Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baby. Show all posts

Monday, April 18, 2011

Blessed and Then a Breakdown

I had fair warning that this weekend was going to be hectic.

My calendar had been full for months.

I knew what I was getting myself into.

But, being Classic Me, I wasn't really that phased.

After all, I'm a pretty high-energy person. I can get a lot done on any given day. And I'm kind of relentless when it comes to doing and joining and making things happen.

My husband calls me an "execute-r" for a reason.

Still, after a busy Friday, spent entirely on my feet, I went to bed tired.

Tired but excited.

I was going to spend all of Saturday with some of my favorite people doing some of my favorite things: exercising and celebrating my baby girl.

So, when I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday, I was feeling chipper.

When I corralled up a bunch of my clients, I was feeling downright plucky.

And when I lined up with them at the race line for a local 5K we were all planning on running, I was, dare I say, giddy.

And then the race gun went off.

I won't go into too many details here. But let's just say I vastly underestimated how this race was going to go.

Granted, I did the entire thing. At 31 weeks pregnant. Pushing a 3 year old (one of my client's kids.) In a very uncooperative jogging stroller. On a 3.1-mile route that was made up almost entirely of rocky terrain and bumpy, uneven sand.

But the pictures of me crossing the finish line, in which I'm insanely smiling, also reveal the ugly truth: Running a 5K on a hot, humid Southern day when you're super pregnant and pushing a heavy load? Not the most athletic and graceful of moments a woman can experience.

Still, I did it. So did all my clients. We had a great time.

Except, I couldn't stay around to celebrate. I literally crossed the finish line and kept running to my car.

Because, before the race that morning, my baby shower had taken an unexpected turn.

My good friend hosting the shower here is newly pregnant herself. And sick.

Let's all take a moment of silence to ponder that.

Yeah, exactly. I have been there (so have many of you) and any woman in that position is lucky if she can sit upright long enough to focus her eyeballs without wanting to gouge them out.

The first-trimester is no joke.

Anyways, when said sick, pregnant friend called me at 7:30 Saturday morning to tell me that not only was she not up to snuff but her 1 year old was sick, too, well, we were up a creak without a paddle when it came the baby shower she was throwing for me and another pregnant friend of ours.

There was no way we could have it at her house. It wouldn't be fair to her, her son, or our (un-infected) party guests.

Still, we had 25 people expecting a party in little more than six hours and nowhere (uncontaminated) to host it.

So, we did the next most logical thing, seeing as I only live six houses down from my poor, dear sick friend.

I told her we'd just move it to my house. I'd go run my 5K, sprint home, and hope and pray I could clean my house fast enough to make it shower-presentable.

Blessedly, another friend of mine, sensing my panic, agreed to help and actually run the shower games, etc. (Part of my anxiety stemmed from the fact that now, I appeared to be hosting my own baby shower. And call me sensitive, but I was afraid of looking tacky.)

Anyways, with all hands on deck - the other pregnant friend who was also being honored at the shower jumped right in to help, too - I figured we'd just make it.

Enter me, in Whirlwind Mode.

So, yes, I ran the 5K, sprinted home, and kept running around my house, getting it ready. My husband went into work late to help me clean, but he did eventually have to leave, and I then managed to hoist a leaf into my dining room table, dig through my china, and climb on my furniture to hang streamers and decor, all while the few girls who rallied to help me cooked in my kitchen, text-ed me frantically about punch and appetizers, and tied balloons to my mailbox.

Finally, I managed to throw on a sundress, do my hair, and add some make-up about 15 seconds before the first guests arrived.

And then it was all baby games - the best being Baby Pictionary, in which one of my favorite clients screamed out, "VAGINAL BIRTH!" as her guessing option for the phrase "cut the cord," sending us all into hysterics - snacks and drinks, and the gift-opening tradition, in which I had to stop myself from crying about 18 different times because, seriously, I am so blessed to have met these women, all of whom I've known less than a year, but all of whom have embraced me because that's what we, as military spouses and mothers, do to survive and thrive.

The shower went smashing-ly. The last guests left my house at 7:45 - more than three hours after the party's original end time.

And, then, things got a little scary.

You see, about two hours earlier, I'd started to notice some nagging aches in my abdomen.

Thinking I was probably dehydrated, I downed a couple glasses of water. But I didn't stop moving because there were people in my home and a mess on every surface. If I wasn't socializing, I was cleaning.

Problem was, I noticed the aching getting worse. The pains were getting more severe. I actually kept having to stop and catch my breath from the cramps.

So, when the last guests left, I ignored my dirty kitchen and the piles of leftovers left on the buffet, and I sat down.

At this point, I was experiencing really painful cramps in my belly. And I hadn't felt Baby Girl move in hours.

I laid down promptly and started to poke my belly. She kicked right back, thank God.

But my pain got worse.

And then I noticed myself breathing rhythmically and deeply, just like we were taught to do in my birthing class.

And then, it hit me.

I think I'm feeling contractions.

I tried sitting up to get more water. And the intensity in my abdomen only got worse.

I ran to my purse to grab my cell phone, just in case. I wasn't yet convinced that I should be truly alarmed, but I wanted to have it on me, on the off chance I humored my weaker side and decided to call the midwives.

What alarmed me was that I'd had Braxton-Hicks in the past, and while slightly uncomfortable, they weren't nearly as intense as these. The pain was alarming, though not unbearable.

Still, I kept trying not to think about the fact that Braxton-Hicks aren't supposed to be painful. These were definitely not the same old Braxton-Hicks I'd been feeling.

So I lay there.

And lay there.

And lay there.

It took about 90 minutes for the pain to lessen, during which I just breathed and talked to my husband, feeling Baby Girl move around as if nothing was wrong.

It took another 30 minutes after that for the pain to go away.

More than two hours later, my face white but my "contractions" lessened, we finally breathed our first sigh of relief.

When I could finally manage it, I looked up what I'd experienced.

Apparently, I had been having contractions. Contractions brought on from exhaustion and fatigue and simply over-doing it.

It made sense, considering I'd been on my feet, adrenaline pumping, for about 16 hours straight.

Luckily, because I hadn't lost any fluids, wasn't experiencing any swelling, and, most importantly, because I could feel Baby Girl moving away, I seemed to be out of the woods. I wasn't really in any danger.

Thank God.

It was, quite honestly, the only time in this pregnancy I worried that I'd done something wrong. That maybe, just maybe, I'd hurt the baby.

Thank heavens, it seems Baby Girl is even tougher than me.

I spent the rest of the evening hobbling around, sorting through baby clothes and helping my poor husband, who blessedly cleaned up the majority of the shower mess so I could stay off my feet.

Lesson learned? I do have limits.

My body can do a lot. But it can't be pushed to the points it used to reach before. At least not right now. Not while it's growing a baby.

Combining a strenuous race with a social event in my honor that had to be unexpectedly moved to my unprepared home was too much for Pregnant Me, it seemed.

I hated to admit that. After all, I like being the "execute-r." I like being able to do it all.

Except, sometimes, I can't.

And it only took me 31 weeks into my pregnancy to find my limit.
***
Due to the fact that I was so caught up in prepping my house for the shower, I didn't take a single picture of the event. Not a one.

If there's one thing I would change about my weekend, it would be that. Because, despite my test-brush with contractions, the day had been pretty heart-warming and fabulous. I hate that I didn't capture that.

However, we do have pictures of me running that darned 5K. Because, honestly, who doesn't want to see a huge pregnant woman, sweating her face off, attempting to cross the finish line in a reasonable amount of time?

Dear me.

Anyways, I'll try and share those photos and more race adventures this week.

Until then, I'm learning to rest and realize that, at least for the next nine weeks, I can't do it all.
***
Happy Monday, everyone!

Friday, February 18, 2011

We Birth How We Live

Those we were some of the first words my midwife said to me:

"We birth how we live."

And, in reality, I've found it to be so true.

As I told you all on Tuesday, for me, this pregnancy and my work-in-progress birth plan has had a fairly natural progression.

I have lived what might be called an "alternative" lifestyle my entire life.

And, so, when I saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test, my whole world expanded, and yet, remained kind of the same.

I was now in charge of rearing another human being; that's mind-blowing.

But it took almost no effort at all to come to the conclusion that I wanted to give her the same advantages and benefits I've found from the lifestyle I choose to live.

I truly believe that I am capable of childbirth; I am capable of breast-feeding. To me, it stems as deep as my religious beliefs.

God created me to do such things.

And, thus, He also created a world meant to help me sustain a healthy lifestyle for my family.

Thanks to that guiding light, and some help from my mother, it's been relatively easy for me to seek health in food, in nature, and in simple changes that greatly affect my quality of life.

So, now, I want to show you how someone with my attitude toward living intends to raise an infant.

I say "intends" only because I realize, in just a few short months, my world is going to be rocked. And there will be a time at 3 a.m. where I'm sick and tired of colic and crying and having a baby constantly latched onto my boobs. Where, in a weak moment, I might reach for a disposable diaper. Where I know I will throw all my concerns about "nipple confusion" aside and reach for a pacifier. Where I'm going to break my own "mommy rules."

And, honestly, that's OK.

I am not married to anything.

I'm only married to the idea of doing what's best for my baby.

So here's some of the decisions we've made so far when it comes to infant-raising:

1. Cloth diapers

This one, for me, is super straightforward.

Cloth diapers are cheaper.

Sure, I'm extremely glad that they're good for the environment, and I'm thrilled my baby girl's adorable little tushie won't be touching bleach and chemicals and everything else gross that goes into disposables and therefore gives them the carbon-dating life of approximately 1 billion years.

But honestly, the main reason we're using cloth? More money in our savings account.

In addition, I've changed my fair share of cloth and disposable diapers, and I'll be honest with you: I prefer cloth. It's actually, to me, less poop-y.

Part of the reason I'm such a big believer in cloth diapers is the fact that I intend to make my own cloth wipes. I have several recipes to share if anyone's interested. But with just a few spritzes of natural, homemade solution and a washcloth, wiping down a baby's poop-covered butt is actually easier. To me, anyways. Disposable wipes are less thorough and always end up creating a bigger mess, in my opinion.

So, to be quite honest, the whole "Ew! But you have to touch poop!" excuse? I don't buy it.

There are tons of mothers who do this out there in the blog world, so I won't belabor the point.

But here's links to several of my friends' posts - Lucy Marie, Brittany, and Kristin - who can talk more about it.

2. Vaccinations

We will not be vaccinating our children until they are of school age.

To be quite honest, if I had my way, I'd never vaccinate my children.

But my husband - who grew up with a traditional vaccine schedule - doesn't agree with me 100-percent on this.

So the compromise? Vaccinate our children after the age of 4, when their immune systems have developed and thus are far more capable of handling the results of foreign substances injected into their bodies. (The altered schedule, also, is quite important for our survival as a military family. If we choose to enroll our children in school, a failure to vaccinate will not just come down on their heads, but on my husband's head in his place of work.)

We will also be insisting our children receive mercury-free vaccines, though they cost more, and they will not be injected or inhaling any "live-virus" vaccines. They must be "dead-virus" vaccines, which, again, are more expensive but are notoriously safer and have less negative side effects. In addition, I will never give my child an optional vaccine: chicken pox, HPV, etc.

Lastly, two vaccines, in particular, which are legally required in almost every state, I still plan on getting exemptions for, thanks to a family history of negative reactions to the injections.

While more and more families are choosing not to vaccinate their children, I still always sense frowns of disapproval when I'm brave enough to speak about vaccines in public.

But the fact remains that I feel strongly about them. Or against them, rather. In fact, I openly stand in opposition to the government's stance on legally requireing vaccinations.

Because most vaccines, in fact, are not even done for the child's sake. A child with a healthy immune system should be able to fight off something like measles, mumps, or whooping cough. And by suppressing their ability to fight off said diseases, we are, in essence, squelching their immune systems. We're breeding stronger diseases (research shows that vaccines do not in fact eradicate disease, even though that's the government's intended purpose) and even weaker human bodies.

Frankly, I don't believe the government-sponsored commercials touting the safety and efficacy of these vaccinations, considering the U.S. government alone has already paid out more than a billion dollars to families whose children were vaccinated and had "unexpected, adverse reactions," like the sudden onset of Aspberger's syndrome, immuno-deficiency disorders, and even death.

You cannot buy my silence in exchange for my child's health.

In addition, there is well-documented research to show that the first outbreaks of ADHD, autism, and learning disabilities in this country directly followed the legislation of mandatory vaccinations. Add in the fact that, with every onslaught of more federally regulated vaccinations, the amount of those same behavioral issues in children continues to go up. (As does the deadly nature of previously non-threatening viruses, like the flu or chicken pox.)

Thanks to the metals, animal proteins, and other foreign bodies, which make up our vaccines and subsequently the very substances we're injecting into our children's developing immune systems, many kids aren't strong enough to not show some kind of reaction when they get vaccines, even if it's simply the fact that they run a low-grade fever after a round of shots.

And considering some vaccines have put perfectly healthy children into comas, autistic stupors, and shock, I'm not taking any chances by vaccinating a baby. I want to give them several years to grow immunities and strength before subjecting them to that. Research shows that waiting until at least the age of 2 to vaccinate a child shows a marked difference in the possible amount of side effects and negative reactions they'll experience.

Now that I've gone off a bit, let me scale back and I say that I realize most children react well to vaccines at any age. They show no signs of damage or serious health issues after the fact.

But what about the few that do?

I was talking to another friend of mine, who chose not to vaccinate her son, and as she put it, "It's like playing Russian roulette with your child."

Luckily, children cannot be regulated by the state until they are enrolled in childcare or school. So more and more pediatricians are helping parents like me write altered vaccine schedules for children to help protect their health but keep them legally viable. (Some states will also allow parents to sign "philosophical complaint" waivers, stating that they don't believe in vaccines and therefore don't have to give them to their children. Unfortunately, I don't live in a state with that luxury. And my husband doesn't believe in lying on a religious waiver, stating it's against our faith to vaccinate.)

Lastly, I have done some research on nullifying vaccinations. There are indeed homeopathic remedies that fight off the vaccinations and possible negative side effects.

I'm uncomfortable blogging about them here, as I'm not a medical professional, but suffice it to say that, when I was finally vaccinated as a child, at age 15, my parents used them. And I will be using them, too.

3. Breast-feeding and nutrition

I intend to breast-feed exclusively for as long as I can. There's a host of research out there about why breast-milk is best for babies; intelligent development, strengthened immune systems, etc.

So I'm not going to re-hash it all here.

Needless to say, though, it's important to me that I am able to give my child the advantages attached to breast-milk, assuming I don't struggle with an inability to do so.

My goal, quite honestly, is to breast-feed almost exclusively until a year. This is novel in our culture, as most women are told to start solids with their babies anywhere from four to six months.

But many natural health experts recommend holding off on other foods as long as you can to help prevent allergies and attacks on the immune system.

So that, in fact, is my plan.

When I do start solids, I will only be giving my child organic veggies, fruits, and whole grains, excluding wheat, which I will prepare myself.

My main goal here is to again avoid allergies and immuno-suppressed reactions to foods that normally trigger even adults - mainly wheat, dairy, soy, and sugar. I choose organic-only elements simply because pesticides, hormones, and other chemicals used to grow and process non-organic foods also attack the immune system and can hamper a child's development.

One serving of processed sugar - which can be found in things as harmless as white pasta, cereal, or bread - can suppress an adult's immune system for up to five hours. Imagine what that can do to a baby.

Cow's milk triggers similar reactions and can often be traced back as a factor in chronic digestive issues. (I myself already show lactose intolerance, so I'm particularly sensitive when it comes to avoiding dairy, as my child will already be predisposed to have an allergy to it.)

My husband, in addition, struggles immensely with a host of other allergies, and as a child, he wasn't fed the world's best diet. Though I have no conclusive evidence, I can't help but wonder if the two are related.

After all, children who eat organic, whole-foods diets - and avoid processed food and common allergens longer - also experience less bouts of flu, ear infections, respiratory disease, and strep throat throughout their lives.

I have to tell you, I was raised on this kind of diet, as were my brothers, and none of us struggled with allergies. We never got ear infections, and even the occasional cold that passed our way was easily beaten with a day of rest and a cup of my mom's carrot juice.

In addition, we've all continued eating a relatively clean, healthy diet as adults, and all three of us have had very little health problems to date.

Feeding your kids in this manner helps them make smarter choices later on in life, too. Quite simply, they won't be the child who turn's up their nose up at vegetables and brown rice. (One of my new blog friends and experienced mother of three, Jess, put this into practice long ago and has already reaped the benefits. Check out what she has to say.)

Therefore, I'm trying to teach and give my baby girl sustained health. And in several years, I hope and pray that it's worked.

In addition, I hope to supplement with breast milk till around age 2. While I don't intend for her to get the majority of her nutrition from breast milk after age 1, I do want her to get the immunities of breast milk for as long as she's able. (If I were to get pregnant again before my child turns 2, we are open to weaning earlier, though, for the sake of our second baby.)

4. Baby-wearing and co-sleeping

I intend to "wear" my baby a lot. Personally, I don't subscribe to the philosophy that you can spoil an infant by holding them too much. I believe, in fact, that close contact with the parents in the first year of life actually boosts a child's sense of security and belonging.

Plus, I'm a woman who's always carrying around a to-do list. So if the best way for me to get stuff done is to strap Baby Girl to me and move-move-move it along, that's what I'm going to do.

Honestly, I fear she's going to need to be carted around a lot in the beginning anyway, especially since she goes everywhere with me now. And because she literally sloshes along in my uterus through an hour of spinning, several miles running, and a host of squats and bends and other things that I do at work every single day, I imagine she's used to - and therefore going to crave - movement outside the womb, too.

This then leads me to co-sleeping.

I fully intend to place her in her Pack-n-Play next to our bed from the moment she's born. Standard rules say to keep her there until 3 months old.

But I'm not married to that deadline. If it's easier on me to breastfeed her in the middle of the night if she's right by my side, then I'm going to keep her there far longer than 3 months. In addition, if she sleeps better in the actual bed with us, that's where she'll be until it no longer works for us.

The research on co-sleeping is just emerging, but it clearly shows that co-sleeping does not hamper development and, in fact, increases feelings of security and trust in children.

Both my husband and I were notoriously bad sleepers as babies; the stories both our families tell are infamous about our abilities at fighting sleep.

The whole cry-it-out method? Yeah, that didn't work for me.

I was a stubborn enough baby that I'd cry and cry and cry. For five hours straight. Night after night after night. Just ask my mother.

No one slept when my parents tried using the cry-it-out method with me.

So I'm not terribly hopeful it will work for my child (payback, my friends, payback), and furthermore, I'm not terribly hopeful it work for me as a mother.

If co-sleeping fixes that problem, i.e., allows my husband, my baby, and me to get a decent night's sleep, I say, "Bring it on!"

And if it doesn't work? If, in fact, we're all tossing and turning all night worried about the baby in our bed?

Then off to the crib she'll go. (This, too, is distinct possibility for us, as my husband is the world's most violent sleeper. I have bruises on my legs from where he's rammed into me night after night. Plus, he works very odd hours, and he may disrupt her sleep, just like he already disrupts mine.)
***
I know, at least in the blogging world, I'm not alone in a lot of these endeavors. There are plenty of women out there who practice all of the above and more.

In fact, when it comes to "natural parenting," as my friend Idnar82 was talking about, I'm not even in the extreme.

For instance, my husband believes strongly in circumcising our sons, so (though I have a tendency to lean the other way) I've allowed him to take the lead in that decision.

I also don't plan on doing anything but promptly throwing away my placenta after birth. While I know many women eat or encapsulate it for it's nutritious and hormonal properties, I don't see a particular need or have an interest in doing so. (Not that I'm judging those of you who do. I have read your blog posts about this avidly, and I say, "You go, girls!")

Speaking of nutrition, while I'm strict about diet, I try not to be an extremist. A little girl needs a cookie every once in a while. Treats are allowed. And I want my child to transition well into a world where not everyone else eats like her.

Lastly, I am not 100-percent giving up my job once Baby Girl gets here. I am going to be in the distinctly unique and amazingly blessed position of being a stay-at-home mom who also works part-time. Because of what I do, I can actually bring my baby to work with me every morning, where she will remain under my care and not in daycare, while I work. (I work predominantly with post-partum mothers who also bring their children with them to train with me. So adding my child to the mix is no big deal at this point. I have clients who take nursing breaks in the middle of a set of push-ups. They won't blink an eye at a trainer who's wearing her baby.)

In fact, this is part of the reason we'll be able to maintain the lifestyle we hope to. It takes a lot of work to cloth-diaper, prepare homemade foods, and exclusively breast-feed a baby. I won't pretend for a second that, if I was still working as a teacher, I'd be able to do all that.

So I thank God every day that I'm able to bring in a bit of the income I used to before, without having to place my child in daycare. I am getting the best of both worlds.

But trust me, I understand that for working mothers, this is asking almost too much. So I by no means turn up my nose at those who choose something different for their children.
***
And, now, I'm tired. As passionate as I am about birth and children, I feel like I've been talking, talking, talking non-stop about it for the past week.

Still, I can't tell you how blessed I feel to have received such support and active conversation with so many of you over these posts for the last four days. I've learned from you all, as well. Thank you for that.

Ultimately, at the end of re-capping all our hopes and dreams for this baby, my thoughts still remain the same:

I'm incredibly blessed to be carrying this little girl and to be given the chance to raise her in a manner I see as best. And I am incredibly happy other mothers are given the same gift, even if their manner and method are totally different than my own.

It takes all kinds.

Breast-feeders and bottle-feeders.

Baby-wearers and cry-it-out-ers.

Epidural-lovers and placenta-eaters.

We're all out there, raising our babies and hoping for the best.
***
Please feel free to ask additional questions. I'm sure I've not covered it all, and I'm more than willing to write you back with answers or dedicate more blog posts to certain topics if need be.

Next week, I promise to post a list of resources and research for mothers interested in any of the topics I've discussed this week.

And, lastly, thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading my blog, especially this week. You all are truly the best.
***
Happy Friday, everyone! Hope many of you, too, enjoy a long weekend on account of President's Day! Be back around next Tuesday!

Friday, January 7, 2011

Baby Belly Envy

I've never been a woman to gain weight around my middle.

Thighs?

Sure.

Butt?

Heck, yes.

But tummy?

Not my trouble zone.

Which is why I was so darn sure I'd be able to notice my baby growing right away.

I figured Baby would pop out post-haste because, while I'm not the smallest woman by any means, I'm not the biggest, either.

And then, I lost 17 pounds, thanks to a diet of "Nothing Tastes Good and I Throw It Up Anyways."

I went into my 12-week appointment, heard my babies heartbeat, and pretty much had a six-pack.

Who knew violent vomiting was the best way to sculpt yourself a pair of abs?

Still, it was early yet. Being as this is my first baby and all, I figured I was in the norm. While I was thickening about the middle a bit, I wasn't exactly "popping." My time would come.
At 14 weeks. When the true scrutinization began.
And then, I began to notice photos. Pictures of friends of mine. Girls who are due literally less than a week before or after I am.

All of them - all of them - had baby bumps.

Worse yet, several more friends of mine began to post photos. On Facebook. On their blogs. In personal text messages to me.

Some of them - heck, a lot of them - were several weeks behind me. They were less pregnant than I was, if you catch my unscientific drift.

And all of them - all of them - had bigger baby bumps than I did.

Thus began the laborious process of examining myself in the nude; the endless procedure of poking myself in the hard, little belly; the round after ridiculous round of photographing my bump only to realize that it was really just a roll.

On a good day.
At 17 weeks. A lesson in of what can happen when bad camera flash, a gray tissue T-shirt, and a white bra combine.
I just looked like a woman who'd lost her waist. As my midwife said yesterday, "You've lost your girly curves."'

But pregnant? Maybe, if I stand in the right light. Wearing the right shirt. Slouching. And pooching out my tummy for the world to see.

Otherwise, I just look a little stocky.

Granted, naked, it's a bit more obvious, though I try not to stare directly at my new nude form, as I've started to resemble a pygmy, what with my naturally short, squat-y thighs and butt and my now teeny tub of a tummy.
Another 17 week shot. I may have been purposefully pooching out here.
But no matter how you slice it, I look nothing like the rest of my pregnant compadres.

So, rather creepily, I've just started to gaze longingly at the bellies of my pregnant friends. On Facebook. On their blogs. In their personal text messages to me.

Wishing and hoping I had their sweet bumps. Staring down at my own hard little circle that makes it look as if I've drank a few too many beers over the weekend and willing it to grow.

Hoping that all the aches and pains I'm feeling indicate something, other than the fact that my abdominal muscles are "particularly tight and strong, and thus, a bit resistant to being spread about so quickly," as my midwives so calmly told me.
17 weeks again. There's a belly there, right? RIGHT?
Sigh.

I've never been the jealous type, but there's a season for everything.

And right now, I'm a walking, talking, Baby-Bump Coveter.
***
I know what all you experienced mamas are going to say:

"Just you wait. That belly will catch up with you, and you'll miss your tiny tummy days."

And, in theory, I already know you're right.

But for now, I want nothing more than to look pregnant. Not fat.

To appear glowing and round. Not flabby and waist-less.

To show the world that the little bundle poking out under my shirt is not residual holiday weight but is, instead, a little blessing.

Bah. I totally have the Baby Belly Blues.
***
Happy Friday, everyone!

Friday, December 10, 2010

There You Are

Sometimes, this whole thing seems surreal.

I don't always believe that I'm actually pregnant.

That at this time next year, I'll be holding a 6 month old.

That, even when it seemed impossible, we finally got the baby we wanted.

I'm carrying it around right now in my belly. A little lemon-sized infant that will one day be walking and talking and running our little world like the bossiest thing this side of the Mason-Dixon line. If Baby's anything like his/her mother, that is.

But when I'm working or blogging or cooking dinner in my kitchen, I sometimes, for a second, forget I'm carrying precious cargo.

Baby is too small to kick me. My belly is almost non-existent. And if I didn't know any better, thanks to the small wealth of pregnancy tests I took, I'd swear I just had a bad bout of stomach viruses.

And, in a way, that scares me.

It's almost like, for those few seconds I'm distracted, it might not be real. That I might not actually birth a baby next year.

It's like it's all a dream.

And then, on Tuesday, I went to the midwives.

After checking in, weighing me, checking my urine, taking my blood pressure - the whole rigamorale - she lay me flat on the couch and gave me the pep talk:

"Now, listen, the babies are so small at this stage. I don't want you to panic if we can't find the heart-beat right away. Honestly, even if we don't hear it, the baby is likely perfectly fine."

She was saying exactly what I'd been telling myself since the appointment I'd had a month ago.

She was saying exactly what, no matter how much I repeated it, I didn't quite believe.

I wanted to hear my baby. I needed to hear my baby.

And, as usual, I was terrified that I wouldn't. I was scared none of this was real.

But I smiled, bravely, I thought. And I pulled up my sweater.

She went in with the Doppler.

And, within a second of touching it to my belly, I heard it.

The whoosh! whoosh! whoosh!

Consistent. Steady. Loud.

"Happy and perfect as could be," said my midwife.

But I barely heard her.

Because I was grinning and crying and whispering, "There you are, Baby! There you are!"

Amazingly. Unbelievably. There he/she was. Living away inside my belly.

That strong, steady sound was coming from my baby, from a tiny little blessing I love with more intensity than I ever thought possible.

It was my sweet little one, simply telling me, with each beat, "I'm here, Mommy. I'm really here."

And, with every little whoosh! of Baby's heart, I finally let go.

I finally let my own heart fell a little bit more in love.

I finally believed.
***
God has taught me a lesson or two with this baby, I have to say.

Honestly, within seconds of seeing two pink lines on a test, I've been terrified we'll lose this angel.

So I prayed for a sign. A sign that this baby was healthy and strong and sticking.

And then I promptly got morning sickness.

But, when that wasn't enough, the worry came back.

Which is when, out of the blue, everyone in my life, including my midwife, began to reassure me, telling me how they just knew this was it. That there was no need to worry. That they could tell this was going to be one healthy baby boy or girl.

I calmed.

But then, like a bad friend, the worry came back yet again, at just about the time my Tuesday appointment rolled around, when I freaked out, internally, that I wouldn't hear our baby.

Which I did. The second we had the chance, I heard our baby loud and clear. The midwife didn't even have to search for him/her.

All this to say that I obviously have issues with trust. With fear. Which is why, recently, I can literally hear God telling me to relax, breathe, and believe.

Through my mother. Through my friends. Through my health-care providers.

And now, through my baby.

Point taken, God, point taken.
***
Note: I know. It's Baby Central around here. I apologize. It's been all my week's revolved around. I promise to tone it down. Soon. Or at least try.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Thursday, December 9, 2010

I Believe In Miracles

Hello, all!

I'm not here today.

Instead, I'm over at my friend Sam's blog, talking about why, this Christmas, I choose to believe in the beauty of small miracles.

You can find me at The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times until tomorrow.

Be back Friday!