Still Soft and Squishy

As a new mom, it's always feels good when people tell me I'm "looking good". I need to hear it. I need to hear it a million times a day. I have barf in my hair and pee on my shirt and I am worn out and tired and feeling all kinds of self conscious. I have noticed, though, what I think is a very interesting cultural trend.

I've heard it quite a few times. From family, friends and strangers alike.After a casual glance at my tummy a person will say "You are getting rid of that baby belly pretty fast." or " Good job losing the weight mama." or something to that effect. I am never offended by these comments, I am ALWAYS happy and proud to hear it. Which is kind of the disturbing part. The fact is, I have vigorously exercised exactly two times since my c-section. The fact is I wasn't even allowed to exercise until last week. The fact is that between trying to regain my strength, Christmas, and breastfeeding I have been eating EVERYTHING. The fact is that my stomach going down has very little to do with anything I've done.

I don't mean to be a party pooper here, but if you are praising someone for losing weight or "getting back to normal" within 6 weeks of their giving birth, you are praising one thing: the pace at which their uterus has decided to shrink. To me, its kinda weird how frequently, how very directly, I've been praised for that very thing. Frankly, I don't think I've shrunk all that fast either.

What worries me is this idea that a "new mommy body" is not a desirable one to have. I'm soft and squishy and I won't say I don't want to get back to a runner body ASAP, but why?

 I was shocked the other day when, while reading a Tolstoy, ( can't remember the title, too lazy to go get it off the shelf) I read a line in which the main character describes his wife as finally reaching this awaited state of beauty that could only be reached after having a few children. He discusses how sharp she seemed, as a young bride, and compares it to the beautiful softness that came with motherhood. It was just unfathomable to me that the added squishy I have could be thought of as beautiful.

But I know one person who thinks it's beautiful. He kicks at it while he's eating, and snuggles in it when he's grouchy. He pinches at it with his little fingers when I hold him close. So what if I'm soft? I am a soft place for him to land.

I want to get back to what I was, but I think it takes a while for a reason--and I'm okay with that.

Henry's Here

As tomorrow will be 6 weeks since the blessed event, I guess it's about time I post about Henry's birth.

    I knew labor wouldn't be easy, but I had hoped for an experience that would be emotional, happy, and spiritual despite the physical pain and discomfort. I had read and read and read all I could get my hands on as far as birth was concerned. I was prepared. Or so I thought.

   According to my reading, my contractions would start gradually a day or two, or maybe even weeks before the big day. I might have a contraction here or there and then they would gradually get closer together and then longer and stronger. I figured at the very least they'd start out a good 10 minutes apart. I planned on calling Justin when they got to be 5 minutes apart.

   At 1 a.m. on Monday night I started having what I thought were contractions. I woke up sporadically throughout the night with pain but they weren't super strong. I called Justin at 3 a.m. out of excitement. Surely this was a sign that our baby would be coming soon. I told him not to get to antsy though, these contractions were irregular and probably just a sign that true labor would happen in the next few days.

  By 8:00 that same morning my contractions were 2 minutes apart and lasting 45 seconds. I was astonished at how quickly things had gone since all my research told me I'd be in labor AT LEAST 14 hours. They weren't unbearable either, but I was so confused. I was supposed to go to the doctor at 5 minutes apart lasting 1 minute. What the heck was this? These contractions were not behaving like they were supposed to. I knew I wouldn't be dilated too much , but I worried about Justin being able to make it in time for the birth so I decided to go into the hospital and get checked out.

   TRIAGE: Round I
            I even hate the word triage these days. I wanted to labor more at home, but I also wanted to know how close Justin was cutting it. The first time around I spent about 2 hours in triage for them to tell me I was very thin and very effaced but not very dilated. They told me to keep my 2 p.m. doctor's appointment that day. I went home and my contractions got a lot stronger, still 45 seconds, still 2 minutes apart. By the time we got to the doctor's office, it was all I could do to keep from moaning and yelling and looking like and idiot.

    When we walked in to the doctor's office, I did moan, and yell, and from the looks on the other patient's faces...looking like an idiot. They got me a room pretty quick, which I paced around in, accidentally knocking things to the ground as my mom watched helplessly. She told the doctor she wasn't sure which was worse, going through labor or watching your baby do it. At the time I was thinking " Oh it's worse doing it Mom." Though now that we're 6 weeks out I'd be willing to give it more thought.The doctor said I was a 3/4 and that I'd probably be ready around 6 or 7 that evening.

    On the way home I yelled and even screamed. I continued said screaming as I bounced up and down on that useless birthing ball, clawing at the dresser in my room and giving the stink eye to whichever innocent family member walked in. I hopped in and out of the bath tub which may or may not have given some relief...( I think it did? It's a kind of a blur.)

    Around 3:30 p.m. I was yelling, almost to the point of cursing and giving up on the whole ordeal, when the door bell rang. Humiliation immediately set in, followed by anger. Who would dare to ring that bell while I was in labor. What stranger was imposing on this intimate, animal moment of mine? How dare my mom open that door! A quavering "He-ey.," washed all those feelings away and for a moment I forgot my troubles. Justin had made it earlier than I expected him to. The pain didn't get better at that point, but my labor did. I think deep down I was really anxious that something would happen and he would miss it.

At 6 p.m. I couldn't take it any longer, not even to see the hobbits and Strider make it to Rivendell. I took it as a sign, this baby did not want to be named Strider despite my own feelings about it.

We got to the hospital and ---TRIAGE--again. Oh what a dreadful place. I'll spare you a long drawn out description and give you the short version. We were in there for 5 hours. On a gurney. Contractions still a faithful 2 minutes apart. Not working. Your not allowed to get an epidural 'til you get a room. I had decided I wanted an epidural within the first 5 minutes of being there ( you try having contractions 2 minutes apart from the get go...it was out of my hands folks). The chick next to us HAD HER BABY IN TRIAGE because she was waiting on a room. It was at that point that I started panicking, and crying, and grabbing the nurses collar and begging her to get me a room. She did.

At 11 p.m. Tuesday they put me in a room that had heretofore been lacking a bed. The anesthesiologist was waiting for me. I had gone from a 6 to an 8 on the way to the room. I heard later your not really supposed to get epidurals at an 8, but I did...I don't think I would have survived without it...literally.

After the epidural I calmed down and even smiled. Justin curled up on the little bench next to me and we both fell asleep. I kept waking up , too excited to really fall asleep. It felt like Christmas. "The baby should be coming any minute now." I kept thinking, they even started Pitocin. Still no baby. At 3 a.m. they increased the Pitocin a lot. I didn't mind, the epidural was working.

I was confused when I awoke around 6:00 the next morning. My nurse came in and checked me, "accidentally" breaking my water ( I secretly wonder if maybe everyone was so busy that they were content to let me continue on at an 8, but my nurse knew that a labor this long was not good for me, so she threw the rules out the window and broke my water herself ...but I do have a rather wild imagination.) That did the trick. By 8:30 I was a 93/4 and ready to push( thanks to some coaching from the daytime nurse.

I pushed and pushed I was so encouraged with each push. "Good Job!" the nurse would shout " You're almost there!" "Seriously keep it up he is almost out!" " He's got hair like yours." I kept pushing, but the baby couldn't make it past a certain point. I recently found out his face was turned the wrong way. The doctor came in and after more pushing decided to try the vacuum. Let me tell you, that thing is wider then 10 cm and it is not comfortable when it fails and gets ripped out. First attempt, woooooooosh-pull-splat, Fail. Second attempt wooooooooooo-Doctorlooksatmeapologeticallyassheholdsupthescissors-gaahhhhhhhhh-pullsplat-Fail. Thrid attempt bleeeeghhhhhhooooooosh-fail. The doctor wildly begins a fourth try until the nurses- wait when did so many nurses get here- and random doctor remind her that its 3 strikes your out. "I'm sorry honey but you are going to have to have a c-section." I cried.

I cried and then begged them to put me out. "It's not really safe that way," they said. I didn't care at that point, I was terrified. "You can't have your husband with you if we put you out," said the very wise nurse, she got me, the ONE thing that would convince me. They told me to try not to push and that was really hard. The epidural was wearing off and it never had removed the feeling of pressure. I kept sobbing "HuuuurryUP" as they wheeled me into the OR ...and then out again because that one wasn't even set up. Finally they'd transferred me to the operating table, but where was Justin? "We aren't sure if your epidural is working properly since you got it from a different anesthesiologist last night." Commence panic mode. It did work , but I ended up grabbing the anesthesiologist's hand in the process. He looked at me with pity and let me hold his hand, even when Justin came in and I didn't let go. Even when I grabbed Justin's hand on the other side and still didn't let go.

The C-section itself was not too bad. It's a weird feeling, but not painful. I waited nervously to hear a cry. It seemed to take FOREVER. Finally, a short bark like squeal, Justin and I looked at each other with childlike excitement. Our baby had arrived.

How to Hunt a Husband: The Justin Story

For Aimee.

When I started this blog I imagined that I would be posting , mostly , about marriage. At the time I was very newly married and it seemed like the most fascinating topic one could write about. I posted about the little things: figuring out how to live together--you were there.

In the short time I have been married though, I have learned that the ins and outs of the institution are really not always compelling to other people. Marriage is a way of life. I think Justin and I have managed so far to have a very good marriage and I think what is has boiled down to is accepting another persons' presence as a permanent fixture in your life. Well not just accepting their presence, welcoming it, needing it , breathing it in and knowing that it's what sustains you. Knowing that without their presence you wouldn't really be yourself anymore.

On Sunday I rode back to California with my parents for what my sister is calling my "exile" and my mother is calling my "days of confinement". My insurance is here in California and Justin's very strict PT program is in Arizona. I am 37.5 weeks pregnant and I am waiting here for this baby to come so that we can make the trip back home together. Right now Home is in Arizona, Home is where our husband and daddy is.

I know I have done my fair share of gushing on this blog about how much I love my husband. I know that loving your husband isn't really all that unique and you guys are probably sick of hearing about it, but well you know that's kinda my life I guess.

When I got married at 20 I think some people might have thought I was throwing away my chances at a successful life. Over the past two years I have wondered that myself on many occasions. Most recently, I had to quit coaching for Chandler ( despite lots of people telling me I was really good at it), because Justin's in school and we're having a baby. Sometimes it feels like marriage makes the decisions for me.

I've been reflecting though on why I married that man and how I knew I had to. I was young and immature but I know I made the right choice.

I had always been looking for someone really. From early teens on I craved the attention and affection that a relationship promised to provide. I didn't really have a whole lot of people interested in me in high school, but my senior year I got a taste of what having someone could be like. I wanted to get married, to have someone be mine, to have someone to hold me and tell me I was beautiful and smart and strong. I needed that. I knew I could be someone big, if only I could find the someone who would help me get there.

I graduated and went to BYU-Hawaii and had all sorts of adventures with other 18 year-olds. I'm really grateful for the friends I had, who pushed me to explore the world and enjoy life with or without that special someone. We were busy and having a blast, but that didn't stop me from continually hunting for that person that would be mine. That one who would hold me in the night and tell me everything was o.k., the one who really knew me for who I was and wanted nothing more than to bask in the little quirks and strengths that made me me...whoever that was.

I had crush after crush and I threw myself at them. I imagine I was quite annoying if not a little scary for my intensity. I tended to go after the guys all the other girls were going for too. The ones who were friendly and outgoing and really cool and well-liked. Lots of times they responded to my advances, noticed the good in me, but then things would fall through--there was often someone else who was better, or a little older, or a little more their style. I'd be left feeling dejected and unworthy and horrible about myself, then I'd eat a bag of marshmallows, let my friends tell me what a jerk the guy was, and move on to my next victim.

Then I had a crush that really CRUSHED me ya know? He was very philosophical and very interested in my perspective on things. I felt smart and ambitious around him and I just knew ( this wasn't the first time I "just KNEW") that he was the one for me. I spent hours analyzing every thing he said to me, repeated over and over the signs ( my parents knew his grandparents who knewblahblah) that we were definitely going to get married one day. He'd invite me for late night walks and we'd hold hands. I met his friends and thought I was in. I wasn't. I wasn't really the only girl getting that kind of attention from him. It's not like we were dating, but the whole thing just hurt. He ended up awkwardly terminating our midnight talks by telling me he wanted to date someone else; that he really liked me, that I was this amazing person, but that things would be too serious... it hurt then, though now I can see that I was a very intense person around him and that it would never have been a good thing.

I didn't let him go right away. I thought that maybe he'd date around for a while and then look my way again. We were both in California over summer and I was wishing on every star that he'd come visit, that he'd text or call and want to hang out. My mom said it was like the saddest thing she'd ever seen. I like to call it my period of DESPERATION.

It got far enough into the summer that I realized he just wasn't that interested. If he was, he would have come. He didn't. I needed to move on. I needed to stop trying to find someone who would find me. I needed to be ok with myself, know myself, be ME. I came back determined not to date for a while. I didn't want to be depending on attention from others anymore.

I felt really different when I got back to school. I was still lonely, still wanting somebody, but I was more confident and I wasn't LOOKING for someone anymore. Turns out I didn't ever need to be searching as hard as I had been. A couple weeks into the semester the new guy on the team walked into the weight room and captured me with his big brown doe-eyes. It was different this time. I wasn't going to be following him around like a sick, lost puppy, I was going to attack that man with all the force of a full grown retriever, pin him down, and slobber all over him.

Why was it different? Wasn't this just me being intense and aggressive again only this time it worked out? NO. This is what was different. I didn't want Justin so that I could find myself, so that I could feel like I was worth loving. I wanted Justin because I wanted him. I wanted him more and more as we spent time together. Forget trying to make myself seem funny or unique or lovable. I went on dates so I could hear him laugh, see his sweet smile, feel the warmth and integrity of his spirit. I treasured his kindness, even when it wasn't aimed at me, I marveled at his discipline, his passion. I pursued him. In his words " It was a real shock to me, to know someone wanted me that much, to feel like I was worth it." As our relationship progressed I think Justin started to feel the same way about me, wanting to hear more about who I was because he loved me...nothing more nothing less.

When we started talking about marriage, there was this instant in which I flickered back to that old feeling of needing validation rather than of simply loving him. Justin, who was way more mature than me at this point (ok fine he still is) said this; " I want to marry you because I have to see who you become. You are a wonderful person now and I love you, but I know that you have a lot of growing to do and I simply can't give up my chance to see that. I want to be with you when you become the person I know you can be."

At the time I was really offended and a little panicked by this. " You don't love me for me, " I wailed.  "You want me to be someone different , you are only marrying me because I am a blank slate." Justin just sort of chuckled and half took back what he said, I can see it now, him hugging me to him but half-smiling at my dramatic outburst and looking forward to those becoming a little more thought out ( sorry babe, I hope you didn't think 3 years would be enough time for that.) Now I practically cry every time I think of what he said. He gave me so much room for growth. He loves me so much, sees me so clearly, that he knows now is only the beginning of things. He doesn't just love me for who I am. He loves me for who I will be.

He wants things for me to. He is constantly pushing me to pursue things in the areas he perceives me as talented. He wants me to live up to my potential. And you know what? That's exactly what I want for him.

That's why I am here in California. Doing things in a really inconvenient way. Standing on the cusp of dedicating my heart and soul to Justin's and my son. I'm not just ok with it. I am relishing every moment of it. Every panicked phone call from him seeking reassurance about the final he is about to take is music to my ears. I know him, I see him, I love him. I will do anything to help him be the man I love. Now and Forever.

Can a Scatterbrain Be Tamed?

Maybe this is news to you, but I happen to be a scribbling poet. What I mean to say is that you come to my house and wonder why I keep so many half-used ,battered old notebooks with paper fringe peeping out its because I write poems in them.

Being me, I have absolutely no method to documenting or keeping these poems  nope I don't even start at the front of a notebook and work my way back) except for the one house rule... "NEVER EVER THROW ANY KIND OF PAPER OUT WITHOUT FIRST CHECKING TO SEE IF THERE IS ONE OF MY POEMS ON IT." Justin knows this rule. I am pretty sure my parents and siblings do too.

In any case, I have an ambitious plan to go through all the old papers and notebooks and journals and get my poems typed up, which is what I was just sitting down to when I found what I think is one of the BEST POEMS I HAVE EVER WRITTEN.

Here it is in all of it's glory: ( It's a love poem which is why it is addressed to Justin)

Justin,

      Just so you know,
      I love the way you look at me, the way you hold my hand,
      I love the way you

(Insert a few hastily scribbled heart drawings, then, in cursive...)

  Just freakin' marry me already!!

OK so maybe this isn't my best work, but I thought this was hilarious, you know since he did end up marrying me...I guess it would not be so hilarious if he hadn't. Anyway here's to the guy who loves my scattered creativity  and who has made it his eternal goal to tame the beast and get me to complete my works, flesh out my ramblings, and - well you know- actually accomplish things. Good luck babe.

Pregnant Femininity: Part I

      I have always been fit and strong and I am wholly unused to needing as much help as I have lately. Yesterday Justin had to buckle my shoes for me...just couldn't get the right angle. It is taking pregnancy to realize just how different life is without the confidence that fitness brings...I don't like it.

     The other day I was on a (short and very slow) run around the block when I found myself in an uncomfortable situation. A road worker was pulled to the side, doing some routine maintenance on the sidewalk. Whether pregnant or no I always take notice of these things out of caution. Normally I would note that the man was rather large and that there was not anyone else along the road if the man ended up being malicious. I would then note the height of the nearest fence, calculate how much speed I would need to get myself over that fence, and generally plan an escape with confidence that I could handle the situation.
    Being pregnant  , however, left me feeling extremely vulnerable. Let me put it this way...there is NO WAY I could hop a fence right now. I think I could run fast for a few seconds, but I doubted having the upper hand in a footrace.
    Obviously the road worker was just your average road worker, out doing his job and not bothering anyone, but this experience has taught me a little bit about my own femininity.

     In one of my college classes, my professor challenged us to really think about the history of female inequality from a cultural perspective. The first question you ask yourself when you start thinking along this vein is "Why/How is it that this form of inequality is present across history and culture" or " Why is it that so many cultures, historically and presently, have defined gender roles which typically favor males with dominant power?" In class we brought up the most obvious reason-that there are inherent biological differences which might lend to this progression. Our teacher challenged our thinking by asking if it were possible that those biological differences could possibly be a result of the gender role itself.

  In other words, my original reasoning for the prevalence of male-dominant/ female-indominant gender roles went something like this ..." well women tend to be physically smaller than males which might explain why , cross culturally males hold power--since males would usually be able to physically threaten or protect their female counterparts." to which my teacher was asking "is it possible that women are smaller because men have taken on that role for thousands of years, and that that adaptation is a result of culture?"

   I thought about what she said, and came to a sort of mixed conclusion. While it seemed more logical to me that biology begat culture in this case, I did ask myself why I felt a cultural pressure to follow certain gender expectations when I was just as physically capable as many men (with mental capacity being a given).

   Pre-pregnant me needed little physical help. Sure I might ask Justin to get something down from the cupboard or open a jar but of course both of these tasks involve man-made objects that could be altered to better fit me. Pregnant me can't even get herself up if she trips over the dog (at least not easily anyway)...yeah that happened.

    Despite my professor's thoughts on cultural influences on biological norms, there is one distinct biological fact which can not be blamed on culture. It's the women who get pregnant. ( After all that is the one difference we base this whole separation on right?) Pregnancy means a certain level of physical ( and let's not deny it-emotional) vulnerability and dependence. And with that vulnerability (that realization that in a very basic way I most certainly am NOT built for the same things as men, that I might need to rely physically on my husband throughout our child-bearing life) comes the sweet realization of a feminine sense of purpose...which I will save for part two. ;)

*Note-Obviously a pregnant women can and should get the help she needs from other women as well, my point is that the existence of the vulnerability itself is a uniquely female circumstance.  
 

Feelin' 22

   On my birthday this year, Justin changed his alarm ringtone to "22" by Taylor Swift. It totally thrilled me when I woke up that morning, and we sang it over and over throughout our day at the zoo.
   I felt so happy and young and even unstoppable that day. I felt 22!
   Justin never did change his ringtone and now, 6 months later we still wake up to it. Only lately I haven't been feeling 22. I feel old!
    The weeks are flying by with my workload and I haven't had time to revel in this pregnancy the way I
always imagined. Plus I am pregnant and married, finished with my degree and far from hitting the clubs looking for "bad news". My 22 just isn't quite the same as the Taylor Swift version--nor is it comparable to the majority of my peers'. Sometimes I wake up to that song and think that I must be doing things wrong...
     But when I really think about it, there's nowhere I would rather be at this age. I am in love and happy. I feel free knowing that I am well educated. I am carrying my child easily (due at least in-part to being young and healthy). I am mature enough to deal with what's thrown at me, but I don't have a problem being silly or having fun. After thinking it through, I have decided that this is 22 for me, and I am feeling it.
   

Confession

On those odd days when I don't have a sub job, I usually have a lot of housework to catch up on. The problem is that I am usually only motivated to do one thing on those days...sleep. I improvise by telling myself that for each chore I cross off my list I can watch one t.v. episode on netflix ( o.k. sometimes 2). It's not good because I feel guilty not doing things that make me a better person-- reading classic literature, crafting, writing--but when I am tired and given this precious breather all those things just feel like chores. T.V. is easy and mind numbing and I don't feel guilty for falling asleep while doing it. So here I am , hastily writing this post, so I can get back to that third season of Everybody Loves Raymond. Maybe someday I will reach my sleep quota, maybe I should just enjoy the chance I have to sleep now before my baby comes to hold me responsible each and every choice.