Today marks day one of a three part series on the things I wish someone had told me pre giving birth. Today I’ll focus on being pregnant/delivery, tomorrow on patenting and Friday on my marriage and relationships once we became a family of three. My hope is to shed not only truth but humor on the journey I’ve been on for nearly three years. A bit is personal so I’ll ask you not to judge but to love me despite our differences. The journey is just as painful in parts so instead of reminding me how dramatic I am I encourage empathy.
Today’s post will be long. I apologize.
I’ve experienced three miscarriages to date and am thanking God now that phase is over. (Again, no I’m not pregnant.)If not, I’ll praise Him anyway. Each time I was less than six weeks pregnant and most recently, in October, I was mere days. My progesterone levels are natually low so I need synthetic hormones to help me stay pregnant. Talk about a blow to my ego. Society tells me my job is to be enthusiastic in the bedroom, kitchen, skinny jeans that are too skinny, and in a professional environment. I’m supposed to do all the above while merely looking knowingly at my man amd BOOM be pregnant. With a son. That’s just like him. Then I’m supposed to gain 20 pounds of just baby amd amniotic fluid weight, eat 100g of protein and lay off the ice cream. I’ve realized this can only be explained in two ways. 1. Society as a whole has never been pregnant or 2. Everyone’s a liar. Since K isn’t the only toddler I know the only answer is that women are being fed lies. Ugly, nasty, irrational lies. I do not like lies.
Once Chris and I were married a year we jumped on the baby bandwagon and were more or less pregnant with the sweetie simply by sneezing on each other. That’s an extreme exaggeration but the point is we didn’t really try. Apparently I can GET pregnant I just cant STAY pregnant. I was on Prometrium for 13 weeks and during that time Chris should have left me and called me insane. It took 30 minutes every night of him convincing me to take my prenatal vitamins. I would cry like a child and make a whack list of why I didn’t want to take them. The list was something like, ” But they’re too big. They taste bad. They’ll make my hair green. I’ll grow hair between my toes. They make me sick. I don’t need them. I hate you. You’re stupid. This is your fault.” Granted it was halfway his fault but, alas, I took those dreaded awful pills and was angry for awhile after. Mostly at my crazy but also because Chris and the vitamins “won” again. Clearly I was a mess.
No one told me cooking chicken would force me to my room hidden under blankets with a candle lit to mask the smell. Chicken when pregnant is certain death. Its fumes are basically sulphur and Missouri basketball mixed together. It’s that bad, yo. No one told me that if you don’t have sushi IMMEDIATELY when you crave it someone may die. I promise you my irrationality around food was exponentially worse than my issue with prenatals. I vividly remember a tantrum similar to one my daugher throws over not being able to eat rice wrapped in seaweed. Not my finest moment. Luckily I married a smart man who shortly thereafter took me to an Asian store to buy ingredients to make my own sushi at home. Future crises averted.
Tums. Tums were my best friend. I should have taken out stock in those bad boys. My last trimester alone kept them in business. Tums employees, you’re welcome.
Gallstones don’t play. Though I gained 32 lbs through my pregnancy, I feel confident 25 of it was from Taco Bell. Prior to the weight gain I was on a rigid 1300 calorie diet with 2 hours a day in the gym. I was ripped. I looked GOOD. The change in eating habits mixed with the fat amd hormones gave me wicked stones and put me in the hospital. I’ve since had my gallbladder removed but that is absolutely no excuse for eating like a first world country slob. I really wish I’d have been smarter.
Braxton Hicks. These, dear friends are not contractions. If you’re unsure if you’re in labor then you’re not. The difference between Braxton Hicks and active labor is about as different as McLemore and Micah Downs. (Google their stats then you’ll understand.) The epidural is your friend. You have nothing to prove. My kid was born with an epidural and pitocin and she’s fine. Hyper, but fine.
Your stomach post delivery is symbolic of your unbent elbow. Skin can stretch in unhuman ways and it’s pretty much the most awful thing ever. Baby weight be gone…flabby skin hang out awhile. We’ll become frenimies.
A fever is possible when your milk comes in. I’m a hypochondriac which means my OB got a frantic “I have a blood clot”call at 10PM. A clot I did not have. Rock hard lady parts, however , took over. And those things hurt. Be prepared to wake before your child to pump amd rid yourself of the chance of waking up in a pool of milk or needles stabbing your bosom.
Finally, random nurses going through their med school rounds will be all up in areas that no one should ever be up in. They call this routine. I call it ” under any other circumstances I could have you thrown in prison. Why is it when I’m basically being mutilated by an 8 pound child THIS is the time we decide you need to be all up in my grill?” I’ll never understand the corrupt medical field and this is just another example of why I plan to be in charge of my next delivery instead of going with the flow of “routine.”
After all is said, or screamed, and done your child will be an awkwardly scrunched up blob of blood and other nastiness. It doesn’t matter, though. No one can prepare you for seeing your munchkin the first time. It doesn’t matter that your man had strict “above the shoulders only” instructions and blatantly ignored them. It also won’t matter that you haven’t eaten in too many hours.
I wish I would have been more present after K was born but, sadly, all the video of she and I has me on the phone texting everyone and their mom pictures. Please have a no cell phone policy and enjoy God’s gift. Soon that gift will be coloring on your sofa and pooping on your carpet and all you’ll want is to be up all night with your sweets on your chest because they want to be…not because you’ve bribed them with a Rolo for some snuggles.