Heartbeats

I had never been more terrified in my life than I was on the way to the hospital on Sunday night. I was not in labor. No contractions, water fully intact. But we were on our way there to see about changing all of that, and I was terrified.

Despite the fact that at four days past my due date I was not at all dialated and having no real contractions, the procedure went much more quickly than anyone anticipated. One good dose of the medication and my body was like, "Oh really? Fine. Let's do this thing." And we did.

I mentioned before that I had never been more terrified that I was on the way to the hospital. But the moment I heard the monitor measuring my baby's heartbeat start to slow, and saw the doctor come rushing in with a surgical mask on her face shouting for the nurse to give me oxygen, my heart nearly burst with fear. All I could think was that I would lose her. Lose this little one, like the others, so close this time. So close. As the nurse sat next to me, telling me this was normal, that the baby was fine, that it happened sometimes and all I needed to do was keep breathing deeply, I just laid there and let the tears run down my cheeks. So helpless. I would do anything for this child, and all I could do was breath deeply. Just breath. And listen as her monitor went back to it's cheerful little bleeping. She was fine. She was going to be fine.

And she was.

To be continued...

Ten Reasons the Internet Should Stop Making Up Dumb Lists

Oh the joys of the internet during pregnancy. Every other day I come accross an article telling me the "10 Essentials for New Parents" or the "Seven Things No New Mom Should Be Without".  It's a good thing I don't rely on those lists for actual information about what to buy for a new baby, because if I did I would end up with three pairs of designer shoes, an organic water bottle, and no diapers whatsoever.

But then I recently came across a website claiming to have advice for tall expectant parents. You know, things like which glider to buy, what strollers work best for longer strides, and where to find tall maternity clothes. I won't link to that site because it was full of crap. The other sites I've read sort of amused me, but this one just plain angered me.

So, you're 5'7" huh? Newsflash sweetie: You're not tall. Those pants you love come in a 34 inch inseam? Talk to me when you find something with at least a 36" inseam, because a 34 is pathetic highwater nonsense on someone who is ACTUALLY TALL. 34? Pfft.

Oh, so you think because I'm tall I need a glider with a bigger seat? I'm sorry, you may be confusing "tall" with "large bummed". (Don't worry, stranger things happen. Payless, for example, seems to equate "large feet" with "octogenarian". ) But, really, what tall people need in a nursery chair is something they can stand up out of while holding a sleeping baby. In other words, the seat needs to be higher off the ground, bucko. Not bigger, higher.

And your big tip for tall pregnant women is to buy maxi dresses? Really? Darling, where exactly do you expect us to find all of these mythical dresses which are long enough on us not to look like we accidentally shrunk them in the wash? Also, have you never heard of business appropriate attire? You know, the kind of things those of us with soul sucking office jobs have to wear everyday, pregnant or not? Because if your advice on that is truly to just "buy more expensive brands, they are often longer", I need you to come over here and repeatedly smack your head against the wall for me. "Often longer"? By how much, an inch? Gee, thanks. I'll go right out and max my credit card for that one extra inch, so that I can look like I shrunk my clothes only two times, instead of three. Good thing I have tall friends like you to help me out. What's that? You can't reach the formula on the top shelf of the grocery store? Oh honey.

YOU ARE NOT TALL.

And for those of you who are tall and looking for maternity advice, here's what I've got: nothing. But at least I'm being honest about it. I hear there are some stellar water bottles out there to keep you hydrated while breastfeeding, though.

Hint: Not the Alfredo Kind

Breaking my long silence to let you all know that I am six months pasta sauce over here.

It's a girl! Due in February! The daily shots are just as horrifying as anticipated!

Feel free to suggest names for this little bug, but know that I will not be taking any of your advice. I'm growing this little person, I get to name her. That's how this works people!

Also, just so we're clear, a woman's height has nothing to do with the size or shape of her uterus. Even if it did, all of my extra height is in my legs anyway. All this to say that since I am not growing this fetus in my femur, I have every bit as much right to have a pregnant belly as any other woman who is growing another human being inside of her body. I mean, honestly, all of this "But you're so tall, you probably won't show at all" is complete crap. We all know this right? As a female I already have massive unrealistic expectations placed upon my appearance as it is, I do not need the added pressure of not getting a pregnant belly while pregnant. So basically, if you were thinking that or, heaven forbid, one of the people who said that to me? There's a word for that. It starts with a "Bull" and it ends win an "it".

Ok, now that I've let that out (don't we all feel so much better now), let's get back to celebrating the fact that roughly three and half months from now a small human will rip her way out of my body in a bloody, terrifying episode we like to call "the miracle of birth."

Huzzah!

Virtue

I don't want to talk about the miscarriages.

Shall we talk about the miscarriages?

That I lost two chances. Two. How many do we get, do you think? Chances to love like that? Not many, I'm guessing.

Don't let's have the "cast your burdens on the Lord" conversation, though. Okay? I mean, that's all very poetic and Sunday-school teacher's pet of you, but do you know what else it is? Absolute crap.

And on the flip side, somewhere among the hospital beds and cold, hospital floors, the florescent lights and needles, sat my husband, tired and worried, who looked at me then in the darkest moment of my life, and told me I was beautiful. Bone weary, bleeding, hollow-eyed and full of the death of our first child, and still beautiful. It was nothing like the movies.

And well meaning friends who do not know about these little losses, who so good-naturedly try to tell me what pregnancy is like, to give me a few hints for when it's my turn. But I know what pregnancy is "like". It has already been my turn.

It's strange. There were clearly two miscarriages, but they somehow feel like one long, drawn out loss. I lost the first just before Christmas, the second in late March. They were distinct, though. I remember each with the perfect clarity of a mother memorizing her child's freckles. I remember how each felt, and the exact moment I knew I had lost them. That virtue had gone out of me.

Even as a child I had melancholy nailed. (And that Donald Duck, what a creeper.)

Mothers Day will kill us all!

Oh this holiday. This poor, misunderstood holiday. This draggly little thing that just keeps getting pulled into catfights despite its best intentions. Mothers' Day: The Day You Just Can't Win So Stop Trying Before You Offend Someone!

Either you are a mother, and it's hard and you want/deserve more than a consumerized day of hallmark cards and heart-shaped necklaces once a year and could someone PLEASE just take the baby so you can sleep in...

Or you are not a mother, but you have a mother - unless you don't because she died when you were young or left you to pursue a career in basket weaving or she stuck around but was horrible and gave you every imaginable psychosis about your weight and your voice and the way you stand...

Or you aren't a mother and you desperately want to be, but you can't conceive or maintain a pregnancy or jump through the myriad hoops of adoption and every other person keeps telling you how you are still a mother anyway because you smile so nicely at children, as if they believe that lie will somehow fill your empty arms with the squishy lump of baby you so desperately want...

Or you are a mother but you feel inadequate and are so overwhelmed, so frazzled and tired of hearing about how perfect mothers are and how everyone's mother is a saint, because you are not a saint you are a woman who just wants the kids to stop fighting and go to bed on time so you can brush the goldfish crumbs off the couch and watch Game of Thrones in peace but sometimes you lose your temper and you do not fill their lives with a constant stream of approbation and unicorn laughter and so you feel like maybe you alone have failed at this magical holiday...

Or you are a mother but that is NOT all you are and you would for once like to be seen as something more than a womb, more than place to wipe a booger, more than the keeper of the shoes and backpacks and favorite shirts because you do not want to be lost among the detritus of their childhood and watch your personhood fade and everything else you are capable of swept under the rug of motherhood...

Or you are a man, and your mother was perfect/horrid/gone and your wife is perfect/horrid/gone/depressed/in love with the pool boy and no matter what you do it will be too much and not enough at the same time and someone will probably cry and it will be your fault and you will not really understand what you did wrong only you really wish this day were over...

Me too.

There are, of course, people who make the best of this day. They enjoy it while it is here and move on when it is gone. But the rest of us seem so harried by it, as though the day were invented solely to offend us.

What is it about mothering and mothers that upsets us so? Is it because it is so fundamental? So important? Or is it just a facet of our culture, one that we should analyze and reinvent? Or is it the fluoride in the water? I'll bet you were expecting me to finish up with some solution or closure or interesting reflection on this problem. But, I've got nothing. I'm one of those women without children who would rather not be told she is somehow, magically, a mother anyway.  And I've got sisters and friends in each of the other camps and a husband who will do his best no matter what happens.

But it's just a day, right? It's just an arbitrary holiday, between Victory Day and Armed Forces day.

I don't know what you should do to deal with this day. I know that I should probably make the best of it, and stop counting the days since my last miscarriage as though it were the Anno Domini of my life. But I am, like all mothers and non-mothers and women and men and bumbling fools on this planet, only human.

In like a lion, out like a P.O.S.

Eff you, March. Eff you.

First of all, you were supposed to bring me some spring, you little A-hole. Instead, you snowed all over the place and were colder than freaking February. Listen, you little twit, February gets a pass because she's brings me roses and chocolate. You get no such pass, March.

Also, you should know that a trip to the ER does not qualify as a legitimate substitute for spring. Is it exciting? Yes. It is also horrifying and painful. And just so we're clear, you sniveling little worm, I do not need any more miscarriages. Got it, fart face?

Oh, and then there were the cherry blossoms. Except, no. No there weren't because you didn't deliver them, you fungal infection in the big toe of life. Peak bloom was supposed to come during the last week of March. You know what I got during the last week of March, you turd-ball of a month?

A ROOT CANAL! You puppy killing bag of lice and vomit. I hate you to the depths of my soul. What, you thought going four days and five nights without sleep in extreme and unrelenting pain would be...romantic? A real thrill ride? Quaint? Well it wasn't, March. You know what it was, you rotting pile of garbage? Traumatizing.

Shall I list off all of the other little gems you gave me this year, March? Hmm? Shingles for my mother? Painful dental work for one sister and chest pains and an ambulance ride for the other? Not enough sugar to make brownies on Easter Sunday so we could finally break our no-baking lenten fast? I could go on, fat @ss, but I'll stop there.

So, in summary: March was a real b!^$* this year. Happy April, everybody!

Keep walking, March.

The Professor, the Magnum and the Dandy

Hello, and welcome back to my life. I bet you thought I died didn't you? Yes? Well, no such luck people. I haven't been dead at all! I've just been....boring? Yeah, that.

And then it was Easter! Sort of. I mean soon. Anywho, this is one of those times in the year when my nerdy other half and I get together and craft like the dorks we are. In past years we've done silk-dyed eggs, pysanki, and hot-air balloon eggs. This year we went the lazy man's route and decorated our eggs with...duh duh duh duh! Temporary Tatoos!

Actually I did the butterfly eggs on my own. And then I put them in a box from India with some fabric scraps. And it was awesome. But then! Mr. Awesome and I teamed up and this happened:

Moustachioed eggs! According to the package, these 'staches are categorized as follows:
the Crybaby, the Magnum, the Professor, the Dandy, the Swashbuckler, and the Gunslinger.

I think we can all agree that this idea was brilliant.