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| Every shoe has a place. |
You know what they say about the best laid plans. I don’t know who “they” are or what their plans were, but MY plan was to have a completely natural, unmedicated birth like my last one. It went so much better that way. I felt great, it was over quickly, and I recovered much more easily. I wanted a similar experience with my third child. No inductions, no interventions. Just show up at the hospital, allow them to slap a heplock and some wrist bands on me and let me do my thing.
My doctor actually specializes in natural birth so she was as excited as I was about this plan.
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| 38 weeks, 1 day. |
Alas.
Yesterday, when I went to my 38-week checkup, I learned that I tested positive for Group B Strep, which is something I knew nothing about … that is, before my doctor told me I have it and what that means and I started sweating profusely. It’s a fairly common bacterial infection that doesn’t affect my health, but could really make the baby sick if she comes in contact with it. Now, if this wasn’t my third child, I would have just brushed it off — the standard procedure is to administer antibiotics during labor, so I could still stick with my plan and just hurry to the hospital as soon as I felt like labor was underway. They would start the rounds of penicillin, and all would be well.
The problem is that in my previous delivery, Asher came really fast, and chances are this one will arrive even faster. I know it’s hard to predict exactly what will happen, because childbirth is capricious, but my doctor is concerned that she won’t have enough time to give me enough of the penicillin before it’s time to push — therefore putting the baby at risk. She suggested an induction.
I hate the medicalization of birth. I hated not being able to feel my legs when I got an epidural with my first child. I hated having a catheter and that feeling of helplessness that comes with being completely bedridden. Hospitals make me nervous. I am terrified of having a c-section. I don’t like feeling out of control. I was very puffy all over from all the fluid they pumped in me the first time. All of these factors make me an outstanding candidate for natural birth, in addition to the fact that I am confident that my body knows what it’s doing because I was made for this.
But after we talked for a long time, I asked all of my questions and got sufficient answers, I sweated through my clothes and all over the exam table (ew), and weighed my options, I chose the induction. The risk of medical intervention does not concern me as much as the potential risk of exposing my child to a bacteria that could make her really sick. People get induced every day. People also have home births every day. I am making my decision based on this particular situation, and trying to make the best of it.
Needless to say, I have some anxiety and sadness over the fact that my plans have changed, but I can roll with it. Now I know that my daughter will be born sometime on June 7th, and I can make arrangements for my older children and stop worrying about what will happen if I go into labor at an inopportune time. I am going to check into the hospital and let them hook me up and enjoy the fact that I will be completely numb. I briefly entertained the idea of moving forward with an unmedicated birth after they break my water, but after mulling that over, I decided not to.
When my appointment was over, I headed downstairs to finish the registration process so my check-in on Friday will go smoothly. The nice lady at the desk asked me to fill out some forms, and when I was done, she handed me a sheet with a phone number “So you can check on your anesthesiologist.”
“What do you mean, check on them? Like … make sure they are there? THEY BETTER BE THERE.”
She started laughing, like dying laughing. “No, sugar. I meant so you can check to make sure your insurance will cover the bill … oh lawdy, that’s so funny. You’re not looking to be a hero, are you?”
“No ma’am. Not this time … but I do seek to have a baby, which is pretty damn heroic in itself.”
Look what finally came in the mail today! My Belly Bandit(s)!
My hospital bag is complete. My teeth are whitened. Now, I am ready to go into labor.
It’s taking Husband twice as long to recover from his vasectomy as it took for me to be up and functioning after pushing a baby out of my vagina on two different occasions. I hope I’m not putting voodoo on myself by making this comparison, but we are now on day 5 and he is still in pretty significant pain. I feel really bad for him, but I am also perplexed.
It leads me to wonder, is his tolerance for pain lower than mine? Did his urologist botch his procedure somehow? Am I married to a wimp, or is he truly in pain? I wish there was a way to compare what he currently going through to the monthly misery of menstrual cramps. I would be interested to know if my tolerance level has been built up simply because I’m female. I would also be interested to know what kind of damage has been done to my liver after years and years of popping painkillers for several days out of the month.
Most women are able to soldier on with life, compartmentalizing their pain or discomfort most of the time. I am grateful for this ability, but I kind of feel like it would be better for everyone if men could have just a taste of what we deal with on a regular basis. Then, they might understand why it’s hard for the women in their lives to baby them when they are sick. I’m not much of a baby-er anyway … I think I have a hard heart.
But you know … I do have a low tolerance for certain kinds of pain or discomfort. I’m planning to have a natural, unmedicated birth again — but I don’t intend to breastfeed. When Husband learned this, he said, “Wait, you aren’t even going to TRY?” Um, NO. And if you were the one having to do these things, HUSBAND, you wouldn’t want to either.
I hesitate to call men “babies,” because they are supposed to be the stronger sex. And they are, in some ways — but not in all. I just try to remind myself that there are a lot of things I can’t handle. Like breastfeeding and putting meat down the garbage disposal. So while I do pat myself on the back for being one strong ass woman, I simultaneously thank my Husband for being willing to back our van out of the driveway for me so I won’t hit the neighbor’s fence … again.
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| My nemesis. |
Husband and I were alone in our house for 48 hours this weekend while he recovered from his vasectomy, and it was amazing. We watched movies. We ordered takeout. I didn’t cook. I didn’t clean. All we did was lounge and move awkwardly around the house … we made quite a pair with our matching waddles.
It was nice. So, so nice. We’re already plotting our next escape.
But then … the children came back, Husband is still in pain 4 days later, and Asher fell out of the shopping cart in Hobby Lobby (yes, he was strapped in, and I have no idea how it even happened), and we learned that Maverick will have to get weekly allergy shots for 25 consecutive weeks which is something I can’t think about right now so I gave myself permission to put it out of my head until the end of the summer.
That’s what we’re doing. Husband is hobbling around and kind of green with pain, but he is at home with us — a rarity. So we are enjoying him while he’s here. I sure hope he’s recovered from V-day before D-day arrives.
Today was V-Day.
Vasectomy, that is. We are now permanently in control of birth. Which seems surreal, after so many years of careful pill-taking and such. Now we can have all the sex we want and not have to worry! Except … we have small children in the house … so … no. Not really. But at least we know we won’t be adding to that number of small children.
Some people don’t understand why we would choose to sever the baby line before Pepper’s arrival, but the fact of the matter is that we are just SO DONE with making babies. Even if down the road we wanted another one, would it really be the best decision for us? No. Making our family has been hard on our marriage, frankly. We are both ready to close that chapter to focus on raising our three children, and enjoying the rest of our lives.
Having babies is no picnic. It’s hard work, like running a marathon. But we do it because it’s also exhilarating and magical and AMAZING. And it’s not constant hard work. There are breaks between the impossibly difficult parts that are so full of joy I can’t even put it into words. I’ve tried. Nothing is quite right.
So now that I know I am officially closing this baby factory down, I’m excited. I very much look forward to a few years from now when my body has fully recovered, I have a gym membership again, all of my children know how to use the bathroom by themselves, and we have rebuilt our social life. Husband and I agree that our best years lie ahead of us.
Today’s step towards our future was the snip-snip. Dun dun dun.
We decided months ago that this would be our last child, and I flat-out said I won’t be going back on birth control because I am fairly certain it makes me crazy. So, Husband made an appointment for a physical with a new doctor and said he would ask her for a referral to a urologist while he was there. The appointment ended up taking months to schedule, and when he finally went he learned that he had three doctors to choose from: two men … and one woman.
Husband is funny. He really wanted a man doctor. Like, REALLY. Not like, “I would prefer a male doctor.” I mean like, “No way in hell do I want a female cutting on my balls, that is horrifying and I won’t do it.” Alas, the male doctors didn’t have openings until June and July. Clearly I will need Husband up and walking around to help with our three kids for the entire summer and the idea of him being out of commission after the baby is born was just out of the question. So.
He scheduled a consultation with the female doctor.
Meanwhile, my parents offered to take the boys on Memorial Day weekend, so Husband and I could have time alone together before the baby is born. A babymoon! Wow, a whole weekend to ourselves. That hasn’t happened in a long time! We were really looking forward to it.
Until, that is, Husband scheduled his vasectomy for that very weekend.
Also, when he arrived for his consultation he realized that he went to middle school with his female urologist. So his worst nightmare was coming true: a girl he grew up with was going to cut open his scrotum with a tiny knife. He texted me, “It’s pretty awkward to catch up with someone and then they tell you to drop your pants.”
I bet so. But don’t pretend that’s never happened before.
A few days ago I looked her up and discovered she’s a very pretty girl. We were watching TV when I blurted out, “I looked up Dr. Schmeeckle and she’s not ugly!!” And he just looked at me with a look that let me know that he was already aware of this and it was probably adding to his mortification.
I feel like a terrible wife, because he was unhappy that he knew his urologist, and he was also super nervous about the procedure, and I wanted to be kind to him. But I have troubles of my own. There is a person in my abdomen who feels like she is beating me to death, and my morning sickness has returned. So I tried really hard to be supportive, but basically the poor man was on his own. His dad took him to his appointment this morning, and I tried not to think about what was happening.
A few hours later he returned, high as a kite, and announced “I couldn’t go through with it. I chickened out.” Which was clearly a lie because he was walking like … well. You know.
Then, he proceeded to pull one of those sterile cups out of a bag, the kind of cup that you pee in at the doctor’s office, and explained in front of our children and his father what it needed to be used for later … like once he has recovered, later. All the while he was waving that cup in the air … and then he said, “YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO HELP ME WITH THAT!” before I took it away and put it back in the bag and suggested that he go lie down.
Spending our “babymoon” this way was not what I had in mind.
I have a new obsession.
How will I while away my time before baby #3 arrives, you ask? Well … I think we have our answer.
Yesterday I got my hair done and I feel so much better. I think when you have things happening to your body that are beyond your control, the best thing you can do is get those roots taken care of.
Last time I got my hair done was in February by a chick who was drunk. No, really. I do not jest. I know I talked about it here, but I can’t seem to locate the blog entry. Anyway … my hair was effed up and after spending over $100 on that foolishness I went to a very sober person the next day and paid more money for her to fix it, and now I shall call her my hairdresser for ever and ever, amen.
If you live in the Baton Rouge area and you are looking for a totally sober person to do you up right, call Pam at The Beehive Salon. Yesterday I went from this …
To this …
… in a few short hours. I feel much better, and ready to birth a baby. Not really. But my hair looks a thousand times more presentable. “Hello, daughter. I’m your mother. Aren’t you SO glad I got my hair done before we saw each other for the first time?” We can file that under Things That No One Has Ever Said, Ever.
While I’m talking about people who make my life easier and better, I want to address my OB-GYN. I have never had such a level of care from any doctor before. I really like her a lot. My old doctor would never have laughed with me over the fact that her hand was seriously about to go there. She was much too serious for that. But Dr. Boudreaux is professional AND totally normal — yes, that is possible — and I enjoy that about her. Because nothing is normal about having your cervix checked, even if it is the upteenth time it’s happened to you.
Before I left my appointment, they gave me a copy of my “papers” which I am to “keep on me at all times” and “present to the hospital when I go into labor.” Here is another reason why I love her: she wrote on my papers, and on the envelope which houses them, to call her when I go into labor. I wanted to ask her, “What if you’re busy? Or sleeping?” But I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to break the spell.
Yesterday we saw Pepper during an ultrasound! We made it a family event – me, Husband, and the boys. She weighs 6 pounds, 11 ounces and is in the ready position. We could even see her hair! I really wanted to see her face, but since it was toward my back and she seemed kind of locked in place, it will remain a mystery until she arrives.
I am very nervous about what she will be like and what the hell I will do with her when she gets here.
Today I decided the Earth was going to open up and swallow me if I didn’t pack up my kids and go to the store to get a new toothbrush to put in my hospital bag.
I now have a new toothbrush.
Whew – that was a close one.
This is day 6 of having both kids home with me 24/7. We still have 13 days to go before Maverick starts summer camp.
God help us all.
Yesterday, a terrible thing happened.
Let me preface this by saying that I am struggling to adjust to summer break. Struggling. Like … it’s good? But also horrible? Can something be good and horrible all at once? Because I’m pretty sure that is exactly what parenthood is.
Making the transition from having all three kids in school for 6+ hours per day (and working during those hours), to having them home all the time and trying to get my work done in addition to mothering in a loving fashion, is not going great. As I have already established in multiple blog posts from previous years, summer is effing relentless.
Pepper is obsessed with two things: outlets and babies. Here she is showing her baby doll the outlet in her bedroom. #multitasking
Thankfully, this year is somewhat easier than previous years simply because my children are getting older and more independent. Pepper will be 3 next week, so I think we’re finally on the upswing after a very dark time in the Valley of Motherhood.
Yesterday afternoon, we got home from playing at the park. The boys jumped out of the van, heard some kids next door playing, and asked if they could go over to play. I granted them permission and took Pepper inside. Her clothes were filthy — covered in layers of peanut butter and dirt — so I stripped her down to a diaper.
I ran to the bathroom with her trailing behind me, always my little shadow. And then, my mom called. She’s not feeling well and I can barely hear her on the phone. I was straining to understand what she was saying — did she just say she needed to go to the hospital?! — and naturally, my toddler got really loud at exactly that moment. As her shouting drowned out my mother, my stress level started to rise.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. My daughter cried from the hall, and when she stopped, I was thankful. When I emerged only a few minutes later, the house was quiet. A panicky feeling started to rise in my chest, and then it felt like my heart stopped.
Just.
Stopped.
Beating.
Our back door was standing wide open.
Screaming her name, I ran outside. She was gone. Or hiding. Or missing.
I heard a woman’s voice — our across the street neighbor — yelling at me that she just saw a little girl cut through the fences in the backyard.
“She went that way, sweetheart! I was standing here watching her!”
I was barefoot and it did not matter. I ran. I ran until I found her. I couldn’t feel my feet. I couldn’t feel my body. All I could hear was my own voice screaming her name, and my heartbeat deafening my ears. That is what blind panic feels like.
My 2-year-old was wandering one street over from ours, wearing nothing but her diaper. She was holding a toy pet carrier with a little stuffed dog inside. I will never forget the way her face looked when she saw the horror on mine.
“NEVER AGAIN,” I said to her.
“Not with my dog?” she said.
“NEVER, EVER. Do not ever leave this house without a grown up,” I said, as I wiped away my tears.
I’m sharing this story to demonstrate how quickly children can disappear. How many times have I heard stories of toddlers wandering the streets and thought to myself, WHERE WAS THE MOTHER?
That mother is me. I was right there. It happened anyway.
I’m a damn good mom. I am capable. I am aware. I am not negligent. But children are fast. And sometimes quiet. And things happen. So today I’m hugging my babies tight, grateful for their safety, knowing that sometimes other mamas aren’t so lucky.
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Modern Mommy Madness 