Postpartum Body

So I gained 50lbs during my pregnancy. Yes you read that right. My 5' and 105lbs body gained 50lbs in 40 weeks. Some doctors might have warned me to avoid gaining so much weight but my midwife never worried. She knew I was keeping a healthy diet, I was active at work and practicing yoga at home. She also knew I was married to a Viking and thus was baking a Viking-sized baby. There wasn't anything to worry about, she and I believe that (in most cases) the woman's body will be able to birth the baby it makes, no matter how big he may be. And so, my belly stretched to ridiculous proportions, but all that weight stayed focused in my mid-section. And when my son made his entrance into this world, he left behind his big, comfy home.

It took me by surprise how deeply I grieved the loss of my body. Pre-pregnancy I spent way too much time criticizing the minor imperfections, when I should have been living it up! Wearing a bikini at every possible opportunity. At times I think I may have even resented my baby for "ruining" me, as I write this now I realize how terrible it sounds, but it was my truth at that time. A dear friend comforted me, reminding me that most women fluctuate in their size, and with each new size they have to learn to love their new body. This was something that I had never had to do, and I was not doing it well.

When my son left my body he left behind all that stretched out skin used to protect his home inside me. There is nothing I can do about that skin, short of surgery. I am already back to my pre-pregnancy size, in fact I am even smaller, but on my stomach there still remains a flab of empty skin (not to mention the plethora of scars). It has been a SLOOOOOOOW process learning to accept this new skin, but believe it or not, I am much more comfortable in my body now than I ever was pre-pregnancy. Pre-pregnancy, I wasted time scrutinizing the imagined imperfections in my body, trying to meet some ridiculous and unrealistic standard meant to objectify me. Post-pregnancy I have learned to see the body in a more functional way and I marvel at its beauty.

The body is truly one of God's greatest masterpieces, and all the variety and designs we are blessed to manifest that handiwork. My pear-shaped body with its strong legs and short height are delicately designed to carry the weight of my son as he climbs up in my arms. Beauty. My small breasts are bountiful enough to nourish my growing toddler. Beauty. My small hands fit perfectly into my husband's large and protective hands. Beauty. My eyes can look up to the moon as my arms cradle my son and my legs spin us under its moonlight. Glory. We are all wonders. And our bodies reflect just a sliver of the beauty we manifest through these vessels.

This body, my body, is beautiful. I understand it better now that it has been "ruined" by love and light. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find my mom-jeans, because those are seriously comfortable, and I finally get it!

PS: This video was a huge help to me on this journey. I hope it blesses you as it did me.

Giggles, and Going Back to Work

Since I had been TTC for a while before we met R, I was able to save enough money to take 5 months off from work. I'm SOOOOO glad that I did. I needed that time to bond with R. As I have mentioned before, the first three months were spent just trying to survive my postpartum depression and the colic. And then somewhere in between the second and third months giggles happened. Giggles that I caused! My son was starting to bond with me and I with him. The 4th and 5th months were spent strengthening that bond, which I desperately needed because I wondered daily if I had what it took to make a decent mother. My biggest fear was that I did not, and my lack of bond/connection played into that fear. But giggles happened, and smiles at me, and belly laughs, and naps in my arms, and reaching for me. Sitting up, touching grass for the first time, and tasting and making faces at food. It was in these mundane daily acts that I started to feel connected to my son.

It was also at this time that I had to go back to work. Ah the irony...when all I wanted to do was get away I had to stay at home with the baby, and just when I was starting to feel like my place, purpose and joy were wrapped up in being with my little chunky monkey that is the exact time I had to go back to work. That last week at home was tough. I cried at everything. I hated that I was going to miss all those firsts and all the cuddles and giggles but I knew this was part of the deal.

When I found out that it wasn't going to be easy for me to get pregnant I felt an urgency to start trying. The original plan was to wait until my husband could financially support us himself. But with the uncertainty of when or how long it would take for us to get pregnant, we took the leap. I know it hurt my husband to see me moping around the house as my return to work date neared. I know he wished he could give me my heart's desire, but he also reminded me that this was the risk we took when we started trying ahead of schedule.

I had to remind myself that as I was TTC I had asked for god's timing in it all and that I would learn to surrender my sense of control in exchange for trust that god would provide (a baby, or if no baby then the healing and courage to embrace my new life path) and in the right time. And here I was with the prayed-for-baby, questioning god's timing. How could I leave him?

An army of working moms reached out to me, sympathy in their eyes, offering me their strength and courage. My mother was one of them. She was sad, and, I imagine, relived those painful days when she had to leave me and my brother as I cried to her. She affirmed my grief, and conceded that it is hard, but it would get easier, and it would be okay.

My greatest comfort was that R would be staying with his papa. J adjusted his schedule so that he could watch R the majority of the time I was away. But there was still guilt and fear. Now a year has gone by and the fear (of R not wanting/knowing me) has all but disappeared. The guilt, however, that lingers and somedays it wells up and lands heavy on me, and all I can do is stand in it and wait for it to settle back down. Days like when my husband confessed that he saw our son take his very first steps but he didn't tell me right away because he wasn't sure how I would take it. Days like when the sitter is leaving and my son cries and reaches for her. Days like when my son figures out how to say, "Xbox" and I wasn't there to marvel at his genius. I know more days like those lie ahead. I also know that I am working, not because I don't love my son, but because I do! I love him so so so much! And this is the sacrifice I have to make for our family, for him.

Going back to work definitely has its challenges, but THANK GOD for giggles and cuddles and special times like these!

Colic

So colic is one of those words that most people aren't really sure of the exact definition. In fact, even in the medical field there is a lack of consistency in defining colic. It is one of those words that becomes the catch all to describe a baby crying because of a belly ache. And so it is pretty common for people to tell you that their baby had colic.

The first few times people shared this with me, I was eager to commiserate with them over the horror that is colic, only what they described was worlds apart from what I was experiencing. Then one day at church a sweet mama saw my face and heard me mention colic, she approached me with genuine concern and gently tried to encourage me that this would pass and she knew what I was going through because her first born was the exact same way. It was the sympathy in her eyes, and heart break in her tone that convinced me that she truly understood what I was living.

Colic, as our pediatrician explained, is when there are spasms in the digestive system (intestines, or stomach) as the baby continues to develop this important system. These spasms are not always painful to all babies, but for some they are very painful. We were the lucky winners of that crap shoot. Now that my boy is past that painful phase and I can feel what gas bubbles moving through intestines feels like, I am more convinced that our pediatrician's definition is spot on, because gas bubbles feel different than what I would feel in my baby boy's tummy. It felt like a spasm. Like a cramp was spasming in his belly. Poor baby :( He was suffering, and, by proxy, so were we.

The colic lasted for about 13 weeks, and coincided with my postpartum depression. I think the lack of sleep was a huge factor in my depression. For thirteen weeks my son cried and screamed in pain. He slept very little and when he did it was only with pressure and heat on his stomach. So we ended up holding him in the "magic hold" (look it up if you ever find yourself with a restless, fussy baby, it was a life saver for us), or we wore him. I had intended to wear him, but with the colic there was no other option if I wanted to get anything else done. He HATED the car seat (and still isn't really a fan) so driving around was not an option, he hated being on his back so the swing or bouncer didn't help much during that time. He basically lived in my carrier on my or my husband's chest, like a baby kangaroo. (BTW I would highly recommend the Becco Gemini carrier for folks who want to wear newborn babies!)

R slowly outgrew the colic. A woman commented to me once that she believed that babies aren't done developing when they come out of the womb and the she considered the first six months to be a continuation of the enormous changes that occurred in utero. That perspective really helped me during this time. I can't exactly explain why, but it did. My baby who was in pain, and who was making me miserable, was himself miserable and scared by all the changes and sensations he was feeling, and he was helpless to stop it, and all he wanted was to be held chest to chest with his momma or papa. At times I was so tired and irritated I resented being wanted so extremely, but then I reminded myself of his developing pains and I wore him because that was the only thing to give him comfort.

So, we had the colic. It suuuuuucked!!! I had not prepared for that. I did not handle it well. My husband was the champ, the hero, the rock. And those were the first 3 months. Every week of those months I wondered how long I would be in that hell. Those were dark times for me, remember? No one could ever give me a definitive answer. A few moms had some wise words: things never really get easier, they just get different. I liked that. It has that hopeful, slogan feel doesn't it? And I am sure it is true for most moms. But my husband and I were just talking about this the other day, and so far every phase past the colic has definitely been easier. Teething, easier. Night terrors, easier. Night nursing (which he still does at 13 months), easier. Growth spurts, easier. Pre-milestone-grumpiness, easier. ALL easier. Not easy, but easier. So far anyway.

Let's just get this over with

My last post ended on a bit of a somber note. Before I explain, let me first make it clear that I LOVE LOVE LOVE my son so so so much. Parenthood may not be for everyone, and I respect and applaud those who have recognized that it might not be for them and have decided not to pursue it. This gig isn't for the faint of heart. I am daily in awe that I was allowed to journey this road and with such a precious companion. I am so grateful to be a mother (my heart breaks for those who seek this and are denied it), and humbled that I have been entrusted such a priceless gem. I love him more than I expected, more than I knew I could love at all.

Now with that said, I am ashamed to admit that I had a hard time feeling this way when I first met Little. I held him, fed him, and cared for him as any responsible parent would, but I didn't feel love. In fact I felt regret. I often joked about this with others, but it was, unfortunately, all very true. I hate myself for having had those feelings. I don't know if I can ever forgive myself. I had honestly wished I had never gotten pregnant and given birth. Before me was a stranger that screamed at me all day long (the colic drama to come later), ripped up my nipples, refused to be put down causing incredible pain in my arm and back muscles (did I mention he was nearly 10 lbs???), refused all the comforts offered him (swaddles, pacifier, crib, car rides, etc.), and basically was just "take take take" with not a smidge of "give," not even a smile or an hour of silence so weak mom could rest.

Most of that is pretty normal for parents of newborns, but I had the added insult of postpartum depression. My hormones were so out of balance. That coupled with the lack of sleep and I was basically a zombie. I felt empty inside, hopeless. I wanted to run away. Leave the baby and my husband behind. They seemed content with each other after all, they would be fine. But I was drowning. I couldn't breathe and I just wanted out. I knew then that these were horrible feelings to be having so now I had guilt to add to my depression.

My mom also had struggled with postpartum depression, so she could tell immediately that I had it. She stayed with us for that tiresome, first week and witnessed my emotional madness as I would swing from anger and rage over the silliest things to fits of tears as I gazed at my screaming son. When she left we all cried. She told my husband to keep an eye on me, and tried to encourage him, because now he had the burden of taking care of our colic-y babe and me. In this story my husband is the hero. He is my hero. He is my son's hero. He is the this small family's hero. His perseverance and enormous heart rescued me, and sheltered my son. I praise god greatly for putting him on earth so he could fulfill this crucial role.

So many people surrounded me during this dark time, friends, family, strangers, childhood friends. They may never know how deep and profound their time affected me. The simplest phone call, or visit did wonders to lift my spirit, to remind me that I was still me. I put all my energy in making my outward appearance look as strong as possible. I was ashamed of my own thoughts and I did not want others to witness them. But I was not well, even if I looked it, and your time had a powerful impact, even if you thought it was not necessary, to me it was.

After about 13 weeks, I finally started to feel like myself again. Well not exactly. Nothing has ever been exactly the same, and it could never be, because now I am a mother, forged in the fire of trial and despair, but I came through, I survived, and I bear the the scars of that darkness both physically and emotionally.

I have this picture as my background on my phone. It isn't the cutest picture of my son. And it certainly isn't the most recent. But it is from that dark time. He was only a couple of days old. I look at it and speak to that tiny baby. I tell him how sorry I am for those first 13 weeks. I look at it and hope that my darkness did not leave scars on his spirit. I look at it and tell that baby "I love you" because I wasn't able to when he was actually  that small. I don't know how long I will keep this picture up, reminding me of that time and my terrible weakness. But for now I keep it there. I am not ready to forgive myself yet, but I am getting there.

More Than a Year Later

Welp, it's been a year since I stopped blogging regularly, and I am sure you are all (all 2 of you who actually read this blog) wondering what happened, so here it is: I had a baby at home with no complications. He is a big, beautiful, and healthy boy.

But the reason I haven't been posting is that things have been CRAZY this last year. So I would like to spend the next several posts reflecting on this past year, catching you up to life in our messy messy home.

First, off, let me respond to the last post I made while pregnant. The one where I rant about feeling like an ugly heffer. I would like to respond with this video:

Now that a year has passed I can look at these pictures and I understand the shock and surprise that greeted me everywhere I turned at the very end. I was GINORMIC!!! But I also watch this video and am transported back to that very tender and innocent time. That woman in that video had no idea what lay ahead, and if she did I wonder if she would have still smiled as much? Or if she would have spent more time sleeping, or gone to the movies more, or cuddled with her husband more (boy do I miss that),  but I am glad she had no idea what lay ahead, because what lay ahead was not pretty, was rough, and was sometimes was even dark and scary, but then eventually it was ok, then normal, and then funny and sweet. I'll share more about those early days in posts to come now that I am far enough away from it all.

One year ago today

One year ago today I finally met Little. Ten minutes later my husband and I came out of the haze of wonder and asked our midwife what we had, boy or girl. A boy. A beautiful, healthy, and big big boy!

Above are pictures of that intense and miraculous day. 

The other day our doula sent a birthday card for him. I have been laboring over how to describe that day, but I think her words are better than any I have tried to compose:

"Dear R

Happy Birthday sweet boy. It's hard to believe a whole year has passed since you were born. I remember that day well. I remember how strong and determined your mom was, even when things got beyond tough. She never gave up. Also I remember how loving and supportive your dad was to your mom. It was really beautiful for me to witness. Even though your birth was not easy (most amazing and valuable life experiences aren't) I feel it made everyone stronger. It's true that good things are worth the wait.

Love,

Your doula"

My son, your birth was tough, not easy, and you did make us wait (21 long hours), but you were worth it. 

It was one of the most amazing and valuable life experiences your father and I have shared together. Your entrance into this world empowered me in a way that I have yet to find the words for. You are changing the way I experience the world. I laugh and smile daily because of you. My life is full of wonder and joy. So much joy. Happy Birthday.

Well said

In just a few days my son will turn one year old. My husband and I will have been parenting and not sleeping for one year!?!?

The beginning was really hard for us, me especially, and I honestly felt like I would never make it this far. But here we are. Time has zoomed by these last six months. Things are easier now. Still a ton of work, and life has never been the same since R's arrival, but it is easier now. Not sure if this is because I have simply given in to these times, or if I have adapted to the new pace of life, or if R is indeed easier, but I think it's a combination of all of these. There are days when I feel like R may be an only child, and days when I can't wait to have a small army of kiddos.

The first year has been such a roller coaster! I am too exhausted to adequately describe this year's ride, but this video nails it! Every single word. Every. Word. rings true for me.

"I wasn't ready, but then you were here...Big fat love. You've made me rethink my sanity. You've made me want to fall on my mother's feet and tell her that I get it. But then you smile. And you say my name...We're growing. Together."

We've come so far. And we've got so far to go. Happy birthday little man. You've been the best ride of my life!