Workouts:
Wednesday - nothing.
Why? Had a breakfast meeting with my boss, came home to a breast-feeding frenzied baby, followed immediately up with a visit from my mom. By the time it was all said and done, it was late, my husband wasn't feeling well, and I was pretty much on baby patrol. It was one of those days that I know I will have a lot of in the future (the ones where the baby takes over and it's easy to make excuses), and I just need to plan better (like staying awake after the 5am feeding and going to the gym, instead of getting another hour of sleep. This continues to be my daily goal, but I have yet to acheive it).
Thursday
Total cardio - 55 minutes
44:45 min run for 4 miles (not sure why this one was a touch slower than previously).
10 min WU/CD
Today (Friday)
Nothing - had an early work meeting on the far south side of Chicago, a sick husband and a child that only slept 2 hours. ALL NIGHT. And because of sick husband and the need to get out of our germ infested house, I spent the rest of the day at my mom's house. Got home around 530pm, but (not surprisingly) with a creeping illness that I suspect has something to do with my husband's. And because of said sick husband, there was no one to take care of the wee one so that I could squeeze in a morning workout - even if I had the energy.
Tomorrow:
I am planning a 5 miler. Since I am going to be on my own for the next week (possibly four) and getting in my runs will require extreme strategizing, I am taking FULL advantage of some free time to get it done tomorrow.
Despite the two off days, I still feel okay about the fact that at least I didn't juts lay around the house on the couch - I managed to get out and do stuff. Moreover, my eating has been very much under control (slips are minor and infrequent). So not all was lost...
I know this post sucks - reflects my current energy level. Perhaps I'll have some more wit tomorrow...
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Friday, January 27, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
And For Today's Update...
This seriously must be some sort of blogging record for me.
Today's Workout:
Total cardio: 62:30
Run: 44:30 for 4 miles, 3 min WU, 5 min CD
Elliptical: 10 min
Today I decided that my new goal is to run off my inner thighs. I HATE the way they rub together now, not to mention the lunch buffet they make out of my running shorts. It's like my shorts are on the losing end of a Hunger Hungry Hippo game. Nom, nom, nom.
At some point, likely Thursday, I am going to start doing more strength training in addition to the cardio. But after trying to integrate into those intial workouts with dreadfully painful results, I decided to lay off until my legs were a little most acclimated - and now I think it's time.
I still had a mindful of madness today, but it was a bit better. And wonders of wonders - so was the run. It definately makes me hopeful, as each run seems to be bring me back to normal. In addition, starting next week, I would like to reintroduce my legs to speedwork, and start working off some of those mile times.
And fitness aside, I have a totally random thought I want to share:
You know the downside of having an "easy" baby? I was SOOOOOOO looking forward to using a screaming inconsolable baby as payback for the regular raging LOUD 2AM parties my downstairs college student neighbors like to throw (they were EPIC during my pregnancy). Alas, it was not meant to be, as my child is far too sweet to use for such glorious revenge. Perhaps I will have to "accidently" drop a doody diaper on their back steps when I take out the garbage next time.
Oh, and speaking of the little porkchop:
Handsome little man:
Guess who got a swing (read: Baby Ambian)?
Why hello there...
Today's Workout:
Total cardio: 62:30
Run: 44:30 for 4 miles, 3 min WU, 5 min CD
Elliptical: 10 min
Today I decided that my new goal is to run off my inner thighs. I HATE the way they rub together now, not to mention the lunch buffet they make out of my running shorts. It's like my shorts are on the losing end of a Hunger Hungry Hippo game. Nom, nom, nom.
At some point, likely Thursday, I am going to start doing more strength training in addition to the cardio. But after trying to integrate into those intial workouts with dreadfully painful results, I decided to lay off until my legs were a little most acclimated - and now I think it's time.
I still had a mindful of madness today, but it was a bit better. And wonders of wonders - so was the run. It definately makes me hopeful, as each run seems to be bring me back to normal. In addition, starting next week, I would like to reintroduce my legs to speedwork, and start working off some of those mile times.
And fitness aside, I have a totally random thought I want to share:
You know the downside of having an "easy" baby? I was SOOOOOOO looking forward to using a screaming inconsolable baby as payback for the regular raging LOUD 2AM parties my downstairs college student neighbors like to throw (they were EPIC during my pregnancy). Alas, it was not meant to be, as my child is far too sweet to use for such glorious revenge. Perhaps I will have to "accidently" drop a doody diaper on their back steps when I take out the garbage next time.
Oh, and speaking of the little porkchop:
Handsome little man:
Guess who got a swing (read: Baby Ambian)?
Why hello there...
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Keeping My Word
Today's Workout:
Total Cardio - 73 minutes
30 min - Bike (on trainer - first since March!)
43 min - Treadmill (Run 33 minutes for 3 miles, walk 10 min warm-up/cool down)
Weight:
TBD tomorrow
Thoughts:
Finally, a workout that I didn't want to cry about.
Granted, the trainer ride was primarily an easy spin (yeah, not hitting the speed and hill intervals just yet - but I still worked up a decent sweat), and the run is still minutes/mile off my pre-pregnancy time, but I don't care. I got 3 in, and I know I won't be as sore tomorrow as I was after last week's 3. So, all-in-all, progress.
But dang, this is a far longer road that I was anticipating. But I'm not getting down on that because I know my body is being used for so many things right now (like keeping my kid alive) that it's going to take a while for it get used to giving even more. It's just a huge wake-up call.
So on that short note, I'm out.
Total Cardio - 73 minutes
30 min - Bike (on trainer - first since March!)
43 min - Treadmill (Run 33 minutes for 3 miles, walk 10 min warm-up/cool down)
Weight:
TBD tomorrow
Thoughts:
Finally, a workout that I didn't want to cry about.
Granted, the trainer ride was primarily an easy spin (yeah, not hitting the speed and hill intervals just yet - but I still worked up a decent sweat), and the run is still minutes/mile off my pre-pregnancy time, but I don't care. I got 3 in, and I know I won't be as sore tomorrow as I was after last week's 3. So, all-in-all, progress.
But dang, this is a far longer road that I was anticipating. But I'm not getting down on that because I know my body is being used for so many things right now (like keeping my kid alive) that it's going to take a while for it get used to giving even more. It's just a huge wake-up call.
So on that short note, I'm out.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Plugging Away
Accountability.
I can’t escape it.
It’s on blogs. It’s on status updates. It’s all around.
Mostly, I’ve seen it in regards to people’s New Year’s resolutions or the start of many a-training season and race goals. People coming clean about weight/eating issues, people calling themselves out when they half-ass workouts.
So as I embark on my own personal goals post-pregnancy, I have decided to hold my own self accountable - come clean about my own shortcomings or shame-based behaviors.
First, in regards to my fitness. I mentioned that I signed up for a half-marathon in May. Early May. So that means I need to be flushing all my excuses down the shame-toilet and hitting the gym daily. Right now, this does not happen. Why? Because after multiple all-night feedings, my mornings usually consist of handing the offspring to my husband, and either:
A) Going back to bed for a few extra hours or
B) Sitting on the couch, inhaling hot coffee, and staring blankly into the television (which sadly is usually on Kelly Ripa because I am too damn tired to change it after the early morning news ended prior to it) while I wait for said offspring to wake from his all-too-brief nap looking for his milkies.
The day then unfolds with a series of feedings, diaper changes, and quality time. The next thing I know, it’s 10pm, and I’ve managed to make excuses all day to avoid the gym.
I made it to the gym three times last week, and even got in a 3-mile run Sunday (which I then paid for with excrutiating muscle soreness for the next two days, courtosy of my 3-month hiatus from anything more physical than climbing the stairs to my 2-floor apartment, and that didn’t even happen everday. Shit, when I see it on paper, it hits me how lazy I got in those final months, bedrest or not.)
So I went back twice this week, and got in a 60-minute workout both times, which included 30 minutes on the elliptical and a 2-mile run with a warm-up and cool down. And it sucked the whole time. Both times.
No, seriously. Like, I finally felt a warm kinship to the contestants on the Biggest Loser during their first few weeks. Quite a change from where I was 10 months ago, when you would have found me sitting on my couch, calling them cry babies, and screaming at them for not respecting their amazing opportunity.
But I’ll go back. Again. And again. And then at some point, it won’t actually suck. As much.
So accountability goal #1 – post every workout, which includes doing something physical everyday – even if it means walking around the dang block. This way, I am forced to actually leave the house, move my body, and continue getting my fitness back so that I can actually tolerate myself. Oh, and also finish the race.
Next up – weight. Now, while I can’t actually bring myself to post the number of my current – ahem – situation, I will post the amount needed to lose, and the amount lost. So, at my doctor’s appointment Monday, I weighed in at a heafty…number. The number was 27 pounds over my normal weight (3 down from the initial 30, so some early progress?) So once a week, I will check in with my progress and post the amount lost that week – kind of like a poor man’s version of a Weight Watchers meeting. But without Jennifer Hudson singing empowering songs in the background as my own personal soundtrack.
And in order to do this, I will need to post more – even it’s just a numbers update, sans (questionably) witty commentary. Once daily - a workout post. Once weekly - a weight update.
Now that I’ve put that out there, I need to follow through. And this will be hard because I go back to work in a week, so I'll be fullt-ime mom and full-time psychologist again. But I want to do this for at least the next month, because I figure that will be enough time to actually get me back on track to the point I actually like being healthy again. Because right now, the only thing I really like is laying on the couch, streaming movies from Netflix, eating cheese puffs and cake frosting from a plastic jar while hanging with my kid and making funny faces to get him to smile (though not necessarily in that order – but wouldn’t it be shameful if I liked cheese puffs and cake frosting more than my kid? Shit, I’d need more than blog accountability – I’d need an intervention from child protective services. And a nutritionist).
And naturally I can’t end a post without a picture (or ten) of my offspring. Yeah, I’ve become THAT mom.
My husband calls this SuperBaby. That's his cape.
Morning after a long night. In my robe that I almost never take off. It's covered in spit-up but I don't care. Yeah, I've reached that point in new motherhood where I just don't give a shit anymore. Unless there is literally diareha on it (mine or his), I'll wear it as long as it's conducive to warmth and breastfeeding.
Daddy time.
I can’t escape it.
It’s on blogs. It’s on status updates. It’s all around.
Mostly, I’ve seen it in regards to people’s New Year’s resolutions or the start of many a-training season and race goals. People coming clean about weight/eating issues, people calling themselves out when they half-ass workouts.
So as I embark on my own personal goals post-pregnancy, I have decided to hold my own self accountable - come clean about my own shortcomings or shame-based behaviors.
First, in regards to my fitness. I mentioned that I signed up for a half-marathon in May. Early May. So that means I need to be flushing all my excuses down the shame-toilet and hitting the gym daily. Right now, this does not happen. Why? Because after multiple all-night feedings, my mornings usually consist of handing the offspring to my husband, and either:
A) Going back to bed for a few extra hours or
B) Sitting on the couch, inhaling hot coffee, and staring blankly into the television (which sadly is usually on Kelly Ripa because I am too damn tired to change it after the early morning news ended prior to it) while I wait for said offspring to wake from his all-too-brief nap looking for his milkies.
The day then unfolds with a series of feedings, diaper changes, and quality time. The next thing I know, it’s 10pm, and I’ve managed to make excuses all day to avoid the gym.
I made it to the gym three times last week, and even got in a 3-mile run Sunday (which I then paid for with excrutiating muscle soreness for the next two days, courtosy of my 3-month hiatus from anything more physical than climbing the stairs to my 2-floor apartment, and that didn’t even happen everday. Shit, when I see it on paper, it hits me how lazy I got in those final months, bedrest or not.)
So I went back twice this week, and got in a 60-minute workout both times, which included 30 minutes on the elliptical and a 2-mile run with a warm-up and cool down. And it sucked the whole time. Both times.
No, seriously. Like, I finally felt a warm kinship to the contestants on the Biggest Loser during their first few weeks. Quite a change from where I was 10 months ago, when you would have found me sitting on my couch, calling them cry babies, and screaming at them for not respecting their amazing opportunity.
But I’ll go back. Again. And again. And then at some point, it won’t actually suck. As much.
So accountability goal #1 – post every workout, which includes doing something physical everyday – even if it means walking around the dang block. This way, I am forced to actually leave the house, move my body, and continue getting my fitness back so that I can actually tolerate myself. Oh, and also finish the race.
Next up – weight. Now, while I can’t actually bring myself to post the number of my current – ahem – situation, I will post the amount needed to lose, and the amount lost. So, at my doctor’s appointment Monday, I weighed in at a heafty…number. The number was 27 pounds over my normal weight (3 down from the initial 30, so some early progress?) So once a week, I will check in with my progress and post the amount lost that week – kind of like a poor man’s version of a Weight Watchers meeting. But without Jennifer Hudson singing empowering songs in the background as my own personal soundtrack.
And in order to do this, I will need to post more – even it’s just a numbers update, sans (questionably) witty commentary. Once daily - a workout post. Once weekly - a weight update.
Now that I’ve put that out there, I need to follow through. And this will be hard because I go back to work in a week, so I'll be fullt-ime mom and full-time psychologist again. But I want to do this for at least the next month, because I figure that will be enough time to actually get me back on track to the point I actually like being healthy again. Because right now, the only thing I really like is laying on the couch, streaming movies from Netflix, eating cheese puffs and cake frosting from a plastic jar while hanging with my kid and making funny faces to get him to smile (though not necessarily in that order – but wouldn’t it be shameful if I liked cheese puffs and cake frosting more than my kid? Shit, I’d need more than blog accountability – I’d need an intervention from child protective services. And a nutritionist).
And naturally I can’t end a post without a picture (or ten) of my offspring. Yeah, I’ve become THAT mom.
My husband calls this SuperBaby. That's his cape.
Morning after a long night. In my robe that I almost never take off. It's covered in spit-up but I don't care. Yeah, I've reached that point in new motherhood where I just don't give a shit anymore. Unless there is literally diareha on it (mine or his), I'll wear it as long as it's conducive to warmth and breastfeeding. 
Daddy time.And now, here's the picture I promised in the last post. The first is my son at about three weeks.
And this is me at about six months.
So now that we've clearly confirmed who the mother is, I'll get back to you when we find the dad.
And this is me at about six months.
So now that we've clearly confirmed who the mother is, I'll get back to you when we find the dad.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
So That's Where They Put the Gym!
Wanted to first say that I appreciate all the well wishes and comments on the previous post. I usually try to respond to all email notifications of the comments, but for some reason when I hit reply lately, it just gives me that generic “no-reply blogger” email address. It only lets me respond to a handful of people, so I apologize if I can’t get to your email. But I really appreciate them.
To that end, there are a couple of things that I wanted to respond to from the comments:
1. In regards to breastfeeding – I too have come to walk around the house in my nursing bra and/or nothing at all – heck, it’s my house, and the nips need a breather, you know? Many a day you might see me lounging on the couch, dark circles under my eyes, baby passed out with the milk-drunks next to me, and a shirt nowhere to be found. Some days, especially the ones when he feeds every hour, it’s simply not worth the effort to keep putting it on and off. The only time this didn’t work was when my in-laws were in town for a week for Christmas. After all, we may be close, but we are not THAT close. The last thing any of us need is for my father-in-law to be making a midnight potty-run and see my big old milkers hanging out in the living room, baby on one end and half-asleep mama on the other.
2. You haven’t lived until you’ve literally sucked the snot out of your child’s nose. With your own mouth, yo.
3. I mentioned this in the previous post, but it’s worth reiterating – doody does fly. And airborne doodys are (ahem) messy. And stain.
4. Been living in my sweats for a while (post-pregnancy gift from my friend A, from Victoria’s Secret, size Large, and oh-so-comfortable). My husband thinks I’ve become one of those women who have just given up. Not true, I say. “Giving up” happens the day I ask for a minivan.
But the wonders of motherhood aside, I’d also like to proudly announce that I did make it to the gym – four weeks and one day since my stomach was cut open and my world changed with my new little man (although coupled with the previous few months of bedrest and inactivity, it’s felt like a year since I broke a sweat not related to my intake of French fries, pie or hot wings). I didn’t get medical clearance yet, but I was getting sick of sitting around complaining about how jiggly and heavy and I was, and needed to do something about it.
Also at the gym, I had the displeasure of stepping on a scale since a week before delivery. The way I figured it, I had gained somewhere around 45 pounds during pregnancy, and estimated that I had about 20 pounds of residual baby weight to lose. Turns out that it’s, uh, slightly more than 20 pounds. I mean, 20 pounds was bad enough, and I felt mentally prepared to deal with the scale’s reality, but nothing prepared me for the number that I actually saw.
So here goes my admission. My ground zero. My starting block. The largest weight hurdle I have ever had to overcome.
I am 30 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight.
To.The.Pound.
And yes, that’s with the baby OUTSIDE my body.
Granted, some of that might have to do with my cartoonishly large bosoms, but seriously – the rest of it is in my belly, ass, and thighs.
Possibly a few pounds in my neck and double chins.
Maybe a few in my elephant-ears upper arms.
Ugh. I’m gross. Just GROSS. I want to barf Pop Tarts just thinking about this mess I call my body.
But instead of crying (I save that for the 3am feedings), I sucked it up, mounted the elliptical, and pressed Start. I made it through 25 minutes, and oddly considered that a victory.
And then after that, I got on the treadmill. Can’t run just yet, but I jacked the incline and walked as long as I could before I could no longer tolerate the moldy stink coming from the man next to me. Which was 20 minutes.
And then I hit some quick weights.
And then my boobs were going to explode and I knew there was a one-month old about a mile away wondering where his lunch was, so I called it a day and headed home.
Overall, I feel good that I did it. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And considering I was ready to make yet another excuse this morning to NOT go, I consider it a win (and I had a REAL good one to skip yet again, be it that the previous night was our most challenging yet, with Baby D having a cold, difficulty breathing, and thus difficulty feeding. Cue a major crying episode – both mama and child – and 5am was a bit of shit show at our house.)
(Side note: I know I am making motherhood sound awful, but the truth is, minus a couple of rough moments, our kid is great. I need to give the little chubby pork chop some credit – he’s in this crazy unfamiliar, loud, and bright world filled with all sorts of confusion, and yet he seems to handle it like a champ. He’s gaining weight, getting long and even gives us a smile here and there. But who wants to hear about all the awesomeness when there are dirty diapers, erratic sleep, crying jags and gassy infants to wail about, right? Right.)
As for the fitness, I don’t have much time to be making any more excuses anyways – I registered for the Wisconsin half-marathon – to continue my streak of running that race every year – and it’s a mere five months away. I don’t anticipate a PR (which I had two years ago there), but I know I can finish if I get my training in order.
Plus, my ass needs a healthier goal than “how many times can you eat at Five Guys in six months time?” Shit, I PR'd that bitch back in pregnancy month 6.
And here' is what I have to show for that nutritional acheivement:
How I spent my New Years Eve.
First bath - success!
Tryin' to be all fancy and stuff. At least he knew to color-coordinate his outfit to with his soothie. He's smooth like that. And not at all like his hygeine-and-fashion-challenged mother.
Well, I think we know who he got his forehead from.
One month old in this picture. My son and his baby Buddha belly. This kid barely misses a meal, lemme tell ya.
Almost outgrown his bassinet in just four weeks. He'll be stepping it up to the crib soon!
To that end, there are a couple of things that I wanted to respond to from the comments:
1. In regards to breastfeeding – I too have come to walk around the house in my nursing bra and/or nothing at all – heck, it’s my house, and the nips need a breather, you know? Many a day you might see me lounging on the couch, dark circles under my eyes, baby passed out with the milk-drunks next to me, and a shirt nowhere to be found. Some days, especially the ones when he feeds every hour, it’s simply not worth the effort to keep putting it on and off. The only time this didn’t work was when my in-laws were in town for a week for Christmas. After all, we may be close, but we are not THAT close. The last thing any of us need is for my father-in-law to be making a midnight potty-run and see my big old milkers hanging out in the living room, baby on one end and half-asleep mama on the other.
2. You haven’t lived until you’ve literally sucked the snot out of your child’s nose. With your own mouth, yo.
3. I mentioned this in the previous post, but it’s worth reiterating – doody does fly. And airborne doodys are (ahem) messy. And stain.
4. Been living in my sweats for a while (post-pregnancy gift from my friend A, from Victoria’s Secret, size Large, and oh-so-comfortable). My husband thinks I’ve become one of those women who have just given up. Not true, I say. “Giving up” happens the day I ask for a minivan.
But the wonders of motherhood aside, I’d also like to proudly announce that I did make it to the gym – four weeks and one day since my stomach was cut open and my world changed with my new little man (although coupled with the previous few months of bedrest and inactivity, it’s felt like a year since I broke a sweat not related to my intake of French fries, pie or hot wings). I didn’t get medical clearance yet, but I was getting sick of sitting around complaining about how jiggly and heavy and I was, and needed to do something about it.
Also at the gym, I had the displeasure of stepping on a scale since a week before delivery. The way I figured it, I had gained somewhere around 45 pounds during pregnancy, and estimated that I had about 20 pounds of residual baby weight to lose. Turns out that it’s, uh, slightly more than 20 pounds. I mean, 20 pounds was bad enough, and I felt mentally prepared to deal with the scale’s reality, but nothing prepared me for the number that I actually saw.
So here goes my admission. My ground zero. My starting block. The largest weight hurdle I have ever had to overcome.
I am 30 pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight.
To.The.Pound.
And yes, that’s with the baby OUTSIDE my body.
Granted, some of that might have to do with my cartoonishly large bosoms, but seriously – the rest of it is in my belly, ass, and thighs.
Possibly a few pounds in my neck and double chins.
Maybe a few in my elephant-ears upper arms.
Ugh. I’m gross. Just GROSS. I want to barf Pop Tarts just thinking about this mess I call my body.
But instead of crying (I save that for the 3am feedings), I sucked it up, mounted the elliptical, and pressed Start. I made it through 25 minutes, and oddly considered that a victory.
And then after that, I got on the treadmill. Can’t run just yet, but I jacked the incline and walked as long as I could before I could no longer tolerate the moldy stink coming from the man next to me. Which was 20 minutes.
And then I hit some quick weights.
And then my boobs were going to explode and I knew there was a one-month old about a mile away wondering where his lunch was, so I called it a day and headed home.
Overall, I feel good that I did it. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And considering I was ready to make yet another excuse this morning to NOT go, I consider it a win (and I had a REAL good one to skip yet again, be it that the previous night was our most challenging yet, with Baby D having a cold, difficulty breathing, and thus difficulty feeding. Cue a major crying episode – both mama and child – and 5am was a bit of shit show at our house.)
(Side note: I know I am making motherhood sound awful, but the truth is, minus a couple of rough moments, our kid is great. I need to give the little chubby pork chop some credit – he’s in this crazy unfamiliar, loud, and bright world filled with all sorts of confusion, and yet he seems to handle it like a champ. He’s gaining weight, getting long and even gives us a smile here and there. But who wants to hear about all the awesomeness when there are dirty diapers, erratic sleep, crying jags and gassy infants to wail about, right? Right.)
As for the fitness, I don’t have much time to be making any more excuses anyways – I registered for the Wisconsin half-marathon – to continue my streak of running that race every year – and it’s a mere five months away. I don’t anticipate a PR (which I had two years ago there), but I know I can finish if I get my training in order.
Plus, my ass needs a healthier goal than “how many times can you eat at Five Guys in six months time?” Shit, I PR'd that bitch back in pregnancy month 6.
And here' is what I have to show for that nutritional acheivement:
How I spent my New Years Eve.
First bath - success!
Tryin' to be all fancy and stuff. At least he knew to color-coordinate his outfit to with his soothie. He's smooth like that. And not at all like his hygeine-and-fashion-challenged mother.
Well, I think we know who he got his forehead from.
One month old in this picture. My son and his baby Buddha belly. This kid barely misses a meal, lemme tell ya.
Almost outgrown his bassinet in just four weeks. He'll be stepping it up to the crib soon!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Arrival
Turns out, if you wait long enough, the baby actually DOES come out.
Today is the three-week anniversary of my baby boy's birth, so there is a lot of catching up to do. Surely, I could have posted sooner, but I have been trying to take everyone's age-old advice of "when the baby sleeps, you sleep" so my days are pretty much feed the baby, clean poop, sleep. and when I am awake and functioning, I have tried to either leave the house (me and the baby have had two solo trips so far!), read work emails, or just chill with the baby in his few waking hours.
So what follows is basically how the little man came into our world. Be warned, in true PP form, it's pretty much as raw as it gets - I've never really been one to hold back, so why start now?
The action, I guess, started the day after the last post - Friday. That morning, after some concern, my doctor thought my water broke, so I was sent the hospital. Excited with bags packed, my husband and I set off, thinking this was out last day as non-parents.
Not so much - turns out the water in my jeans was likely due to poor bladder control - though I begged to differ, as I am accused of a lot of things, but pants-peeing is not one of them (at least not since the second grade).
Home we went.
Fast forward to Monday night - after a quick late afternoon nap, I woke to get ready for my doctor's appointment, which was at 6pm. As I put my leggings on, something splashed to the ground - was it my water? Sure looked like it, but after four times of being told I was in some form of labor and no baby actually came, I didn't want to get my hopes up. Moreover, the splash was neither the large "gush" or the constant trickle.
We got to the doctor's office, told them went happened, and the three tests they do to confirm water breakage were...inconclusive. Doctor did an ultrasound and determined that my amniotic fluid was again really low - down 4 cm in a week - so that was enough for her to order an inducement - even if my water didn't break, they would induce me because my fluid was too low at that point.
Off we went again to the hospital, where they subsequently confirmed my water DID break and my contractions were every 2-3 minutes (and obviously not painful by that point because I didn't know they were happening - but that would change).
Calls were made, and enter the excited family....
Today is the three-week anniversary of my baby boy's birth, so there is a lot of catching up to do. Surely, I could have posted sooner, but I have been trying to take everyone's age-old advice of "when the baby sleeps, you sleep" so my days are pretty much feed the baby, clean poop, sleep. and when I am awake and functioning, I have tried to either leave the house (me and the baby have had two solo trips so far!), read work emails, or just chill with the baby in his few waking hours.
So what follows is basically how the little man came into our world. Be warned, in true PP form, it's pretty much as raw as it gets - I've never really been one to hold back, so why start now?
The action, I guess, started the day after the last post - Friday. That morning, after some concern, my doctor thought my water broke, so I was sent the hospital. Excited with bags packed, my husband and I set off, thinking this was out last day as non-parents.
Not so much - turns out the water in my jeans was likely due to poor bladder control - though I begged to differ, as I am accused of a lot of things, but pants-peeing is not one of them (at least not since the second grade).
Home we went.
Fast forward to Monday night - after a quick late afternoon nap, I woke to get ready for my doctor's appointment, which was at 6pm. As I put my leggings on, something splashed to the ground - was it my water? Sure looked like it, but after four times of being told I was in some form of labor and no baby actually came, I didn't want to get my hopes up. Moreover, the splash was neither the large "gush" or the constant trickle.
We got to the doctor's office, told them went happened, and the three tests they do to confirm water breakage were...inconclusive. Doctor did an ultrasound and determined that my amniotic fluid was again really low - down 4 cm in a week - so that was enough for her to order an inducement - even if my water didn't break, they would induce me because my fluid was too low at that point.
Off we went again to the hospital, where they subsequently confirmed my water DID break and my contractions were every 2-3 minutes (and obviously not painful by that point because I didn't know they were happening - but that would change).
Calls were made, and enter the excited family....
The rest went down like this:
They put me on meds to speed up contractions at 1030pm. Holy pain. Once they kicked in, I tried to beat it for as long as possible before asking for the pain meds at 230am. But to be fair, I also asked for the pain meds because they said they couldn't check my dilation until I has the epi. Epi in 230am, and that was last time I felt any sort of pain. AT ALL.
I actually slept for a few hours. The next thing I knew, the doctor came in at 7am, told me I was 8 cm dilated, and again at 8am, and told me I was fully dilated, and ready to start pushing. I was like, "Baby coming! Baby coming!"
Not so fast.
I proceeded to push for 3 1/2 hours. Yeah, you read that correctly. THREE AND A HALF HOURS. To put that in perspective, my sister's friend has a baby a few days ago and pushed for 14 minutes. Granted, pushing times vary dramatically, but 3 1/2 hours is tough. It doesn't hurt, but it is exhausting - so much so that by the end, I was taking quick naps between contractions (about 90 seconds in between each push session).
After that marathon stretch, it was determined that the baby was facing up - after they shifted him to face down, it was determined that my pelvis was too small to get him through. Our options? C-section or forceps.
This is where it got emotional - not in the "why me? my body failed me!" type way, but rather in the "we got so far, and still couldn't get him out" kind of way. It was here that I started to sob, with no one able to console me.
No way was I having my child yanked out using salad tongs, so C-section it was. Within minutes I was in the OR, which was so cold I was convulsing with shivers and sobbing while they set up, numbed me and cut me open. I felt nothing but my body being kind of yanked around (not painful, more like I could tell I was being tugged). The room was so cold my hands wouldn't stay still, and my sobbing made me a complete mess. And then, about 30 minutes after it all started, at 130pm on 12.13.2011, the doctor proclaimed:
"It's a BOY!"
My son, 7 pounds, 8 ounces, and 20 inches long.
Footprints
First family photo
So let me pause here and talk about this moment.
The proclamation was followed immediately by a large wailing cry from MY SON. I heard my husband - who sat to my left- gasp and cry, "It's a boy!" I felt an almost indescribable mix of relief (that it was over), shock (that it was a boy, because I spent 10 months convinced it was a girl), disbelief (ohmygosh I have a kid), and exhaustion. And cold. I was just so cold. I know it probably sounds weird that "joy" wasn't an immediate reaction, but in that moment, given everything that happened - and the fact that I didn't even see my child for several minutes, and didn't hold him for the first five-ish hours, it's not that unusual that there were some initial attachment issues.
Now,that's not to say I didn't feel any positive feelings - I did, but in a kind of what-just-happened-on-my-gosh-I-have-a-son kind of way. The real "love" switch got flipped some time later up in my room, when it was just me and him hanging out, and I felt this wave of emotion - joy, love - consume me. It's kind of weird to acknoweldge this out loud, especially since I always read about people fall in love immediately with their kid and all that - and for the last few weeks I wondered if something was wrong with me. But in hindsight, I know that there was just so much going on in those hours that, between the physical and emotional exhaustion of it all, I was just out of it, depleted to the point that it was hard to really take anything in.
The family meets Baby Boy D for the first time:
Aunt Devin
Check out my enormous face - I was swelled up like a blowfish, in part due to my hour-long sobbing fest and constant IV. I was swollen for about two weeks after this to unreal proportions. Anyway - this picture was taken while I was numb from rib cage down, more exhausted than I could imagine ever being, and convulsing with cold shivers (still) and unable to hold my child. I was able to use my hands to touch my belly, which was also stunningly swollen. My mouth was so dry I could barely talk (no fluids since about 8am). Here in the recovery room, they covered me with a space blanket type thing that they pumped hot air into so that I would warm up while also allowing me to eat ice chips, which seemed to, at least briefly, counteract the heat blanket. I was a mess. Took me about an hour to regulate. I couldn't even think straight.
Aunt Ellen, breaking Baby Boy D in with a Red Vine (she didn't really feed him this, just in case someone tries to contact the authorities).
Grandma
Literally hours old at this point.
Look how long he is!
One of the ultrasound photos we have is of the baby - at about 15 weeks - in this exact pose. We call it "the touchdown baby" pose. He loves being in this pose when he sleeps.
In his Christmas pjs - threatending Santa with a knuckle sandwich is he didn't get his presents on time.
So here I am, three weeks post-baby, and it's been quite a ride so far. Both me and my husband are on work leave (he goes back in two weeks, me at the end of January) so we've had a lot of "quality" time together. Some observations about these early stages of parenthood:
1. Your belly doesn't automatically disappear once the baby is out. Imagine my shock when I woke up the next morning and still looked 6 months pregnant. Not.Happy. This took about two weeks to go away, though I still have a jiggle belly, thanks to my almost-exclusive Oreo-and-RedVine-diet in that last month of pregnancy (and cake-for-breakfast holiday diet). Turns out my thighs still rub together as well. Su-weet.
2. It IS possible to projectile doody. Just ask my son. And his other favortie trick? The "fire hose." Yeah, it is what it sounds like. I think it's the sensation of the wet wipe that triggers a golden shower. Last night, during his birth announcement photo session, he was actually skilled enough to pee in his own face (and eyes). My kid's gifted. Trust it.
3. Breastfeeding? It's not natural OR easy. If I've had any issues, it's been this. And when your trying to breast feed, and your kid is struggling, it's REALLY emotional. I mean, you are soley responsbile for feeding your child so he survives, and when you can't do it, and it's 3am, and he won't latch, and your nipples are cracked and bleeding - well, let's just say epic meltdowns are bound to happen. And let's be honest, shall we? I'm not the most patient person in the world, and am also a bit of a obsessive perfectionist (understatement), so when I can't do something, I get a little nuts. The funny thing is is that - despite my own expectations and sense of failure - I must have been doing something right from the beginning, because he gained back both his birth weight and an extra pound in the first two weeks, which is really good. Knowing this, it's helped me to calm the eff down. Three weeks in and we are in a much better place. My kid's belly chub is evidence of this.
4. Speaking of BF - holy boobs. People weren't kidding when they said they would double in size when my milk comes in. Pregnancy blew them up, but BF has turned them into a completely different beast all together. That's all I have to say about that without giving my blog it's own warning label for explicit material.
5. Boob size ineviatbley leads me to think about returning to running, and how on earth I am going to start logging miles with these jugs bouncing around. I have no idea yet, and haven't gotten clearence anyways (given my C-section incision that still healing) but since I will continue to breast feed and thus the mild will be plentiful, I have to figure this out. Plus, BF makes you really tired, so getting back to the gym hasn't happened as I had hoped. I am aiming for sometime in the next few days, as we continue to get our schedule nailed down.
6. I'd say I have about 20 pounds of fat to get rid of at this point. Although I didn't get weighed at the last doctor's appointment (because I was in labor), best estimate for total pregnancy weight gain is about 45 pounds. Yeah, I know. Its about 10-15 more than the books say you should gain, but I was on and off bedrest for the last three months and pretty much stuck on the couch, so I guess I was bound to gain a bit more. And like I mentioned earlier, damn Oreos were the end of me. I swore I wouldn't be that girl, but here I am - 20 pounds of non-baby fat to run off. Superb.
So that should catch us up to speed on the last three weeks. I am hesitant to comment on the fact that our child is about as chill as they come, and for all intents and purposes, has been really...easy. We keep waiting for the other shoe to drop - for colic to set it, for brying jags that last all night to hit - but so far we have been really lucky. And I stress lucky, because I certainly have nothing to do with it - what with my lunatic temprement and all.
I am sure I will have some more Tales of Parenthood as we go on, and I'll squeeze them in between dodging poo rockets and being milked like a cow.
Later!
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Salty
Let's get this out of the way first - Baby still not here.
Not going to launch into the drama of the last few weeks, but suffice to say, we are still waiting...
And waiting...
And growing....
And by growing, I mean me getting fatter. The kid? Eh, not so much. Still a bit on the small side.
I'm now one day short of 39 weeks.
Or by my count, two solid months of zero physical activity, peppered with on-and-off-and-on (again) bedrest. One moment the kid's head is all but hanging out and we are bags-packed-and-headed-to-the-hospital, and the next he/she has crawled right back up and nestled into the apparently-welcoming envionment of my womb, with talk turned to being in this for the long haul.
You can imagine how thrilled this makes me.
Yeah, I am a straight peach to deal with at this point.
In fact, I was trying to post pictures of my baby shower (coincidently held the exact day I hit nine months so you can get the full impact of my ginormously swollen body and face) for this post, but iPhone is being a bitch and not letting me transfers pics.
Or something.
Who cares.
I can't be bothered to figure it out, so I have to wait until my husband wakes up to do it for me.
Just like he now has to do everything for me: tie my shoes, cook my food, pull me off the couch (and out of the car),and deal with my bed-rattling snoring.
And endless complaining. Oh, it is endless.
I have ZERO patience for literally anything at this point (including work - it's like I am bothered when people call me during the day and I have to problems-solve some issue, gosh-forbid it breaks up my naptime), as my kid's foot has been stuck in my right rib for about five days, and I haven't sleep adequately in about two months.
Have I mentioned that my belly button (like my kid) can't decide what it wants to do, so it hasn't quite popped out, yet it isn't a regular in-ie anymore. No, my belly button looks like a clay-mation volcano, second only in nastiness to my cartoonish, National Geographic situation going on with my boobs.
Sit with that image for a minute if you can.
So in the absence of anything more entertaining (like those fucking pictures), here's a little something I learned this past week:
Eat too many Oreos and you risk not taking a crap for three days.
You're welcome.
Not going to launch into the drama of the last few weeks, but suffice to say, we are still waiting...
And waiting...
And growing....
And by growing, I mean me getting fatter. The kid? Eh, not so much. Still a bit on the small side.
I'm now one day short of 39 weeks.
Or by my count, two solid months of zero physical activity, peppered with on-and-off-and-on (again) bedrest. One moment the kid's head is all but hanging out and we are bags-packed-and-headed-to-the-hospital, and the next he/she has crawled right back up and nestled into the apparently-welcoming envionment of my womb, with talk turned to being in this for the long haul.
You can imagine how thrilled this makes me.
Yeah, I am a straight peach to deal with at this point.
In fact, I was trying to post pictures of my baby shower (coincidently held the exact day I hit nine months so you can get the full impact of my ginormously swollen body and face) for this post, but iPhone is being a bitch and not letting me transfers pics.
Or something.
Who cares.
I can't be bothered to figure it out, so I have to wait until my husband wakes up to do it for me.
Just like he now has to do everything for me: tie my shoes, cook my food, pull me off the couch (and out of the car),and deal with my bed-rattling snoring.
And endless complaining. Oh, it is endless.
I have ZERO patience for literally anything at this point (including work - it's like I am bothered when people call me during the day and I have to problems-solve some issue, gosh-forbid it breaks up my naptime), as my kid's foot has been stuck in my right rib for about five days, and I haven't sleep adequately in about two months.
Have I mentioned that my belly button (like my kid) can't decide what it wants to do, so it hasn't quite popped out, yet it isn't a regular in-ie anymore. No, my belly button looks like a clay-mation volcano, second only in nastiness to my cartoonish, National Geographic situation going on with my boobs.
Sit with that image for a minute if you can.
So in the absence of anything more entertaining (like those fucking pictures), here's a little something I learned this past week:
Eat too many Oreos and you risk not taking a crap for three days.
You're welcome.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Dry Run
Wow – this was quite a week. I’ve kind of avoided posting these details on the Facebook, so this will likely read like one big sterile update.
Side note: Speaking of Facebook, that girl that was preggo and posted literally ten times a day about her progress and who is my own personal marker against how I judge my own sharing habits? Yeah, apparently posting about the mucus plug wasn’t enough – she honored us with a post about her explosive diarrhea. No.Fucking.Shit. ON HER STATUS UPDATE. Now, one might have in fact defriended this lunatic at this point, but not me – me and my abnormal fascination with oversharing wackos against whom I both rage and obsess. And yes, in case you’re wondering (you’re probably not) but she did in fact post throughout her delivery – all the way up to the point where she was 10 centimeters dilated and pushing. Why did she put down the phone, you ask ? (you likely didn’t) Because the doctor actually had to tell her to.
AUGHHHHHHH!!!!!!
Why do I let it work me up so? Seriously. It would be so much easier to hit “remove,” but I don’t. I have no one to blame but myself.
And her. I blame her.
Okay, so getting back to the fact that I didn’t post on Facebook, I did want to say thanks to people that sensed something was up and inquired – I was so not trying to blow it off. I just wanted to wait until I could put it here and avoid being THAT girl.
So Monday was just about as typical as any other day. Since I was already on limited movement and couldn’t do my typical Monday drive out to the cornfields for my weekly meeting (it’s about 79 miles away, so the doctor and my husband said no more at this point – too far away if anything happens), I was working from home.
At 1100am, I threw on some flipflops and sweats and I went to my doctor’s appointment, not thinking much of anything. I didn’t even bother to shut down my work computer because I knew – thought – I would be back in about an hour.
But an hour later, I was on my way to Labor and Delivery.
Turns out that, while the tests results from that pre-term labor test were negative (meaning I was likely going to make it Week 34 without going into labor), my body had in fact started the process anyways. I was dilated, effaced and contracting (all of which are labor code words for “Get the catcher’s mitt ready – batter’s up!), and with enough progress from the previous week that I was being sent to Labor and Delivery to be hooked up to monitor the actual contractions and assess what was happening.
In addition, because my body already started to prepare and pre-term labor was the concern, I was given steroids for the baby’s lungs – with the way my body was progressing, even if we stopped the labor, there was still a chance the baby would come too early (anytime in the next two weeks), and the steroids were to boost the lung development.
The rest of the day kind of drew out – contractions slowed, I got my first round of steroid shots, and watched the Chiefs football game with my husband from the hospital room.
Contractions kicked back in fierce the next morning, but there was no decernable change to my cervix since the day before, so they let me go home.
Where I am now trapped. Indefinitely. Well, at least til this kiddo comes out.
And believe me – my family and especially my husband are hawk-eyeing me to make sure that I don’t get very far from my couch. My job has been extremely awesome in divvying up my responsibilities to lessen my stress (although truth be told its weird seeing other people do my job – makes me feel a bit dispensable but oh well) and I’ve been doing what I can to keep up with my supervisees.
Today marks Week 34, and what we consider the gateway to the Green Zone. This is a big marker because once I got to Week 34, they won’t try to stop the labor again. I guess that Week 34 also represents a big turn in terms of lung development, and the baby has a strong chance of being okay – which is why they wouldn’t stop anything from happening from tomorrow on.
So for the next few days (weeks?), I am ever so vigilant of water breaking, timing my ongoing contractions and all that good stuff. I have another doctor’s appointment Monday (if I make it that point), but this time I have my bags packed, a phone tree ready, and more sense of calm than this past Monday’s chaos.
As for the baby, he/she is getting big, although not as big as expected. At 32 weeks, I was only measuring at about 30 weeks, so right about now the kiddo is about 4 pounds-ish (hopefully). But I feel confident that the pizza/bread stick binge last night will help round the little bambino out. And if that didn’t do the trick, surely the candy/cookie gorge of this afternoon will do the trick.
I’ve missed running and fitness more than ever lately, but I am sure that mass anxiety that these last few weeks have brought might have something to do with that. And I won’t even get into the moment I was going through closet last night and stumbled across a dress I wore just one year ago, simultaneously marveling at how tiny it was and tearing up at the current state of affairs.
Sigh.
Having a baby is hard, yo.
Now back to the couch.
Side note: Speaking of Facebook, that girl that was preggo and posted literally ten times a day about her progress and who is my own personal marker against how I judge my own sharing habits? Yeah, apparently posting about the mucus plug wasn’t enough – she honored us with a post about her explosive diarrhea. No.Fucking.Shit. ON HER STATUS UPDATE. Now, one might have in fact defriended this lunatic at this point, but not me – me and my abnormal fascination with oversharing wackos against whom I both rage and obsess. And yes, in case you’re wondering (you’re probably not) but she did in fact post throughout her delivery – all the way up to the point where she was 10 centimeters dilated and pushing. Why did she put down the phone, you ask ? (you likely didn’t) Because the doctor actually had to tell her to.
AUGHHHHHHH!!!!!!
Why do I let it work me up so? Seriously. It would be so much easier to hit “remove,” but I don’t. I have no one to blame but myself.
And her. I blame her.
Okay, so getting back to the fact that I didn’t post on Facebook, I did want to say thanks to people that sensed something was up and inquired – I was so not trying to blow it off. I just wanted to wait until I could put it here and avoid being THAT girl.
So Monday was just about as typical as any other day. Since I was already on limited movement and couldn’t do my typical Monday drive out to the cornfields for my weekly meeting (it’s about 79 miles away, so the doctor and my husband said no more at this point – too far away if anything happens), I was working from home.
At 1100am, I threw on some flipflops and sweats and I went to my doctor’s appointment, not thinking much of anything. I didn’t even bother to shut down my work computer because I knew – thought – I would be back in about an hour.
But an hour later, I was on my way to Labor and Delivery.
Turns out that, while the tests results from that pre-term labor test were negative (meaning I was likely going to make it Week 34 without going into labor), my body had in fact started the process anyways. I was dilated, effaced and contracting (all of which are labor code words for “Get the catcher’s mitt ready – batter’s up!), and with enough progress from the previous week that I was being sent to Labor and Delivery to be hooked up to monitor the actual contractions and assess what was happening.
In addition, because my body already started to prepare and pre-term labor was the concern, I was given steroids for the baby’s lungs – with the way my body was progressing, even if we stopped the labor, there was still a chance the baby would come too early (anytime in the next two weeks), and the steroids were to boost the lung development.
The rest of the day kind of drew out – contractions slowed, I got my first round of steroid shots, and watched the Chiefs football game with my husband from the hospital room.
Contractions kicked back in fierce the next morning, but there was no decernable change to my cervix since the day before, so they let me go home.
Where I am now trapped. Indefinitely. Well, at least til this kiddo comes out.
And believe me – my family and especially my husband are hawk-eyeing me to make sure that I don’t get very far from my couch. My job has been extremely awesome in divvying up my responsibilities to lessen my stress (although truth be told its weird seeing other people do my job – makes me feel a bit dispensable but oh well) and I’ve been doing what I can to keep up with my supervisees.
Today marks Week 34, and what we consider the gateway to the Green Zone. This is a big marker because once I got to Week 34, they won’t try to stop the labor again. I guess that Week 34 also represents a big turn in terms of lung development, and the baby has a strong chance of being okay – which is why they wouldn’t stop anything from happening from tomorrow on.
So for the next few days (weeks?), I am ever so vigilant of water breaking, timing my ongoing contractions and all that good stuff. I have another doctor’s appointment Monday (if I make it that point), but this time I have my bags packed, a phone tree ready, and more sense of calm than this past Monday’s chaos.
As for the baby, he/she is getting big, although not as big as expected. At 32 weeks, I was only measuring at about 30 weeks, so right about now the kiddo is about 4 pounds-ish (hopefully). But I feel confident that the pizza/bread stick binge last night will help round the little bambino out. And if that didn’t do the trick, surely the candy/cookie gorge of this afternoon will do the trick.
I’ve missed running and fitness more than ever lately, but I am sure that mass anxiety that these last few weeks have brought might have something to do with that. And I won’t even get into the moment I was going through closet last night and stumbled across a dress I wore just one year ago, simultaneously marveling at how tiny it was and tearing up at the current state of affairs.
Sigh.
Having a baby is hard, yo.
Now back to the couch.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
And Now to the Other End of the Spectrum
So I had planned to do a super awesome post on my sister's first marathon (GO Ellen!!!), but I am short on time at the moment because this week of work SUXXXXXX. So unfortunately that post will have to wait until this work week eventually spits me back out come Friday.
So I went to the doctor about two weeks ago (I started going every two weeks at this point so they can make sure little Baby D isn't falling out the chute too early,) and as it turns out...he kinda was.
Well, hold on - let me reign in my overdramatics here for a second.
The baby isn't actually falling out of my lady bits. I guess what's happening is that (men, turn away....TURN AWAY!!! No? Well, consider yourselves warned) my cervix was getting itself all ready a tad (10 weeks) early. So not only was I taken completely off running, but I am completely off any sort of activity. I imagine I would be on "bed rest" if I wasn't a psychologist who's job consisted of a lot of sitting.
(Side note: And who knew sitting was so effing boring and leads to the most hellacious swollen feet?!?! Not this fatty.)
As that appointment, my doctor said she "would like to see [me] get another a month under [my] belt."
A MONTH?!?!?!
As in - 4 weeks? As in, this baby might come at 34 weeks?!?!
This momma ain't ready, yo.
I mean, we haven't even had a shower (it was planned for early December - cue look of shock from my doctor), and we haven't taken any baby-is-coming classes (cue second look of shock). Needless to say, I spent the weekend pretty much laid-up on the couch, kept company by my insane anxiety that I was cooking this baby all wrong and he/she was going some out all scrawny and headed straight to the incubator.
And trust me, anxiety and guilt does not a good combo make - especially during Halloween season, when there are far to many "fun size" Twix and peanut butter cups for my own good.
Shit - I should be ashamed for that pouting I do on the scale at the doctor's office - I have no one to blame but myself.
And the baby.
The baby really makes me do it.
Still attached to the umbilical cord, but already a sugar addict.
Definitely my kid.
So we went back to the doctor yesterday, and the doctor talked me off the ledge a little - things aren't necessarily any better, and I began having (I think) contractions this past weekend, so she took a test that would help us determine/rule out pre-term labor. I was supposed to get the result tonight, but screwed up and called to late. I'll get on that tomorrow.
We did, however, discuss my birth plan at the appointment yesterday. It went a lil'
somethin' like this:
Doctor: I usually tell people not to get too attached to their birth plan.
Me: Oh, well mine's pretty simple. Step 1: Gimme the drugs. Step 2: Take the baby out.
Doctor: *blank stare*
Me: I'm a two-stepper. I like it simple.
(P.S. If you're one of those "natural" birthers - more power to you, but I'm not interested. I've already had the lecture from a lady I used to supervise about how I should try to push through the pain sans drugs because the experience of feeling the contractions and every inch of the birth process is unforgettable. Oh yeah, I bet it is *sarcasm* But here's the thing - I'll surely have many hours of feeling the contractions pre-push, and then the baby comes out, which is actually the part I prefer to remember, so I don't really mind being numbed up for the middle part, you know?)
I should also mention that this discussion of my in-depth birth plan was followed by my doctor telling us a story about a woman who ate her own placenta afterwards.
Fuck.
No.
Thank gosh she was as repulsed as me but this idea, because if she was actually advocating this for me, I'd be trolling Craig's List for a new doctor instead of posting about the ridiculousness of organ-eating.
*shudder*
So that's where we are at - no running, minimal moving, candy-binging, couch-surfing - ahhh, it sounds like so much fun until it isn't.
But the good news? This kid is CRAZY active - almost all day, everyday. Makes me so happy to feel him/her just rolling around in there, tickling my ribs with his/her toes (okay, well maybe that doesn't feel awesome, but it's still amazing that it's even happening, right?!?!) And I love it when my husband talks to him/her through my enormous belly. It's really sweet, and one of the best parts of this experience.
Have I mentioned how awesome my husband is? No? Well he is. I don't know how I would have made this far without him. It makes me speechless to think that this amazing human being is the father of my child. Any given moment throughout my day, I catch myself fantasizing about watching him walking hand-in-hand down the street with our little dude/dudette.
Sigh.
Another few weeks and we will be parents.
Despite these minor bumps, life is really, really good.
Okay, off to do some more work so I can actually get a few hours of sleep tonight.
Later, yo.
So I went to the doctor about two weeks ago (I started going every two weeks at this point so they can make sure little Baby D isn't falling out the chute too early,) and as it turns out...he kinda was.
Well, hold on - let me reign in my overdramatics here for a second.
The baby isn't actually falling out of my lady bits. I guess what's happening is that (men, turn away....TURN AWAY!!! No? Well, consider yourselves warned) my cervix was getting itself all ready a tad (10 weeks) early. So not only was I taken completely off running, but I am completely off any sort of activity. I imagine I would be on "bed rest" if I wasn't a psychologist who's job consisted of a lot of sitting.
(Side note: And who knew sitting was so effing boring and leads to the most hellacious swollen feet?!?! Not this fatty.)
As that appointment, my doctor said she "would like to see [me] get another a month under [my] belt."
A MONTH?!?!?!
As in - 4 weeks? As in, this baby might come at 34 weeks?!?!
This momma ain't ready, yo.
I mean, we haven't even had a shower (it was planned for early December - cue look of shock from my doctor), and we haven't taken any baby-is-coming classes (cue second look of shock). Needless to say, I spent the weekend pretty much laid-up on the couch, kept company by my insane anxiety that I was cooking this baby all wrong and he/she was going some out all scrawny and headed straight to the incubator.
And trust me, anxiety and guilt does not a good combo make - especially during Halloween season, when there are far to many "fun size" Twix and peanut butter cups for my own good.
Shit - I should be ashamed for that pouting I do on the scale at the doctor's office - I have no one to blame but myself.
And the baby.
The baby really makes me do it.
Still attached to the umbilical cord, but already a sugar addict.
Definitely my kid.
So we went back to the doctor yesterday, and the doctor talked me off the ledge a little - things aren't necessarily any better, and I began having (I think) contractions this past weekend, so she took a test that would help us determine/rule out pre-term labor. I was supposed to get the result tonight, but screwed up and called to late. I'll get on that tomorrow.
We did, however, discuss my birth plan at the appointment yesterday. It went a lil'
somethin' like this:
Doctor: I usually tell people not to get too attached to their birth plan.
Me: Oh, well mine's pretty simple. Step 1: Gimme the drugs. Step 2: Take the baby out.
Doctor: *blank stare*
Me: I'm a two-stepper. I like it simple.
(P.S. If you're one of those "natural" birthers - more power to you, but I'm not interested. I've already had the lecture from a lady I used to supervise about how I should try to push through the pain sans drugs because the experience of feeling the contractions and every inch of the birth process is unforgettable. Oh yeah, I bet it is *sarcasm* But here's the thing - I'll surely have many hours of feeling the contractions pre-push, and then the baby comes out, which is actually the part I prefer to remember, so I don't really mind being numbed up for the middle part, you know?)
I should also mention that this discussion of my in-depth birth plan was followed by my doctor telling us a story about a woman who ate her own placenta afterwards.
Fuck.
No.
Thank gosh she was as repulsed as me but this idea, because if she was actually advocating this for me, I'd be trolling Craig's List for a new doctor instead of posting about the ridiculousness of organ-eating.
*shudder*
So that's where we are at - no running, minimal moving, candy-binging, couch-surfing - ahhh, it sounds like so much fun until it isn't.
But the good news? This kid is CRAZY active - almost all day, everyday. Makes me so happy to feel him/her just rolling around in there, tickling my ribs with his/her toes (okay, well maybe that doesn't feel awesome, but it's still amazing that it's even happening, right?!?!) And I love it when my husband talks to him/her through my enormous belly. It's really sweet, and one of the best parts of this experience.
Have I mentioned how awesome my husband is? No? Well he is. I don't know how I would have made this far without him. It makes me speechless to think that this amazing human being is the father of my child. Any given moment throughout my day, I catch myself fantasizing about watching him walking hand-in-hand down the street with our little dude/dudette.
Sigh.
Another few weeks and we will be parents.
Despite these minor bumps, life is really, really good.
Okay, off to do some more work so I can actually get a few hours of sleep tonight.
Later, yo.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
And She Races!
On September 24, 2011, we celebrated the life of my husband's nephew, K, who was killed last year after being struck by a car leaving school. Over the last year, my sister-in-law's friend worked tirelessly to organize a 5k/10k race in the memory of K, with all the proceeds to be donated to a scholarship fund set up in his name, and to be distributed to a high school senior through the year 2021 (when Cheese's nephew would have graduated high school).
Almost as if K put in a special request to the Big Guy, the day was incredibly beautiful. slightly brisk, with a brilliant blue sky and minimal wind. We gathered early to get settled, visit with the 1000+ people registered for the race, watch the 1-mile children's race, and get ready to sweat in the memory of K.
Me. in the white glasses to the left. Yeah, I was tugging my shorts out of my thighs. Apparently the thighs got super hungry during the race and decided to eat them (Joys of Pregnancy #211).
So here I am, coming up the finish line, bring it in at 31:50 (not too shabby for a chick who is sporting an extra 30+ pounds and a human in her stomach). And I really did try to race it as much as possible - I was able to maintain a conversation the whole time, but I was also pushing my limits a bit because I felt like - hey - if I am doing this in the name of K, then I need to try to do my best. And at 7-months preggo, a 31:50 was pretty darn close to my best.
Cheese
Cheese
Bringing it home strong!
Me and Cheese later that night at an appreciation dinner for the volunteers.
The following day, my husband participated in a golf tourney in K's memory, which was also incredibly well-supported. The weekend was wrapped up with me and Cheese, laying on the floor of my sister-in-law's living room with the rest of the family, reflecting on the awesomeness of the weekend, and laughing until I peed my pants. Over four days, there was not a single moment absent of love and appreciation. In the last year, I have been incredibly amazed to see how strong Cheese's family has been through this tragedy. It's nothing short of an honor to be consider part of this family.
So here's to another 10 years of celebrating K's life. May they be just as wonderful as this weekend.
Almost as if K put in a special request to the Big Guy, the day was incredibly beautiful. slightly brisk, with a brilliant blue sky and minimal wind. We gathered early to get settled, visit with the 1000+ people registered for the race, watch the 1-mile children's race, and get ready to sweat in the memory of K.
Me, Cheese, and his family.
(His hand is not actually on my butt - turns out, my ass has widened to the point of being unrecognizable - thanks pregnancy!)
At the start - Cheese is in front of me (126), and I am slightly behind, in white sunglasses, looking down as I cross the mat.
I ended up running with another runner who was 17 weeks pregnant,and who later commented like three times, "That was the slowest 5k I ever ran!" I wasn't sure if that was an insult to me or not, but I am pretty sure that no one forced her to stay with me the whole run. AND I am also pretty sure that I heard her weezing over that last hill, right around the time that her ability to verbally communicate me ceased. So I guess if you choose to run a 5k with a chick that's 7-months pregnant, well, then, you probably have to get over the fact that you're not going to win the darn thing.
Me. in the white glasses to the left. Yeah, I was tugging my shorts out of my thighs. Apparently the thighs got super hungry during the race and decided to eat them (Joys of Pregnancy #211).
So here I am, coming up the finish line, bring it in at 31:50 (not too shabby for a chick who is sporting an extra 30+ pounds and a human in her stomach). And I really did try to race it as much as possible - I was able to maintain a conversation the whole time, but I was also pushing my limits a bit because I felt like - hey - if I am doing this in the name of K, then I need to try to do my best. And at 7-months preggo, a 31:50 was pretty darn close to my best.
Cheese
Cheese
Bringing it home strong!
Me and Cheese later that night at an appreciation dinner for the volunteers.
The following day, my husband participated in a golf tourney in K's memory, which was also incredibly well-supported. The weekend was wrapped up with me and Cheese, laying on the floor of my sister-in-law's living room with the rest of the family, reflecting on the awesomeness of the weekend, and laughing until I peed my pants. Over four days, there was not a single moment absent of love and appreciation. In the last year, I have been incredibly amazed to see how strong Cheese's family has been through this tragedy. It's nothing short of an honor to be consider part of this family.
So here's to another 10 years of celebrating K's life. May they be just as wonderful as this weekend.
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