volumes more about the ways in which parents fail their daughters who are inexplicably attracted to this sort of Neanderthal, chest-banging “protector” of a man.

So, obviously, I’m more the type of woman who appreciates the softer, kinder, dare I say delicate, aspects of men. As a modern, strong, independent woman I’ve never felt I needed a man to be my savior in any way, and I’m strongly turned off by any man I view as domineering or controlling in any manner (clearly I did NOT see what all the fuss was about with the “50 Shade of Grey” series). But, okay, I’ll admit it, this has led me to really make some piss poor decisions in my dating life as well. Instead of dating strong, masculine, corporate ladder climbing assholes I spent far too many years schlepping along with some real (for lack of a more politically correct way of saying this) mamby pamby losers. I overcorrected in many ways and wasted years dating men who were simply too much of a pushover, who lacked drive of any kind, who not only didn’t stand up for me, but who didn’t stand up for themselves long enough to not be totally walked all over, who were too “sensitive” and, worst of all, I dated oh so many mama’s boys.

In addition to hearing everyone tell me that boys are so “easy” to raise, people also tell me all the time that it’s great I’m having a boy because “boys love their mamas!” Awww… Well isn’t that so true? But, I mean, doesn’t (most) every child love his/her mother? Granted, I think during some of my teenage years my mother wasn’t really seeing (or hearing) the love from me, but it was still there. Perhaps boys appear to love their mamas so much more because, as I said in my last post, moms tend to go a little easier on their sons than their daughters. Case in point (to use a reference that, if you’re of my generation, you should easily identify with): On “90210,” when Brandon tells his parents he lost his virginity his Dad takes him out for a game of friendly basketball, has a brief chat with him where he loosely mentions being responsible and then, essentially, gives him a congratulatory pat on the back. Flash forward to the episode where these same parents learn that Brenda is sleeping with her boyfriend and, instead of taking her out for a manicure and some “girl talk” about being responsible, they threaten to file statutory rape charges against her boyfriend Dylan for sleeping with her (with her consent). Well, gee, if I was Brandon I sure would “love” my mama/dada a heck of a lot more than Brenda was “lovin’” her parents at that moment.

While certainly I want my son to love me and, selfishly, I would not so secretly love it if he did grow up to be a complete and utter mama’s boy (oh I know, no woman could ever live up to ME darling … now let me make you your favorite spaghetti that only I know how to make the way you really like it), I know that I’d be doing a great disservice to him (and to his future wife – or husband, I don’t want to make any assumptions) if I didn’t try to steer him somewhere down the middle … to help him grow up to become someone that’s neither a complete macho man or a wimpy, unable to let go of my dress hem, mama’s boy.

At the risk of inflating GAR’s ego to epic proportions, I essentially want to our son to grow up to be just like his Dad. While I suppose this is where some boys go wrong (with the whole “no son of mine is going to play with dolls! Stop crying – men don’t cry!” type of “be a man like your father” mentality), our child should be so lucky as to grow up to be just like Dad – intelligent, independent, thoughtful, rational, successful, strong and a really fantastic husband. GAR is soft and mushy in all the “right” ways while still being smart, forceful when necessary, passionate about important things, and towing that line between steamrolling others to get what he wants without managing to get walked all over by anyone. Thankfully our son will have GAR around to be this great example for him (even if he will pick up some really terrible tv watching habits as well – I mean, all-day viewing sessions of “Maury?” … And I may never, ever get to live in a house where the toilet seats are put back to their correct position – 4+ years of training and I still haven’t gotten my way on that one). And with GAR serving as a great male role model maybe I can spend more of my time just focusing on, you know, making sure my son is the kind of boy who fits the cliché and really does “love his mama!” (within healthy limits, of course).

And maybe we’ll also be a little stereotypical and get him playing football too (or, if GAR gets his way, rugby … just like his Dad played in college). It couldn’t hurt. After all, the first thing every sports star does when he makes it big is buy his mama a house, right? But don’t worry, in the spirit of keeping him well rounded we’ll also teach him chess and enroll him in ballet (or, again, if he really wants to be like Dad he’ll take tap lessons so they both can “shuffle off to buffalo” together), okay?

If our son does grow up to be like his Dad he could be a published author...

A doctor (of the brain, like Dad ... or simply handy at home improvement - after all, he'll certainly be making LOTS of trips to Home Depot with us over the years) ...

Or maybe he'll be athletic, even if he is a little on the "short" side like his Dad ...

But not afraid to flaunt some awesome moves on the dance, or roller skating, floor ...

And mock sophisticated enough to enjoy a cheap glass of wine while dressed in a sports coat and t-shirt with a tie painted onto it ...



On second thought, maybe I should put a little more focus on raising him to be like his mother.

Boys Will Be Boys

These are 4 words that, when spoken together in this order, make me cringe (okay, so technically they are only 3 words, with 1 word used twice, but you get my point). And, now that we know (pretty much) definitively that GAR and I are, indeed, having a boy (ha ha! I was right! The “angle of the dangle” doesn’t lie!) I’m guessing that I’ll hear these words a lot. And it will take every ounce of control I have in my body not to scream when it happens.

Though I may be over generalizing here, I’ll say it anyway – it’s this “boys will be boys” attitude that parents use when raising their sons that’s responsible for so much of what’s wrong with the grown “men” I encounter in society on a daily basis.

You have no idea how many times I’ve been told that raising a boy is soooo much easier than raising a girl. And, while it’s true that I’ve yet to raise a single child and, therefore, my opinion on such things generally can’t be trusted, I still feel rather confident in declaring that statement total hogwash – raising ANY child, and raising him/her “well,” is very, very hard. In addition to teaching our children the basics and nurturing their intellectual growth we also have to teach them how to be good people … how to grow up to become a functioning, contributing, well-rounded, considerate and an all-around kick-ass adult someday. And this is hard because, let’s face it, as we look around there are a ton of really shitty adults out there setting examples for everyone to see.

And it all probably started when they were kids.

Once, years ago, a coworker brought her young son into my office because he had been kicked out of daycare for biting. While in our office he was really beating up on his mom and dad – slapping, kicking, ramming his toys brutally into their shins and making loud explosion sounds – nothing out of the ordinary for a child exploring his boundaries really. But his mother didn’t once correct him. She stated that they were choosing to ignore this behavior instead of rewarding it with attention (even if that attention was negative). Certainly this is one school of thought of raising children, and I’m neither agreeing nor disagreeing with it right now – just stating it here. But suddenly this child turned towards me and punched me right in my stomach. I wasn’t sure how to respond. For one thing it hurt like Hell, but should I ignore it as his mother wishes? After all, isn’t punching strangers where you draw the line? But before I could even react everyone else in the room began to laugh and my favorite words were uttered: “Ha! Boys will be boys, won’t they?”

Yes, yes they will. If that’s how we believe boys SHOULD be acting. While this sort of behavior is normal for children of both genders I’ve noticed that a little girl who pinches or bites or even so much as shouts out in a manner that’s considered too loud is scolded or told she’s been “unladylike,” whereas a boy who does such things is generally treated much less harshly. This is just one small example of what I mean here, but you can no doubt see the general point I’m trying to make – people say that raising a boy is easier because we expect less of them in so many ways (and then we expect sooo much more of them when they’re adults and running for president and whatnot – it’s a weird way of thinking that I’ve never really understood). Or, at the very least, we associate things like roughhousing and rowdiness, which are normal “kid” behaviors, as being “boy” behaviors and, thus, when boys do them we find them less objectionable, less in need of “correction,” than when a little girl does them.

I guess my point is this – boys aren’t a single bit easier to raise. If you want them to grow up to not exhibit these behaviors later in life you can’t laugh them off with a “boys will be boys” mentality when they’re young. In fact, I think raising my son to be kind, caring, gentle and yet also emotionally very strong will be incredibly hard because everywhere he goes outside of this house he will be given the green light by others to “act like a boy” in all these other (in my opinion) unhealthy ways.

My mother-in-law said to me once that she was so glad she had 2 sons because she never had to worry about them “getting in trouble.” Since my own dear, sweet, wonderful husband has seen the inside of a jail cell a time or two (while still under the care of his ever watchful mother), I can only assume that by “get in trouble” she really meant that he couldn’t get knocked up. While there’s no denying that this IS a perk of being born with man bits it sort of leaves out a very important fact – that boys can get GIRLS pregnant (in fact, that’s generally how it works). And it’s exactly that sort of laissez-faire philosophy that mothers of sons have about teaching their children about responsible sexual practices that is why every mother/father of a daughter lives in constant fear every time they let their teenager out of their sight for more than 5 minutes.

I am very much looking forward to raising my little man (and I do already think of him that way, as a “little man” who will someday be a “big man” and it’s my job to raise him to be the type of man that deserves respect), but I’m not laboring under any delusions that it will ever be even remotely “easy.” Parenthood is full of so many challenges and, let’s face it, I don’t have a freakin’ clue what I’m doing (nor do I even really have a handle on what challenges I’ll even be faced with – and I’ll probably never see most of them coming). It’s an incredible adventure that I am excited and nervous and overwhelmingly overjoyed to begin. I love my son so much already and I can’t wait to bring him into this world and show it to him. And, no, I’m not always going to be his best friend. He’s not always going to fill me with incredible pride with all of his actions and decisions. But I can’t wait for both of us to learn from our mistakes, try again and emerge as better people. To me this is what raising a child, any child, is really all about.

Oh, and I’m sure I’m going to screw it all up – bad. We all do. And he’ll hate me and resent me for all the things I didn’t get right – that ungrateful little fetus that he is. But damn it if I won’t try my very hardest every step of the way … and maybe start buying wine in bulk … I’m sure they’ll be plenty of times in my future when I’ll need it!