Friday, September 19, 2014

Baby Steps

Eight weeks ago, I birthed a human.

He's a cute little human. He grins and squirms and makes adorable little gurgling coo sounds when he's happy, and I love him bunches. He is quite literally, the fruit of my labor.

I could go on and on in mushy detail about how incomplete my life was before I became a mother, but that doesn't really ring true to me. In my eyes and heart, I was every bit as happy before the baby as I am now. My life wasn't empty without kids, and now that I have one, it's still not empty. My days feel normal to me, just as they did before the baby, even though my days now are quite different from the ones I lived one year ago. Even as I constantly worry that things won't fall into place, somehow they continue to do so. It's like magic. It keeps me ever grateful and humble in the eyes of God, because only something as divine as He could keep me sane in the face of what could be an utterly overwhelming task: keeping our son alive and happy while managing not lose myself in the process.

As the horrific discomfort of pregnancy, and the messy indignities of childbirth fade into the past, my eyes turn once again towards the present and the future. I'm a mom now. (And saying that out loud is as foreign to my ears as if I were speaking Swahili.) How do I be Mom, and still be Me? How can I live my life for this little person who needs me, and still live my life for me? For ten months I let the little peanut camp out in my body. I gave up parties, vacations, kickball and pole dancing, as well as a number of extremely delicious foods and beverages in order to keep him safe and healthy. Now that he's breathing the free air, I am trying to reclaim some of those things. I desperately missed pole dancing. I missed laying by the pool in a bikini. And haters (you know who you are) can judge me if they want, but I missed dressing up and feeling sexy. And I missed alcohol. A lot.

Getting my groove back is proving to be a bit harder than I expected. I was so sick of being pregnant, I was really excited to have the baby and get my body back under my own control. And I'm not just talking about the weight. I'm talking about putting my internal organs back where they belong, and not having to pee every hour. I'm talking about being able to sit in the car without feeling like my pelvic bone was about to crack. For goodness sake, I just wanted to be able to bend over and put on my own f*cking SHOES again! Eating and drinking what I want, when I want, instead of what I needed to eat and drink for the health of the little womb-hijacker. I thought once I had the baby, all those long-missed niceties would be mine once again. However, it turns out a LOT of that was easier said than done. Getting over the extreme trauma of childbirth was frustratingly slow. Eight weeks later, I am still healing, both physically and emotionally. And although most of the weight has melted off (as promised, although I didn't believe it actually would), my body certainly doesn't look like it did pre-pregnancy. It's squishy and weak. Even though I'm just a few pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight, my soft, fleshy curves don't have a home in any of my old clothes. My boobs are HUGE, but they don't seem all that sexy, as they are always sore, require constant maintenance, and serve a decidedly functional purpose. *SIGH*

Two weeks ago, I was finally able to get back into the pole studio. Although I have a fitness pole at home, and had done a bit of beginner-level work on it since the baby, I knew that the sooner I was able to get back into a weekly class, the better. I need that studio time to keep me motivated and to get my strength back. I work harder when I have company, and an audience. Since it had been nearly a year since I was last able to perform to my full potential, I contacted my instructor and asked if it would be possible to get into a low-level class, just to get myself started. Last October, a month before I became pregnant, I fell while rehearsing for a performance. I suffered a separated shoulder and a torn ligament. I was hoping that pregnancy would be an ideal time for my body to heal, but it's been a bit rough and the injury is still painful. (I didn't consider it at the time, but pregnancy may have actually slowed my shoulder healing, since the body's priority would have been the baby, not my shoulder.) So not only is it pregnancy that I'm recovering from, but a fairly severe injury as well.

My first day back in class was both exhilarating and disappointing. I was SO excited to be back. I really missed my work-outs, and the amazing feeling of performing advanced tricks and pushing myself to learn more and get stronger every day. I was so proud to really be good at something, and to be able to inspire other women through my performances was good for my soul. To my disappointment, I struggled with even the most basic moves. Despite the instructor's reassurance that I "looked great", I felt heavy and awkward. Every move was a challenge. Tricks that I used to perform with ease were now difficult and painful. I fought back tears for the entire hour, and drove home feeling utterly defeated. What if I can't ever get back to where I was? Will I ever be strong enough to maneuver as gracefully as I did before? Worse than the physical pain, my pride hurt. I was always one of the best dancers in the studio, now I felt chunky and clumsy. My back ached with every move. I worked gingerly to protect my tender (enormous) breasts. My hamstrings and quads burned from trying to keep my legs straight. My feet, having schlepped and shuffled to hold up the weight of my pregnant self for all those weeks, just didn't want to point. After all that time spent waiting to have the baby so that I could finally be in control of my body once again, it still felt completely foreign to me. My eyes welled up and spilled over. Why couldn't I just be myself again?

Since then, I've attended two more classes, and am feeling much better about the situation. My subsequent attempts at performing my old tricks have been a little more successful, and I'm reminded how quickly the body responds to this type of fitness training. In addition to that, I used to hit the studio 4 days a week. With an infant to deal with, I've only been able to go once a week for class, and managed a couple of short workouts at home. My determination to regain the level of performance that I had before is very motivating. If I can get to the studio twice a week, (which is a simple matter of planning), and work out once a week at home, I should be able to speed up both the process of rebuilding strength, as well as healing my shoulder. I need to simply rediscover what my body is capable of. When I first started pole dancing, I was constantly amazed by what I could do. When I came back to the studio for the first time, I was only seeing what I couldn't do. That kind of thinking is a deterrent to my progress. Focusing on the negative doesn't encourage growth, it facilitates failure. (THAT GOES FOR ANYONE.) It would be like walking onto a baseball field after coming back from an injury, and being disappointed that you didn't hit a home run on the first swing. What would you do? Would you retire, or would you try again? (Duh.) Now that I have had three classes, I can already see progress. Small, but noticeable progress, and that is encouraging. (Which is another thing that I love about pole fitness. Progress comes quickly, and noticeably.)

Writing this down, and putting it out there for the world to see will be a lesson in accountability. One year from now, will I be back up to my old tricks (literally and figuratively), or will I have given in to the frustration and resigned myself to a life of mediocrity? Hmmm.

I think I prefer the former to the latter. :)





Monday, July 14, 2014

The Final Countdown

The batteries in the smoke detectors have been changed. The kitchen cupboards are loaded with bottles and bibs. The dresser has been stocked with tiny clothes and bizarre items like "swaddles" and "sleep sacks." The crib and swing? Assembled and waiting. Car seat? Installed and inspected. Hospital bag? Packed and ready.

I have a breast pump (I have a breast pump?) and I am prepared to use it!

As the clock ticks away the final hours of my pregnancy, I have been inspired to look back and see exactly how far I've come. Thirty-nine weeks, four days, twenty-nine pounds, hundreds of dollars, a dozen doctor appointments, half a wardrobe, and one life-altering decision from where I started. That's how far I've come. 

My organs have been unceremoniously shoved out of the way in order to make room for the squirming human inside me, just as my wine glasses have been relocated to make space for bottles and sippy cups. (Note: the wine glasses have simply been relocated. They are in no way obsolete. I feel that there is plenty of room in my life for sippy cups AND wine glasses. In fact, I feel that I will be needing the latter more than ever.) 

I think at this point I need to issue a public apology to all the other pregnant women whom I have encountered throughout my life. To be quite honest, I thought y'all were a bunch of whiners whose problems stemmed mostly from weight gain. I mean, let's be honest. Swollen ankles, sore backs, and fatigue can all easily be contributed to the fact that pregnant women are fatties. "Of course your back hurts!" I'd think. "You've gained forty pounds!" I didn't know that when pregnant, back pain can stem from the fact that the woman's spine actually develops a (temporary) unnatural curve in order to help compensate for her being so front-heavy. Did you hear that? My spine shifted. My spine AND my internal organs! Seriously, what kind of science is that?! And the fatigue is largely the result of my heart having to work twice as hard. Apparently, my increased blood volume (by 50%) really puts my ticker to the test. It doesn't even beat with the same rhythm or speed of a normal person. And all that extra blood is heavy! Turns out that of the nearly 30 lbs I've gained in 40 weeks, only about 10-12 lbs is actual fat. (Which is funny, since I swear I'm carrying at least that amount on each butt cheek.) The rest is blood, other fluids, increased breast tissue for (*gag*) milk production, placenta, and of course, the baby. I've been told I could drop as much as twenty pounds of that nasty stuff during labor. (God I hope so! When it's over, I expect I'll feel light as a feather.) In the mean time, I have also stumbled upon the realization that there is a REASON that pregnant women are constantly molesting their own bellies. I used to think that it was some kind of weird maternal instinct. Possibly they were attempting to bond with their child by petting their stomachs like a kitten? In actuality, women touch their stomachs all the time, because they hurt. When the baby kicks me in the ribs, it's uncomfortable! What might look like me "petting" my belly is actually me trying to shove the kid's foot out from under my rib cage and back where it belongs. What may appear to be a pregnant woman "carrying" their belly in their arms like a baby is actually a pregnant woman carrying her belly because that shit's fucking HEAVY. I feel like if I don't support it when I stand up, it might just tear my skin open and fall right off. My life as a pregnant woman has not exactly been magical and feminine. It's been awkward and occasionally violent. With mutations and explosions, eruptions, and medical supervision. Like a science experiment. 

That said, pregnancy hasn't been completely awful. (Just mostly.) As the child has grown, he's become more and more real to both me and my husband. After all of these months feeling him move around and grow, I'm SO ready for it to be over. Not just because being pregnant sucks, but because I'm desperately excited to meet the little creature we've created. It's like finally meeting face to face someone that you've only communicated with by phone or online. I am ready to put a face to the flailing limbs, and a name to the face. The face that I hope will be a perfect little mix of my Irish freckles and my husband's dark Italian eyes.:)

There's no turning back now. And as the theme from Jeopardy! continues to play in the back of my mind, I'm happy and scared, and ready to tackle our next adventure. Also, I can't help but wonder...will I ever be able to get my belly ring back in? Hmm. 

Monday, March 31, 2014

I think it moved.

Confession: One of my greatest fears regarding pregnancy has always been, what will the baby feel like inside of me?

Call me crazy, but I don't think that this is an unnatural fear. After all, having a small creature living inside of you is a very unnatural state of being. What does the baby do in there, anyway? I know he moves around a little, and sucks his thumb occasionally, but why? Is he trying to get away? Does he know that he's trapped inside my uterus? What if he suddenly gets claustrophobic and tries to claw his way out of my abdomen like those vampire babies in the Twilight series? (See also the "Birth of the Uruk-hai" scene from The Fellowship of the Ring. Scary stuff!)

When I was five years old, a friend of my mother's was VERY pregnant with her third (or fourth) child, and I remember she grabbed my hand and held it firmly against the side of her enormous belly. "Do you feel that?" She said, her eyes and her smile wide. I could feel through the thin fabric of her dress, very distinctly, the compete outline of a tiny little foot. Heel, toes, everything, pressed decisively into my hand. OMG WTF?! Neither of those terms existed back then, but I tell you, I have never been so disgusted. I pulled my hand away, and I don't remember what I said, but I will never forget how I felt. GROSS!!! And my mother's poor friend, I'm sure to this day, has no idea that she and The Foot scarred me for life.

At this point I'm almost 25 weeks into pregnancy (out of 40, for those who don't know). I've been able to feel the baby moving for a few weeks now, although for some time I simply dismissed it as gas. Other ladies told me that the movement would be a gentle fluttering, like butterflies in my tummy. Um, it's really nothing like that. And honestly, I'm happy to report that it's not nearly as gross as I thought it would be. There's a bit of pressure at times, but not painful or uncomfortable. It's more like bubbles moving through water, or someone playing PONG inside my stomach. What IS gross, is watching my stomach move from the outside. During a very boring meeting last week, I spaced out and started staring at my stomach. The baby was moving around a little, and with each of his gentle motions, I could see my belly pulse and shake. Like a Jell-O mold on a wobbly card table. *gag* It doesn't feel yucky, but it looks yucky. It is as weird as any sci-fi movie I've ever seen. (For all you super nerds, Season 4, Episode 23 of Star Trek TNG, "The Host" is an excellent example.)

Along with the slightly moving, ever-expanding belly comes of course, the host of people obsessed with looking at it and feeling it. The omnipresent Baby Bump. *sigh* At this point, there's no hiding it or sucking it in, it's out there for the world to see, and it seems that most of them want to touch it. Why? No idea. I just DON'T get the appeal. Due to my early-childhood trauma with The Foot, I have never again in my life had any interest in touching a pregnant woman's belly. Why anyone would want to is beyond me, but I will chock that up to being one of the many things about people that I don't understand. Right away I was being groped by people (mostly female friends that were similarly accosted during their own pregnancies). It's a little better now that The Bump is actually firm and you can tell that there is a baby inside, but early on it was basically just a giant fat roll. And I think we can all agree that having other people grab at our belly fat like it's a public squeeze toy is awkward and inappropriate. Now I don't mind as much, as long as someone asks first, or gives me the opportunity to stop their roving hands. And you can TOUCH it. Don't pet it like a puppy or rub it like a magic lamp. (For crying out loud.) Thankfully, I don't find myself in this situation often. I work with almost all men, and none of them have shown any remote interest in touching my stomach.

 Along with the parade of belly-touchers comes the flock of well-wishing advice-givers. This isn't actually as bad as I've been led to believe. Lots of people have advice to give on the best products to buy (or not to buy), and the best child-rearing techniques to use (or to avoid). I understand that all of this unsolicited advice stems from a good place- these are the things that the advice-givers wish that someone had told them back in the days when it would have been helpful to know. And advice is free, I can take it or leave it without a problem. What genuinely pisses me off is people who want to comment yet have nothing productive to say. Spiteful remarks about how "You'll never sleep again," or "Good thing you've done a lot of traveling, because you won't get another vacation for eighteen years!" These types of remarks are neither polite nor helpful. First of all, do not presume to tell me what I can and can't do with my life once I'm a parent. Travel has always been a priority for me and my husband, and we intend to pass those values along to our child. There are bigger things in this world than the cutest outfit or the fanciest toys. There are mountains and oceans, and it is important to me to show those things to my son so that he can appreciate them properly. I'm also not a fan of anyone who tells me that "I guess your pole-dancing days or over," or that I'd better get used to shopping for Mom Jeans. I beg your pardon? Where is it written that all moms are fat and schleppy? I'm not stupid. I realize that the early days of parenthood will be a struggle, but millions of women manage to get through it and somehow find a way to get their bodies back into their original shape. It's not impossible.

Speaking of fat and schleppy. Ever seen a naked pregnant lady? Ha! What a joke. Like, literally laughable. I wish I could say that I've been working out and staying fit like you're supposed to, but most days I'm too tired to consider it. The amount of additional blood in my body forces my heart to work harder to keep it all pumping properly, and the result is one very weary mama. Even a couple flights of stairs leaves me winded. The watermelon tucked under my ribcage makes breathing more difficult and putting my socks and shoes on something of a struggle. And obviously most of my regular clothes no longer fit. Maternity clothes are ridiculous. They come in two styles: Sausage Casing, and Mumu. And almost nothing is cute. I actually cried the first time I went shopping. Like it isn't hard enough to find a pair of jeans that doesn't make your ass look like a truck? And that's with ten thousand options! Try the maternity section. You can choose between this ugly pair of jeans, and that ugly pair of jeans. One pair has an itchy elastic band that sits just below your belly, and the other pair has an enormously comical Lycra-spandex panel that covers your entire belly and stops just below your boobs, like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Everything is either stretchy or flowy, yet nothing really fits properly, because all pregnant women gain weight in different areas and designers have a one-size-fits-all mentality. Now I know why pregnant ladies always wear stretch pants and enormous hoodies. Here I always assumed that they were just too lazy to put themselves together, but it turns out those may actually have been their best options.

My husband asked me last night, if pregnancy has been better or worse than I expected it to be. At this point, some things are better, and some things have been worse. It hasn't really been that bad, but it hasn't been a picnic, either. And despite the fact that I have had a relatively easy pregnancy, there really isn't anything about it that makes me want to go through it again. (Kind of like ocean kayaking. I'm really glad I did it once, but that was the first and last time.) I'm happy to be starting a family with the man who will undoubtedly be the world's greatest dad, and I hope our little boy has big brown eyes just like his. :) That seems like an acceptable sacrifice for the weight gain, the discomfort, and the crippling fatigue. I try not to think about the actual labor part...we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

And the baby JUST kicked me in the ribs. Sneaky little monkey.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

And so it begins.

We'd always told my mother in law that we'd start trying for kids in 2015.

I did some quick math. Let's see...we got married in 2006. Age plus income...divided by house size...carry the two...in conjunction with upcoming events...equals...whoa. What day is it? How old am I? It's 2013. We're going to Sturgis in August of 2015, and I'm certainly not going to want to be pregnant for that. So it would have to be the year after...but if we waited until 2016, that puts me at almost 37 years old when giving birth to my first child. Thirty-seven?! Holy shit, when did I get this old? *sigh* Jeezus. I googled some info, punched up some quick numbers and ran the dates. Hmmm. Apparently after age 35 conception becomes a lot more challenging physically, and at this point, having never been pregnant before, we don't even know what kind of natural obstacles may lay in our path. Having already cancelled our tropical vacation for 2014, the only remaining events for the year were a wedding and a very important baseball game. So basically, that meant no beer at the game and no champagne at the wedding. That seems manageable. We had a Vegas trip in a few weeks, but I wasn't too worried about that. I realized that it takes a couple months of trying for most people to achieve "baby on board" status, so that shouldn't interfere with my planned Vegas activities. (AKA: Drinking my face off.) I called my husband and informed him that if we're going to start a family, it needs to be now. We have a very small window of opportunity here, right now, and if we don't knock this thing out of the park, that window's going to slam shut! Goodness, I didn't think he'd be so excited.

My mom always said, if you try to wait until you're ready to have children, you'll be waiting forever. Maybe, maybe not. Up until now, I've always known that it was the wrong time to have kids. The idea wasn't just absurd to me, at times it made me physically nauseous to think of being pregnant or giving birth. I actually suffered an anxiety attack at the hospital once, while visiting a family member who'd just had her first child. The sounds and the smells combined into this horrid, overpowering blur. My heart began to race and I started to sweat. We were able to say some quick goodbyes and get outside the building before the panic overtook me, but believe me: That day, just like every day before and after, I knew without a doubt that I was in no way ready for a baby.

And then, it happened. Out of nowhere. I woke up one morning, and as I lay in bed, I imagined a little somebody to take to gymnastics class. Would it really be that hard to schedule around? I pictured my spare bedroom stripped of its framed art and antique books, and instead I imagined it plastered with Star Wars posters and its shelves filled with little sports trophies. I could handle that, couldn't I? What if my husband and I took a trip, and instead of barging home to an empty house, we came home to little hands to fill with souvenirs? All of these thoughts rolled slowly, steadily through my head. I didn't get mushy or weepy. It was simply that all of a sudden the thought of having a child didn't frighten or disgust me. I just knew, for the first time ever, that somehow I could handle it.

This was it. This was the sign that I'd been waiting for. I knew I was ready, that everything would be ok. I knew wouldn't lose my friends or my identity. I knew that I'd still be able to see the world and check things off my bucket list. Now I'd have a little somebody to be proud of having the coolest parents ever. (Well. Until that little somebody turns thirteen and we become the lamest parents ever.) The thought made me smile instead of cringe.

I've spent a great many years trying to create my own identity, only to lose it, recreate it, decide I don't like it, and then build it all over again. That's life, right? A cycle of change and growth that never ends. Everything I've done, every choice I've made (good and bad), and every path I've taken (right and wrong) have led me to this point. Each mistake I've made, every friend, and every enemy have helped to shape me into the person that I am now. And it seems that all that action and all of those choices had eventually landed me inside a bathroom stall at the airport, staring at the door in disbelief, the plastic stick in my hand screaming the word "pregnant" while my flight was boarding a few yards away. What. Just. Happened? I'm about to spend five days in Vegas dead sober, that's what happened! Interesting.

Well. Turns out "sober Vegas" wasn't that bad after all. Although I decided against getting a souvenir tattoo (it seemed unwise to risk Hepatitis unnecessarily at this point), I still had a nice time, got plenty of sleep, and even played some decent poker. From that point on, time has continued to fly. With each passing day I'm washed-over with smiles and hugs, oddly sporadic symptoms, and a variety of emotions ranging from pure joy to sheer terror. Was this a mistake? What kind of horrible, selfish parent will I be? What if my friends don't want to hang out with me anymore? Or worse- what if I don't want to hang out with them? What if I turn into one of those crazy women obsessed with organic baby food who speaks of nothing but poop schedules and private preschools? I have no idea what pregnancy or parenthood will bring, but every time icy panic grips my heart, I remember that day I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, and those calm steady thoughts rolling through my head. That was the day I knew with certainty, that even though a million unanswered questions and an unexplored path lay at my feet- I knew that it would be ok. And after all. I haven't made a habit of shying away from adventure, and I don't intend to start now.