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Surviving Pregnancy – How I grew a naked baby in my belly (Week 40 and on …)

familygal — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 14:24:36 +0000

Spoiler alert …

Childbirth hurts. Period. Don’t let ‘em tell you different.

Now go on and enjoy the best damn thing that will ever happen in your life. Period.

Surviving Pregnancy – How to grow a naked baby in your belly (Weeks 37 – 40)

familygal — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 14:22:15 +0000

By now you should start wrapping up all the loose ends of your previous life, and might be enjoying your last week at work before mat leave. I found this time to be very emotional (although I also find new haircuts, choosing the perfect picture on a Kleenex box and planting flowers emotional, so don’t go by me) and as overwhelming as it was anticlimactic. There was a surprise shower sprung on me complete with baby-themed cake, a big fluffy stuffed animal (in theory meant for baby but whom I claimed as my own and christened Pooky) and more presents. I hugged all my friends and kissed my hectic full-time working life that had been a part of my life for over 12 years, goodbye, hopped in my car and wondered what the hell was in store for me in this new phase of my life. I cried all the way home.

As excited as I was to take a well-deserved break (I’m Canadian baby, one full year of mat leave!) from the non-stop frantic pace of my 12-year career, I found it difficult acclimating to home life. Visions of my fuzzy slipper clad feet resting on a table laden with bonbons and pregnancy books gave way to utter boredom at about the second day. I thought I would relish every moment of my slower paced life, but I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself. Shopping and cleaning and pretty much any movement whatsoever was out due to my very-pregnant state so I sat around and watched a lot of reality TV and probably thought too much about the impending labour. You can only call your husband so many times and say, “Watcha doing?” before it becomes grating. My second pregnancy was even harder as I had Tyler to occupy as well as me. “I know you’ve been watching Treehouse for three hours now but mommy’s tired. Here’s some string, go make something.”

And as annoying as it is when everyone and their brother has warned, “Enjoy it now because it only gets crazy after this,” all I have to say is: Enjoy it now, because it only gets crazy after this.

Surviving Pregnancy – How I grew a naked baby in my belly (Weeks 33-36)

familygal — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 14:13:36 +0000

Although I was consistently at awe with the miraculous things that Pregnancy Bod was achieving, I was now very, very tired. Growing a tiny naked human being in your gut is nothing to sneeze at, and I wished that I didn’t squirt a little bit of pee with each sneeze. Watching my belly expand exponentially, I remember trying to recall what my feet look like. I knew they were there, I was able to stand virtually wobble free for moments at a time – but when I glanced down, all I saw was my very round tummy covered with the feathery fingers of stretch marks. (“They look like racing stripes… cool!” Mike raved. Bless him.) I would reminisce of my Pre-Pregnancy Body that would always obediently obey the command to spontaneously cartwheel or dance a little jig when the whim hit me. But at this stage in the pregnancy, I couldn’t raise myself off my comfy chair without the “Whoo-hoo” or “Ugh’s” that accompanied every exertion. I’d even become lax in maintaining Pregnancy Body as my bedtime routine was suffering. Brushing my teeth and washing my face required leaning over the counter, and the girth that separated me from the sink became a chasm that I couldn’t bridge

And I loved the feeling of baby moving around, even when he forgot his preferred exit route and seemed determined to kick his way out through my navel. I enjoyed the challenge of coughing and seeing if I can assume the cross legged/Keagle position before I sprung a leak. And wearing the same pants every single day, as they were the only ones that I could squeeze into made getting dressed in the morning a breeze. My house also benefited from my pregnancy as my husband, such a Dear, responded to every request like never before. It could, possibly, have had to do with my mood swings and the fact that it’s easier for him install a humidifier than to have dealt with the sinister wrath of my hormones, but darn it, when I want the carpet ripped out and hardwood flooring installed in the office – I WANT IT DONE NOW!!!

But the end is in sight, Gentle Reader. Around now is the time that your doctor might be prompting you for a Birth Plan. A Birth Plan is a list of all of your preferences and wishes for your delivery that you share with your doctors, nurses and/or midwife. Such things as who you want supporting you during labour and what kind of comfort measures you want to try are documented ahead of time so you don’t have to communicate these wishes when you’re breathing heavier than an obscene phone caller . For example if you’re planning for a natural birth and don’t want any pain medication (Why? Why? WHY??) you’ll want to notify the doctor of this in advance because it’s rather likely you’ll be ready to trade in your husband, house and the family cat for the beautiful man with the needle once in the midst of hard labour.

Here’s some typical questions that a birth plan would cover:

· What do you want to be doing during labour? (Walking around, making use of the shower or whirlpool tub, setting up a game of craps)
· What kind of help are you looking for during labour? (Special music you want to listen to, breathing techniques, a shot of Jack Daniel’s)
· What would you like to have happen when your baby is born? (Try breastfeeding immediately, having partner cut the cord, swearing off sex forever)
· What are your wishes for your hospital stay after baby is born? (Do you want to give baby his first bath, do you want your partner to stay with you at night, do you want your mommy to bring you cookies and milk)

Birth Plans are a great idea when they work. With my first delivery everything went well according to plan. I laboured at home for most of it, probably around 14 hours. We went to the hospital, where I endured another three hours of hard labour, making use of the hot tub and waddling around with the nurse as best I could. As I never held any preconceived notions that I would attempt to soldier through the pain for a natural childbirth, I was thrilled when the anesthesiologist, the true love of my life, came in. Even though it was the scariest, biggest, longest needed I’d ever seen, and hurt like hell to get, the relief that came to me as soon as he left was downright religious. There was a moment when I seriously debated naming my baby Epidural after that experience. I drifted off to sleep, as did Mike, the nurses covering us both with warm blankets, then turning the TV down so David Letterman’s voice was a lulling murmur.
I was gently nudged awake three hours later when David Letterman had given way to the soft porn they play on TV at 2:30 in the morning, and my nurse advised me, “It’s time to push, Honey.” I stretched luxuriously, still pain-free, daintily pushed three times and out come my beautiful baby Tyler. It was a dream labour, an effortless delivery and truly the happiest day of my life thus far.

My second pregnancy was a smidge different, being that Dylan was ready to meet us with a zealousness that could not be matched by the frantic nurses in my room. I was labouring hard, waiting not-so-patiently for my epidural when suddenly I had the frantic urge to push NOW a mere minute after I had been admitted into the hospital. I stated this calmly to my caregivers but was drowned out by the guttural caterwauling of a crazy lady yelling in agony from another room. When I saw the look on Mike’s face I quickly came to the realization it was me who was the screaming crazy lady and during the next four minutes of chaos, I yanked out my IV from flailing around in pain, had to have two nurses pry my fingers off of the sidebars of the bed and unfold me not so gently from the fetal position screaming, “You’ve got to lay on your back, damn it. NOW!!!”, bit my lip so hard that it almost needed stitches to repair and … oh yeah, squeezed a baby out. Barely. So Birth Plans are great but sometimes the baby isn’t as respectful of your choices as he should be and just does whatever the hell he wants to screw up your perfectly planned sequence of events.

Surviving Pregnancy – How to grow a naked baby in your belly (Weeks 29 to 32)

familygal — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 13:55:38 +0000

If you’re a documenter like me, you tend to want to stamp an impression of every stage of your life in some creative and artistic way for future prosperity. I take Polaroids and press them into my diary so a picture accentuates my words, I keep scrapbooks of my kids with little mementos adorning each page, all my Pearl Jam concert ticket stubs are kept in an album, lint from my cat’s toes are nestled in a box under my pillow (I kid, I kid), but you get the picture. So I wanted something other than the worn elastic from my underwear or a bronzed toilet seat cover to symbolize my pregnancies. I debated getting my pregnant tummy slathered in plaster to commemorate its impressive size, but didn’t think I could wait long enough for it to dry without having to pee. So what’s a documenter to do?

Hop on the reality show bandwagon, of course, and sign on to be a part of Birth Days, a TV show that chronicles the ups and downs of pregnancy and bringing a new baby home. Mike and I had previously been on The Decorating Challenge, where we swapped houses with my sister and re-decorated each other’s bedrooms. The show was an experience we both enjoyed thoroughly and I wanted something new and exciting to look forward to.
Nothing like a full production complete with camera crew, sound guy and producer invading your home to keep you on the top of your game.
Cleaning the house became a full-time job and I had the additional burden of actually putting a brush in my hair and throwing some lipstick on whenever they dropped by to film a segment in addition to impressing them with my usual wit and charm. (The cleaning regime changed by about the fourth week, when I was too tired from childbirth, breastfeeding and sitting upright to care. “Just step over the pile of clothes on the floor and give me a second to wipe the baby puke off my robe.”) But apart from my normally well-behaved four-year-old little angel morphing into a smidge of a four-year-old little devil in front of the camera’s watchful eye, I’m glad we did it. It’s nice to see that time in our lives, warts and all, forever captured on film.

Surviving Pregnancy – How to grow a naked baby in your belly (Weeks 21 to 24)

familygal — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 17:09:59 +0000

Right about now I was beginning to have enough of this life changing experience. The aches, pains, nausea and all the other accoutrements accompanying pregnancy were starting to take their toll on my body and mind. My Facebook status updates, that had once started as a ‘Debbie is experiencing the wonder of life under her sweater’ had morphed into ‘Debbie is itchy, grumpy, sweaty and tired and wants this thing out NOW’. My girlfriends Casey and Lou became my lifeline in dealing with the pre-baby blues. Mike was great, and tried to console, but somehow commiserating to my uterus-free husband about my body-betraying laments didn’t help. Only my gals, having been pregnant before, could see my lack of bladder control and raise me an acid reflux and uncontrollable flatulence.

A typical phone call would go like this:

Ring Ring.

Lou: “Hey.” (It’s the days of call display. Nobody says, “Hello?” anymore pretending we don’t know who is at the other end.)

Me: (Exaggerated sigh) “Hi.”

Lou: “How are you feeling?”

Me: “Did your boobs itch?” (No need for small talk.)

Lou: “Yup. I noticed that right towards the end. Totally sucked.”

Me: “Ugh. And what’s with the leg cramps? I’ve get that Restless Leg Syndrome like crazy every night. It’s like I have David Beckham’s legs on steroids trapped in Rosie O’Donnel’s body. Drives me nuts.”

Lou: “I didn’t get the RLS, I got charley horses that would wake my up in the middle of the night. I’m still smarting from the episiotomy. You should really consider perineum massage.”

Deb: “Huh?”

Lou: “You know, the perineum. The spot down there between your (expletive delete) and your (expletive deleted).”

Deb: “I know what the perineum is, I’m just wondering how to incorporate a massage in that particularly sensitive area?”

Lou: “You’re suppose to rub it for ten minutes every night to stretch it out in preparation of a head the size of a watermelon plowing through it.”

Deb: “Ugh. Don’t so ‘plow’. So what are the mechanics of this massage? You just uh… take your finger and rub?”

Lou: “Well you don’t get a Swedish broad to walk on it.”

… and so it goes.

So polish off your gal posse now and make full use of their expertise and support. Enlist your mom, aunt, neighbour, any female of the species who you feel comfortable using the word ‘vagina’ in front of and pour out all your fears, anxieties and questions to and open and willing ear. I remember just talking through my discomfort and blue moods went a long way into making my pregnancies more bearable and even enjoyable.

Surviving Pregnancy – How to grow a naked baby in your belly (weeks 17 to 20)

familygal — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 17:03:43 +0000

The one perk to pregnancy that I thoroughly enjoyed was not obsessing over my stomach. I’ve been cursed with a pudge in that area that refuses to respond to crunches, starvation diets or downright admonishments. Any clothes I wear adhere to a strict criteria which include the right amount of looseness in the front, so as not to accentuate my gut, as well as long in length so there’s no risk of my shirt shifting and exposing said flabbiness. So when my swollen pregnant belly starts to emerge there’s a certain freedom attached to it. Pregnant women are suppose to have big bellies. It’s not a blemish on their figure it’s a badge of honour! It’s the only time I’m free to wear tight fitting tops to accentuate my curves and celebrate my body and it’s phenomenal undertaking. They still have to have enough fabric to cover my enormous ass, but it’s a start.

Having an expanding belly however makes sleeping tricky. So it was around this time that something came between Mike and I. There was a definite separation among us, especially at bedtime. That something was my tried and true, much-loved body pillow. As sacred and beautiful a thing as having a baby in your belly is, it proves to be an absolute bitch to find a comfortable sleeping position, particularly towards the end. Sore boobs and a big tummy coupled with back strain and weak bladders made getting snug as a bug a thing of the past. Enter the body pillow and all was right with the world again. I would wrap my body around that thing like a pretzel and it’s soft contours would nestle in my every aching curve and dangling protrusion that needed support like a warm hug. So if you’re big with baby and looking for relief, my advise to you is run, don’t walk (or waddle briskly) to the nearest body pillow-selling store. That sucker will be the best darn thing that you could ever sink your hard earned twenty-five bucks in and it will last the whole pregnancy – hell, even after, as I can attest. Even when your abs are back to being washboard flat, like mine are now (ahem, okay more like a firm overstuffed pillow) the habit is hard to kick. By why bother? Apart from alienating your husband and ticking your cat off due to less surface area to snuggle, there’s really no downsides.

Surviving Pregnancy – How to grow a naked baby in your belly (Weeks 13 to 16)

familygal — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 17:10:02 +0000

Maybe there’s a reason why confirmation of a pregnancy requires urination. It’s God’s way of saying get used to it now because there will be a lot of peeing in your future. What was once an automatic bodily function that didn’t require much thought or foresight suddenly takes over your life. My three-year-old’s successful potty training was now outshining mine. When Tyler would don his complicated snowsuit and we’d go playing in the snow he would be the one to say, “Now Mom, do you have to go to the bathroom?” And usually I did. There was typically about a 30-minute window before my pea-sized bladder (that was currently cushioning Dylan’s heft) would give me that familiar tickling sensation so any event that we attended had to include clearly plotted out bathroom routes in advance, complete with alternates in case of emergency. Mike broached the subject of investing in a porta-potty for me, but I thought it was much more dignified to just pull the car over when nature called and delicately squat on the side of the road.

Also at this stage, emotional instability usually has a firm grasp on your otherwise sensible notions. I am an emotional sap under the best conditions pre-pregnancy (crying at Hallmark ads, sobbing over a good genital wart cream commercial), but crack open the pregnancy hormones and look out. My cat casually walking by me and not stopping for his usual cuddle could set me off.

Which is why I was particularly chagrinned when that same beloved cat picked this particularly fragile time in my life to pass away to the big kitty litter in the sky. Darby Jacob Sebastian Jade (yes, that was his name) was 18 years old. This timid little long-haired black feline, along with his brother Whiskey Ryan Nicholas Jade (yes, that was his name), had been my rocks during every stage of my life. The tumultuous teenage years, moving out of my parents, my first apartment with my best friend Casey, a string of boyfriends, meeting and marrying Mike and everything in between. I loved those two little furballs with a passion usually reserved for eccentric seniors who leave their life savings to their cats. So it was most inconvenient for me when Darby started showing signs of deterioration while in my fourth month of swollen belly-dom. Whiskey Ryan had perfected the art of inopportune cat-related passings when he broke my heart four years earlier and died exactly three weeks after Tyler was born. That loss was still ringing in my heart when I noticed my Darby Jacob limping suddenly and losing interest in his food. Sure, he was 18-years-old, not exactly a spring chicken, more a late autumn hen, but my Darby had always beat the odds. I found him when I worked in a cat motel and someone brought in 12 kittens that had been found on the side of the road wrapped tightly in a burlap sack. I adopted out his 11 brothers and sisters but kept Darby and he became my token good luck charm. He had a lucky paw and every time I rubbed it and made a wish it would come true. To this day I attribute Mike finally asking me to marry him (it took six years!), overcoming my infertility issues and continually acing Freecell games to Darby’s special powers. So when he started to slow down, I naturally used his lucky paw to wish for his renewed health.

I guess Darby had used up all his luck on me making sure I had a good life because he passed away with me holding his lucky paw, begging for that one last wish, and telling him that I loved him.

So here’s my advice to any pregnant women that own cats. Do not, under any circumstances, have a pet you’re emotionally invested in pass away when you are pregnant. Period.

As you can see from the naming of my cats (our current ball of fluff is Maggie Angola Jezzibell Jade), coming up with a moniker for your baby is a big deal. The little darling in your tummy can only be referred to as ‘The Baby’ for so long and eventually he’s going to come out and expect something a little better than ‘Hey You’ to been sewn in his underwear. The first time around, the name Tyler came to us early on and stuck. There was only a small debate over the possibility of Tristan, but although I liked Tristan, it was too soap opera-y and Tyler just fit well for Mike and I. Come baby number two and it was a whole new kettle of unnamed fish. The problem was not coming up with a name, it was coming up with a name both Mike and I liked. We just couldn’t agree on one. This is probably the one instance were I’m a little envious of a single mother who does not have to have every named poo-poohed by her significant other. I wanted Zachary or Jacob and Mike campaigned incessantly for Oscar. Oscar for God’s sake! Good grief, did he want a baby or a hot dog wiener? Perhaps a grouch in a garbage can? This disagreement went on for months with Tyler finally stepping in to come up with a compromise only a three-year-old can: The fourth member of our family would be named Fart-Poop. And so for the first eight months in utero, poor Dylan was referred to only as Fart-Poop Bruce until I gave up Zachary, Mike gave up Oscar and we both settled on Dylan.

Surviving Pregnancy – How to grow a naked baby in your belly (weeks nine to 12)

familygal — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 17:37:07 +0000

Ah, the first trimester of pregnancy. Nothing short of a miracle is your body’s capabilities. So what if you’re suddenly sleepy all the time, yet have slept less than ever due to a constant need to pee? And what’s a little constipation and facial blemishes in comparison to the joy that is about to enter your life? Excessive salivation and vaginal discharge? Bring it on, baby. You’re a machine. Not even occasional faintness or nausea can bring down your temple of baby-making fortitude. There are times however, that the accoutrements of being with child can wear you down.

Like those bizarre dreams you experienced were likely the courtesy of your old nemesis, the hormone, providing nocturnal entertainment. I kept dreaming about everyone but me being pregnant. Even Whiskey Ryan, my male cat, starred in one as the proud mom-to-be. It struck me as odd that my sleeping mind was more easily accepting of a neutered male feline being pregnant than the real life pregnant me. When my brain finally did acknowledge my pregnancy in dreams, I was always acting in a very non maternal way. I remember one dream where I forgot to feed the baby for days on end, another where I left the baby in a buggy at the grocery store.

And although I never had rock hard abs, at this point my belly was in that in-between ‘Doesn’t-look-pregnant-but-is-flabbier-than-normal’ awkward stage and it seemed my ass was expanding exponentially. The newness and novelty were just starting to wear off and the looming 30 weeks seemed like an eternity. Being off the hootch was probably adding to my crankiness as I always abstained from drinking any alcohol for the duration of my pregnancies. Sparkling apple cider just didn’t have the same kick as Jack Daniel’s.

I also (reluctantly) refrain from colouring my hair when I’m pregnant. I am a natural blond (meaning surely God intended me to be blond, so naturally I colour it) so it’s a drag when those dark roots first start to emerge, betraying my closely guarded secret.

Surviving Pregnancy: How to grow a naked baby in your belly (weeks five to eight)

familygal — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 01:44:22 +0000

Funny how urinating can change your life. Getting a positive result from a pregnancy test is a true high, especially if you’ve received some lows from negative results in the past. It’s happened to me (the positive) three times, and it’s the same incredulous feeling every time. Even though for the previous six months I’ve been brazenly engaging in unprotected sex every other day and falling asleep in crude yoga positions with my toes pointed skyward after said baby-making, I still have that feeling of disbelief. Like not quite able to yet conceive I’ve … uh, conceived.

Whenever it is that you first learn of the news, it’s going to be a moment you remember forever. Some couples keep the secret to themselves for a few months, other shout it from the rooftops (I was a rooftop shouter). In my first pregnancy, my dentist’s receptionist was the first to hear of the happy news. Just as my stick was freshly peed on, she called to confirm an upcoming dental appointment. Responsible mother-to-be I was, I blurted out, “Do you need to take any extra precautions now that I’M HOUSING A NAKED BABY IN MY UTERUS??!”

Even though four pregnancy tests had given me the undeniable plus signs, it was still a delight to have my doctor confirm the pregnancy. I was in my boss’ office when I first had the news confirmed with Tyler. “Congratulations, you’re pregnant,” were the words my doctor spoke. Cue the sniffles and tears. “You will forever be a part of the happiest moment of my life,” I gushed, in a way that often prompts my sister to refer to me as a drama queen. Drama, shrama. I finally had a bun in the oven, or at this early stage a baby croissant, and was thrilled.

I memorialized those cherished moments by keeping the pee sticks and putting them in a scrapbook long before Halle Berry made it trendy. Some say ‘unsanitary pee-encrusted grossocity’, I say ‘irreplaceable precious memento’. Po-tae-to, po-tah-to.

Surviving Pregnancy: How to grow a naked baby in your belly (Weeks one to four)

familygal — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 01:25:52 +0000

If you’re reading this blog chances are you’ve been pregnant before, are pregnant now or are thinking about becoming pregnant, all of which are worthy of a hearty congratulations. Well ladies (or handful of transgender men yet to make their appearance on Oprah), it’s an experience that will drag you through the emotional wringer: The miracle of childbirth. Or, as my dad likens it to, a wet Saint Bernard reluctantly going through a cat door.

After struggling with infertility for several years, I am very happy to say I’ve successfully spawned two boys with my husband Mike, both the direct result of pregnancies. Full-term pregnancy number one concluded in an easy birth, complete with epidural and gushing husband at the end. Full-term pregnancy number two concluded in ghastly birth, no epidural, gushing bodily fluids and fainting husband at the end. The only reason I didn’t faint was because I was too busy pushing out a baby the size of a wet St. Bernard and violently cursing a blue streak. But I digress.

Life before my first son, Tyler, was pretty ordinary and routine. Both Mike and I were working steady jobs, he in film and television and I was a chemical buyer for a manufacturing company. Mike was in a successful band, opening up for Sum 41 and Foo Fighters and I was enjoying my first successes as a freelance writer. We were both paid well, had just moved into our first home and were looking forward to celebrating my birthday in Montreal with back-to-back Pearl Jam concerts (I’m an uber-fan). We had been trying for a baby for over a year and knew my previously diagnosed endometriosis could create problems in that department. It was just after scheduling my first appointment with a fertility doctor, and dreading the impending invasive treatments that my body would likely have to endure, when I found out I was pregnant.

Sheer exuberance followed and apart from a smidge of morning sickness and some acid reflux, my pregnancy was blissfully uneventful and, dare I say, enjoyable. I worked until the last week, had Tyler, fell instantly in love with him and decided not to return to work. I would be a full-time stay at home mom and enjoy every second him.

Which I did.

Life before Dylan was stressful and uncertain. The movie industry was on strike because the writers were peeved about some sort of right to internet royalties, I was in the middle of a lawsuit involving a transcription company that had inexplicably decided to stop paying me for the previous four months, and money was beyond tight. Mike had left his band under bad circumstances, I learned quickly freelancing didn’t have me rolling in the big bucks, I had suffered a miscarriage three months earlier and as if things couldn’t get worse, Pearl Jam wasn’t touring that year. Then I found out I was pregnant.

Sheer exuberance followed and apart from a ton of morning sickness and every other non-serious malady that comes with being pregnant, I had Dylan, fell instantly in love with him and decided to continue to be a stay at home mom (slash working-at-home mom) and enjoy every second of him.

Which I did.

And it happened something like this … (That’s called a teaser. Stay tuned.)