Now that all of our family is gone, Alaska and I have had more time to get to know each other. I was just a little self-conscious to talk to her when everyone was listening, ya know? I didn't want to sound like a crazy person talking to someone who couldn't respond back, but mostly I didn't want to say the wrong thing. What if I talked to her and she screamed louder? I was supposed to be her mother and that means knowing exactly what to do all of the time. I couldn't let on that I had no idea what I was doing. I always let someone take her when she was crying if they offered. I figured two mothers knew a lot more about calming babies than I did, even if she was my own little girl.
I will forever remember when we got back from a walk to the post office and Megan and I were the only ones in the house with Alaska screaming her eyeballs out. Seriously, those things were bulging in the way only a newborn can make them do.I don't know what I was thinking, but I half expected Megan to take her and bounce her around like she was so good at doing. I had more faith in her giving Alaska what she needed than I had in myself. Isn't there something twisted with that? I just stood there, petrified by the screaming mouth and bulging eyes that had become my baby. It wasn't until Megan offered to help me get her out of the stroller that I realized that it was my job to calm her down and I was terrified. It should have been my first instinct to scoop her up in my arms and sing her a lullaby or rock her, but instead it had taken Megan prodding me to pick her up.
Everyone so far had always reached out and taken her from me when she was bawling. Much to my relief and to my annoyance. How was I going to learn how to calm her if I never got her when she was crying and to my relief because I had no idea what to do. I felt so much pressure to make her be quiet and behave when I really had no idea who this little being in my arms was. All of her cries sounded the same and I didn't have a huge arsenal of 'this could be wrong, try this.' It was terrible.
We've been having a lot of needed time together. She has her tummy time while I pick up the scattered baby clothes and burp cloths and ditch them in a soaking tub of biz. She's gotten a more predictable schedule of being awake for a hour and a half and then we have quiet reading time as I spill out love story after love story by Nicholas Sparks while she falls asleep in my arms. I know that when a chapter is through she's generally asleep enough to be put down. I am beginning to recognize her cries as tired or hungry and it has brought relief to both of us. Her frustrated screams come less often, though they still come. Life isn't perfect, but it's better.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The Drinking Game
We took Alaska in for her two week appointment and she hadn't regained her birth weight. I'm new at this whole 'worried mother' thing and was not concerned. I've never given much weight to scales. No pun intended. They're kind of dumb and useless unless you're weighing your luggage on your way back to college because your suitcase can't be over 50 lbs without paying an extra fine. She was eating and pooping. Nothing was wrong until that scale got a hold of her weight. However, Steven was interested and asked the doctor what we should be doing to get her up to par. He's such a good dad. Of course, it was up to me to drink more water. Drown myself in the stuff and drink my lungs out. Our goal weigh-in for the next week was an ounce a day, at the very least 5 ounces as a total.
I did my best. I have never been awesome at drinking water. My mom told me in high school that I had better hope I never get in a car crash 'cause my veins would be so small due to dehydration that they wouldn't be able to stick me with IVs. She may have said that to keep my speed less than lightning. But seriously, I would always have a marathon day of drinking water before I went to the doctors, donated blood or what have you to pretend everything was fine.
On top of drinking more water I vowed to wake her every two hours to eat. She has a habit of sinking into a nap of 4 to 5 hours. At a week old I started recording her eating times and she went 6 and 8 hours without anything. I thought this probably attributed to her less than desired weight.
The next week she had only gained two ounces. If there is anything that strips all motherly confidence faster and makes a mother feel insecure about herself it's to tell her that she's not producing enough milk to feed her baby. I cried. I was the worst mother in the world, not even able to feed my own baby, the simplest and most natural and instinctive of all tasks. I couldn't understand how my body couldn't keep up. And then I got mad.
It wasn't just my fault for not drinking enough water. It was her fault, too. This whole 'feeding a child' thing is a 50/50 effort. If she would eat like a normal child we wouldn't be having this problem. Taking long naps between nursing made my body slow down its production. I had woken her up for the most part every couple of hours, but there were a few times when I hadn't set my internal timer and with her being quiet I got busy and totally forgot. I thought back to when I was engorged and needed her the most to nurse and tell me body how much I needed and that whole day she ate next to nothing. And then, of course, the part about how even when I woke her up she was usually too tired to really do a good job at sucking and it was worthless. She would cry for a hour or so from being woken up and I would be lost as to what to do to make her comfortable again since she wouldn't latch.
After my desperate tears came my mad tears and when I was all through crying I lifted my head and decided to drink more water. To pump after every feeding to simulate her sucking and cause my body to produce more than she was actually eating. And then to feed her that extra half ounce right there because the milk at the end is the fattiest and that was the milk she wasn't getting. To not rely on her at all but to let her sleep to her heart's content and pump even when she hadn't eaten. To feed her that pumped milk when she was awake. It was going to be a big job, but I did it.
Again, she only gained two ounces. I didn't let myself feel anything at this point. I figured that she may just have to make her own average weight chart and that at least she wasn't losing any weight. We weren't sliding backwards.
Steven was still convinced that I wasn't drinking enough water. I felt like I was drowning in the stuff and had gone through more toilet paper the past week than I usually did in two. I was having enough, I was sure of it.
Steven made up a chart for me to record my water intake on. Down one side is 12 am to 12 pm, across the top are the dates of the week. Every time I drink a glass of water I get to color a square. And surprisingly, it worked. It was just a job the first day and I drank what I normally did, 5 glasses. I was supposed to be drinking 12-16. Guess I wasn't doing as awesome as I had thought with drinking water, but 5 is a big step up from my usual goose egg. No wonder I was feeling drowned. As the week went on, it became a game. How many squares could I color in a day? Steven would check in on it every time he was home from lunch and therefore, the drinking game was born.
Our game plan right now is for me to color in as many squares as possible and we're offering Alaska a bottle of formula after every feeding. Sometimes she takes it, sometimes she doesn't. She always gets a bottle at night, when she's in the middle of her cluster feeding. I can't keep up with her eating for 20 minutes, resting for 30 and eating again. Not when she's such a bad eater during the day. My mom calls her a lazy nurser, but I prefer to call her a careful eater. She takes forever to feed 'cause she pauses so many times but she also hardly ever spits up. She is definitely listening to her body and its needs. I am so proud of her even if frustrating to feed her for a hour. If I try to force formula or extra breast milk into her it most often ends up coming back out. I've learned to just let her pull away when she's ready. Topping her off does nothing but make a mess to clean up.
I did my best. I have never been awesome at drinking water. My mom told me in high school that I had better hope I never get in a car crash 'cause my veins would be so small due to dehydration that they wouldn't be able to stick me with IVs. She may have said that to keep my speed less than lightning. But seriously, I would always have a marathon day of drinking water before I went to the doctors, donated blood or what have you to pretend everything was fine.
On top of drinking more water I vowed to wake her every two hours to eat. She has a habit of sinking into a nap of 4 to 5 hours. At a week old I started recording her eating times and she went 6 and 8 hours without anything. I thought this probably attributed to her less than desired weight.
The next week she had only gained two ounces. If there is anything that strips all motherly confidence faster and makes a mother feel insecure about herself it's to tell her that she's not producing enough milk to feed her baby. I cried. I was the worst mother in the world, not even able to feed my own baby, the simplest and most natural and instinctive of all tasks. I couldn't understand how my body couldn't keep up. And then I got mad.
It wasn't just my fault for not drinking enough water. It was her fault, too. This whole 'feeding a child' thing is a 50/50 effort. If she would eat like a normal child we wouldn't be having this problem. Taking long naps between nursing made my body slow down its production. I had woken her up for the most part every couple of hours, but there were a few times when I hadn't set my internal timer and with her being quiet I got busy and totally forgot. I thought back to when I was engorged and needed her the most to nurse and tell me body how much I needed and that whole day she ate next to nothing. And then, of course, the part about how even when I woke her up she was usually too tired to really do a good job at sucking and it was worthless. She would cry for a hour or so from being woken up and I would be lost as to what to do to make her comfortable again since she wouldn't latch.
After my desperate tears came my mad tears and when I was all through crying I lifted my head and decided to drink more water. To pump after every feeding to simulate her sucking and cause my body to produce more than she was actually eating. And then to feed her that extra half ounce right there because the milk at the end is the fattiest and that was the milk she wasn't getting. To not rely on her at all but to let her sleep to her heart's content and pump even when she hadn't eaten. To feed her that pumped milk when she was awake. It was going to be a big job, but I did it.
Again, she only gained two ounces. I didn't let myself feel anything at this point. I figured that she may just have to make her own average weight chart and that at least she wasn't losing any weight. We weren't sliding backwards.
Steven was still convinced that I wasn't drinking enough water. I felt like I was drowning in the stuff and had gone through more toilet paper the past week than I usually did in two. I was having enough, I was sure of it.
Steven made up a chart for me to record my water intake on. Down one side is 12 am to 12 pm, across the top are the dates of the week. Every time I drink a glass of water I get to color a square. And surprisingly, it worked. It was just a job the first day and I drank what I normally did, 5 glasses. I was supposed to be drinking 12-16. Guess I wasn't doing as awesome as I had thought with drinking water, but 5 is a big step up from my usual goose egg. No wonder I was feeling drowned. As the week went on, it became a game. How many squares could I color in a day? Steven would check in on it every time he was home from lunch and therefore, the drinking game was born.
Our game plan right now is for me to color in as many squares as possible and we're offering Alaska a bottle of formula after every feeding. Sometimes she takes it, sometimes she doesn't. She always gets a bottle at night, when she's in the middle of her cluster feeding. I can't keep up with her eating for 20 minutes, resting for 30 and eating again. Not when she's such a bad eater during the day. My mom calls her a lazy nurser, but I prefer to call her a careful eater. She takes forever to feed 'cause she pauses so many times but she also hardly ever spits up. She is definitely listening to her body and its needs. I am so proud of her even if frustrating to feed her for a hour. If I try to force formula or extra breast milk into her it most often ends up coming back out. I've learned to just let her pull away when she's ready. Topping her off does nothing but make a mess to clean up.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Take Courage
Alaska and I went on our first outing by ourselves. It's something I have been dreading. There's something super intimidating about a car seat. Those things are huge, and they're kind of heavy (guess that depends more on your baby) and they're definitely super awkward. Definitely.
The stake was putting on a woman's conference type of devotional thing at 9 in the morning. Now, that alone posed a problem since Alaska likes to sleep in late. She's usually eating her first breakfast around 9. Luckily the morning came early today at 7:40 and I fed her while frantically doing calculations in my head about how to best manage my time to get us out the door by 8:30 to get Steven to work and get us to the church and reverent by 9. Ever heard if you're not 10 minutes early, you're late? Yes, I am one of those people. With church anyways. You gotta have time to get your jacket off and get settled enough to search for a hymn book before you can be properly ready to feel the spirit. And share a few smiles with people who are streaming in. That part is important, too.
I got everything squared away and we were pulling out of the driveway right at 8:30. Of course, I can't take too much credit for that since Steven did the getting ready of Alaska. The standard clean diaper and check of baby essentials in the diaper bag. But I can take credit for having myself ready. That sometimes can be a pretty big job. Especially since lately I've had a super hard time trying on an outfit that fits right the first time. I cannot believe that I used to be so small! And I also cannot believe how big I have become. I call it invisible fat. It's all up in my legs and my shoulders where it's not noticeable until I am trying to squeeze into pantyhose, which are no piece of cake to begin with, or when I am slipping on a t-shirt. If it were muscle I could qualify as a female version of the hulk.
Dropping off Steven I was confident as could be expected from a girl about to embark on a journey with the one thing more unpredictable than chasing down a loose hamster. Taking a baby somewhere where they're expected to be polite and calm. And quiet. Most of all quiet.
I am pretty sure Alaska was asleep when I parked the car because she hadn't cried a peep. Usually she screams and hollers in her car seat, upset and frustrated at being strapped in and sitting up. Not this time. But, because this was my first time out with her by myself. My first time of getting a car seat out of the back of the car. My first time at trying not to knock the seat too hard as I pulled its awkwardness out I failed. I heard a hard grunt and knew I was going to have to use my back-up bottle sooner than I had thought.
We got in to the chapel quietly enough and it was my plan to sit on the front row so that no one would have to scoot past me and so I would have an easy exit if I needed it. I didn't think far enough to contemplate that the re-entrance therefore wouldn't be near as graceful. I quickly scanned the isles as I walked towards the front, searching for any faces that I knew and therefore requiring a smile of acknowledgement. All was clear and then I was almost there and I was losing confidence fast. Number one, it's hard to walk to the front in the first place, number two it's even harder carrying a car seat since everyone naturally expects you to sit in the back. Number three, it's hard to go anywhere where there are so many people who know each other and came together and you came alone. I'm no stickler and can make friends fast with just about anyone I sit next to, but it sure makes an awkward five minutes of sitting alone while I watch everyone that knows each other group together and I have to look like I'm fine with it that way.
Right when I was about to enter from the back door and abandon all hopes of staying and walk right through the front door I saw the cute lady from across our street. She's got quite the spunk left in her for being 80 something. I took her cookies one dreary December day and we've been friends since. She loves Alaska and had even already been over to say hello. She was a safe spot in my closing line of vision as I came closer and closer to the front. One row back from the front wasn't that bad and that's right where she was positioned. I bee-lined for her and was welcomed with a hug and a, "Let's see that cute girl."
I had thought we had gotten in pretty quietly, but as I pulled back the cover on Alaska's car seat she was already getting her quiet cries built up to something real. The organ music had totally drowned her out. I felt like such a bad mother for not even realizing that my little angel was in such distress and I immediately set her up with a bottle while everyone around us cooed about how adorable she was. What I hadn't anticipated was how much attention she needed, even when taking a bottle. I was constantly checking to make sure she wasn't dribbling or swallowing air or anything else that would be frowned upon.
We got through that ok and she was definitely the center of attention without me even trying. The program started 10 minutes late due to sound problems, which obviously hadn't been perfected as the organ blasted the opening hymn. And when I say blast I mean it could have competed with a train wreck. It startled me, which startled Alaska but no one could hear her cry because it was so loud. Our ears adjusted and by the time it was over we were both calmed down, however the quietness sent her into another series of whimpers through the prayer. We lasted through a song sang solo and the introduction of the speaker before it was just too much for her. The volume differences I think were what set her off. I walked us out of there at exactly the right time and made our loud way up and down the hall before I found the mother's lounge.
I wrapped her up tight and she was asleep in 15 minutes. We listened to the presentation from the foyer where the volume was a little more controllable with her cuddled against my shoulder.
Normally I wouldn't make a big deal of getting out to go to a devotional, but last years had been fantastic and I felt like I could use something like that again. This was not so awesome and it was perfectly fine that I had left the diaper bag with my notebook and pen in the chapel. The speaker was the director of 17 Miracles and after showing a 10 minute clip of the movie and explaining the history of those clips opened the rest of the time up for for questions. Good excuse to make a hour talk only be 10. I wasn't so impressed. But it was good to be out. It was good to be doing something I knew I ought to be doing and it was good to have my little girl with me, polite, calm and quiet. Which was more than a few of the other little girls were doing who were out in the hall with us.
The stake was putting on a woman's conference type of devotional thing at 9 in the morning. Now, that alone posed a problem since Alaska likes to sleep in late. She's usually eating her first breakfast around 9. Luckily the morning came early today at 7:40 and I fed her while frantically doing calculations in my head about how to best manage my time to get us out the door by 8:30 to get Steven to work and get us to the church and reverent by 9. Ever heard if you're not 10 minutes early, you're late? Yes, I am one of those people. With church anyways. You gotta have time to get your jacket off and get settled enough to search for a hymn book before you can be properly ready to feel the spirit. And share a few smiles with people who are streaming in. That part is important, too.
I got everything squared away and we were pulling out of the driveway right at 8:30. Of course, I can't take too much credit for that since Steven did the getting ready of Alaska. The standard clean diaper and check of baby essentials in the diaper bag. But I can take credit for having myself ready. That sometimes can be a pretty big job. Especially since lately I've had a super hard time trying on an outfit that fits right the first time. I cannot believe that I used to be so small! And I also cannot believe how big I have become. I call it invisible fat. It's all up in my legs and my shoulders where it's not noticeable until I am trying to squeeze into pantyhose, which are no piece of cake to begin with, or when I am slipping on a t-shirt. If it were muscle I could qualify as a female version of the hulk.
Dropping off Steven I was confident as could be expected from a girl about to embark on a journey with the one thing more unpredictable than chasing down a loose hamster. Taking a baby somewhere where they're expected to be polite and calm. And quiet. Most of all quiet.
I am pretty sure Alaska was asleep when I parked the car because she hadn't cried a peep. Usually she screams and hollers in her car seat, upset and frustrated at being strapped in and sitting up. Not this time. But, because this was my first time out with her by myself. My first time of getting a car seat out of the back of the car. My first time at trying not to knock the seat too hard as I pulled its awkwardness out I failed. I heard a hard grunt and knew I was going to have to use my back-up bottle sooner than I had thought.
We got in to the chapel quietly enough and it was my plan to sit on the front row so that no one would have to scoot past me and so I would have an easy exit if I needed it. I didn't think far enough to contemplate that the re-entrance therefore wouldn't be near as graceful. I quickly scanned the isles as I walked towards the front, searching for any faces that I knew and therefore requiring a smile of acknowledgement. All was clear and then I was almost there and I was losing confidence fast. Number one, it's hard to walk to the front in the first place, number two it's even harder carrying a car seat since everyone naturally expects you to sit in the back. Number three, it's hard to go anywhere where there are so many people who know each other and came together and you came alone. I'm no stickler and can make friends fast with just about anyone I sit next to, but it sure makes an awkward five minutes of sitting alone while I watch everyone that knows each other group together and I have to look like I'm fine with it that way.
Right when I was about to enter from the back door and abandon all hopes of staying and walk right through the front door I saw the cute lady from across our street. She's got quite the spunk left in her for being 80 something. I took her cookies one dreary December day and we've been friends since. She loves Alaska and had even already been over to say hello. She was a safe spot in my closing line of vision as I came closer and closer to the front. One row back from the front wasn't that bad and that's right where she was positioned. I bee-lined for her and was welcomed with a hug and a, "Let's see that cute girl."
I had thought we had gotten in pretty quietly, but as I pulled back the cover on Alaska's car seat she was already getting her quiet cries built up to something real. The organ music had totally drowned her out. I felt like such a bad mother for not even realizing that my little angel was in such distress and I immediately set her up with a bottle while everyone around us cooed about how adorable she was. What I hadn't anticipated was how much attention she needed, even when taking a bottle. I was constantly checking to make sure she wasn't dribbling or swallowing air or anything else that would be frowned upon.
We got through that ok and she was definitely the center of attention without me even trying. The program started 10 minutes late due to sound problems, which obviously hadn't been perfected as the organ blasted the opening hymn. And when I say blast I mean it could have competed with a train wreck. It startled me, which startled Alaska but no one could hear her cry because it was so loud. Our ears adjusted and by the time it was over we were both calmed down, however the quietness sent her into another series of whimpers through the prayer. We lasted through a song sang solo and the introduction of the speaker before it was just too much for her. The volume differences I think were what set her off. I walked us out of there at exactly the right time and made our loud way up and down the hall before I found the mother's lounge.
I wrapped her up tight and she was asleep in 15 minutes. We listened to the presentation from the foyer where the volume was a little more controllable with her cuddled against my shoulder.
Normally I wouldn't make a big deal of getting out to go to a devotional, but last years had been fantastic and I felt like I could use something like that again. This was not so awesome and it was perfectly fine that I had left the diaper bag with my notebook and pen in the chapel. The speaker was the director of 17 Miracles and after showing a 10 minute clip of the movie and explaining the history of those clips opened the rest of the time up for for questions. Good excuse to make a hour talk only be 10. I wasn't so impressed. But it was good to be out. It was good to be doing something I knew I ought to be doing and it was good to have my little girl with me, polite, calm and quiet. Which was more than a few of the other little girls were doing who were out in the hall with us.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Marathons Walkers are Made in Malls
Laugh at it. But it's true. Malls are huge. They're expansive. Driving from one side of the Macey's parking lot to the other side of the Penny's parking lot is quite the drive, and to walk that, inside, where it's warm. That's a good amount of walking.
Steven and I were getting our maternity pictures taken a smoggy Monday. I had gotten my hair trimmed up a few weeks before for the holidays and still had not learned how to master the art of blow drying it and gooping it to create the smooth effect that a person always comes out with after a good hair cut. That is why we were at the mall at 9:45 in the morning, before any of the stores were even open, for my 10:00 appointment. The parking lot was remarkably full for it being so early and as we entered the mall we found out why. There were at least a dozen walkers. Older couples. Mommies with sleeping babies in their strollers. A few weirdies. They were all walking the mall. Some were obviously more serious about it than others, complete with workout outfit and sweatbands, but it was incredible to see all of the bars down on so many of the stores but still see so many out and about, speeding through the mall in their Nikes without having to curve in and out of masses of teenagers.
I've never had good service with early morning appointments. It's like stylists run on their own time frame and don't realize that the only reason a person would be crazy enough to have their hair done at 10 in the morning would be because they've got a busy schedule ahead of them for the day. A tight schedule. Happened to me in Rexburg, as well. But I digress. At 10:30 I am finally sitting in the stylist chair with my hair dripping and the lady fussing with my locks, trying to get a feel for it, as she's not my usual hair dresser. To cut the process short and not mention the hard time she had with making it do what JoAnn does naturally, we talked brushes and blow drying and I can finally do my own hair with barable outcomes. I got the whole thing done for free, as she was so sorry for being late and not having thought to call. Thank goodness. Sometimes things just work out just right.
We walked out and were on our way in a hurry to Target to get some last minute accessories for the photo shoot, pausing just a minute to let a speed walker zip past us.
Steven and I were getting our maternity pictures taken a smoggy Monday. I had gotten my hair trimmed up a few weeks before for the holidays and still had not learned how to master the art of blow drying it and gooping it to create the smooth effect that a person always comes out with after a good hair cut. That is why we were at the mall at 9:45 in the morning, before any of the stores were even open, for my 10:00 appointment. The parking lot was remarkably full for it being so early and as we entered the mall we found out why. There were at least a dozen walkers. Older couples. Mommies with sleeping babies in their strollers. A few weirdies. They were all walking the mall. Some were obviously more serious about it than others, complete with workout outfit and sweatbands, but it was incredible to see all of the bars down on so many of the stores but still see so many out and about, speeding through the mall in their Nikes without having to curve in and out of masses of teenagers.
I've never had good service with early morning appointments. It's like stylists run on their own time frame and don't realize that the only reason a person would be crazy enough to have their hair done at 10 in the morning would be because they've got a busy schedule ahead of them for the day. A tight schedule. Happened to me in Rexburg, as well. But I digress. At 10:30 I am finally sitting in the stylist chair with my hair dripping and the lady fussing with my locks, trying to get a feel for it, as she's not my usual hair dresser. To cut the process short and not mention the hard time she had with making it do what JoAnn does naturally, we talked brushes and blow drying and I can finally do my own hair with barable outcomes. I got the whole thing done for free, as she was so sorry for being late and not having thought to call. Thank goodness. Sometimes things just work out just right.
We walked out and were on our way in a hurry to Target to get some last minute accessories for the photo shoot, pausing just a minute to let a speed walker zip past us.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
No Room In the Belly
I have reached my optimum baby-building size. There is no more room in this belly of mine and it's not getting any bigger. If she wants to stretch a little she's just going to have to come out. Usually she's comfortable in her little C position, upside down and all and her little foot may flex once in awhile. And then there are the times when her whole little body just needs a little more room and she pushes up against me. There is no wiggle room in there and my belly takes on a mind of its own as it moves side to side. Her bum pushing one way and then her feet the other. She doesn't kick, just pushes. But there is really no room in there and when I put my hand over her I know there is only a thin layer of skin and a little muscle laying between her and me. Just a little. If only my body would decide it's time for her to move on out and start contracting life would be a lot simpler and my intestines wouldn't feel so bruised.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Been Thinking
Babies are always so small. That is not a lie. Their little tiny ears and hands and feet complete with fingers and toes. It always puts me in awe to touch their little faces and imagine them becoming any bigger. It just doesn't seem possible.
But I've been thinking. Does your own baby look huge? 'Cause really, you just pushed her out of a 10 cm hole and she's in your arms after being in your belly. Does all that smallness seem rather large to have been nestled up in there for so long?
I've had some time to just 'be with her' this week and it has been fabulous. There's nothing much like worrying about something you have created out of pure love with someone wonderful, not to sound mushy, of course. I've tried to stay as worry free as possible, knowing that people have been having babies forever and one more baby isn't going to defy all gravity and give way to something super weird. Plus, I mean, how unsafe can you be if you're wrapped up inside your mommy. Literally inside. Surrounded by water. It would be like living in a swimming pool. I know enough about swimming that if you can manage to breathe, you're a lot safer in water than anywhere else due to the weight ratio being thrown of and the fact that the liquid around you acts like a pretty good cushion 'cause you just move with it.
Well it happened. I woke up in a panic and attacked google for answers. She has dropped and she hadn't been moving as vigorously as usual. I guess this is usual, after much research. Seriously, if you can find two women's responses that match up, that becomes the 'norm' since there are so many variables it only takes two to create some peace in my mind. Believe me, that would not fly on a regular English research paper. Two sources that say the same thing? That's all you have to back up your theory on why Emily Dickinson never married even though she was obviously in love? You're paper would be returned to you. Magic number is 3. But not in baby research. Baby research it's two 'cause that's basically all you can find.
The doctor appointment transmitted some excitement when he told me to plan an appointment for next Wednesday but that he would probably see me in the delivery room before that. Say what? Two weeks early? Doctor, it's only the 4th. She's due the 18th. I'm not ready!
So I've been vacuuming and sweeping and mopping and dusting every baseboard, every piece of flooring twice, and even catching up some needed attention on the ceiling due to some spider webs. And I've been sitting still being with her. While she's quiet. I can feel her little body hunkering down for a delivery and I wonder about how she must be cramped in there. Her little rump is all up in my right and her feetsies are all up in my left, and that's about 13 inches right there. And then you still have to factor in that her knees are bent up to her chest and she's got a back pointed directly down and after you get done adding up all those inches, you've got one long baby. So I am kind of anxious that my theory of babies being so small has been rather misguided and I am going to birth out one tall little girl. She'll still have little ears and hands and feet, but I am betting her head is not going to look so small after I have known what it felt like to come out. I'm going to cherish all of it. Even when my mascarra runs and my head sweats. I'll remember these last days of her inside and be grateful that now I can look at her and trace her little face rather than just feeling her bum and her feet, trusting that the rest of her is fine in there.
But I've been thinking. Does your own baby look huge? 'Cause really, you just pushed her out of a 10 cm hole and she's in your arms after being in your belly. Does all that smallness seem rather large to have been nestled up in there for so long?
I've had some time to just 'be with her' this week and it has been fabulous. There's nothing much like worrying about something you have created out of pure love with someone wonderful, not to sound mushy, of course. I've tried to stay as worry free as possible, knowing that people have been having babies forever and one more baby isn't going to defy all gravity and give way to something super weird. Plus, I mean, how unsafe can you be if you're wrapped up inside your mommy. Literally inside. Surrounded by water. It would be like living in a swimming pool. I know enough about swimming that if you can manage to breathe, you're a lot safer in water than anywhere else due to the weight ratio being thrown of and the fact that the liquid around you acts like a pretty good cushion 'cause you just move with it.
Well it happened. I woke up in a panic and attacked google for answers. She has dropped and she hadn't been moving as vigorously as usual. I guess this is usual, after much research. Seriously, if you can find two women's responses that match up, that becomes the 'norm' since there are so many variables it only takes two to create some peace in my mind. Believe me, that would not fly on a regular English research paper. Two sources that say the same thing? That's all you have to back up your theory on why Emily Dickinson never married even though she was obviously in love? You're paper would be returned to you. Magic number is 3. But not in baby research. Baby research it's two 'cause that's basically all you can find.
The doctor appointment transmitted some excitement when he told me to plan an appointment for next Wednesday but that he would probably see me in the delivery room before that. Say what? Two weeks early? Doctor, it's only the 4th. She's due the 18th. I'm not ready!
So I've been vacuuming and sweeping and mopping and dusting every baseboard, every piece of flooring twice, and even catching up some needed attention on the ceiling due to some spider webs. And I've been sitting still being with her. While she's quiet. I can feel her little body hunkering down for a delivery and I wonder about how she must be cramped in there. Her little rump is all up in my right and her feetsies are all up in my left, and that's about 13 inches right there. And then you still have to factor in that her knees are bent up to her chest and she's got a back pointed directly down and after you get done adding up all those inches, you've got one long baby. So I am kind of anxious that my theory of babies being so small has been rather misguided and I am going to birth out one tall little girl. She'll still have little ears and hands and feet, but I am betting her head is not going to look so small after I have known what it felt like to come out. I'm going to cherish all of it. Even when my mascarra runs and my head sweats. I'll remember these last days of her inside and be grateful that now I can look at her and trace her little face rather than just feeling her bum and her feet, trusting that the rest of her is fine in there.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Fatty Baking Soda Biscuits
I've really enjoyed this journey of pregnancy. Despite the re-entering of puberty-like changes that have occured in my body for the past nine months, it's been kinda fun. Ok. The throwing up. Not fun. The constant nausea. Not fun. The uncertainty of when I need to go to the bathroom. Like really go. Not just drip. Not fun. But the belly changes. SO MUCH FUN! And the feeling of her little body right up next to mine, priceless. She wasn't much of a kicker, or a squirmer, or even a hic-coupher. She just moved when she needed to and would pound on the inside of my belly if something was squashing her. Something necessary like a seat belt or when I would lay against Steven on the couch. So pretty much, we've had an awesome relationship. Not gonna lie, I wasn't in love with her when she was a bacteria (those would be my brother's words) in my stomach making me sick. But ever since she's become a little lady we've gotten along fine, giving and taking as necessary in comfort. I hope we can keep it that way.
I thought I was doing awesome. That the hard parts were over and that all I needed to worry about now was what in the world it felt like to need to go to the hospital. Until my feet started swelling. I don't know if it is the feeling of stepping on them or the pure grossness of looking at fat piggy toes that is worse. Either way, there was a very uncomfortable week where my feet would swell for no reason and my back would ache like crazy.
Poor Steven would rub and knead everything that hurt right before I went to bed so that I could get to sleep and he would have to start all over again in the morning so that I could get up in the morning and get myself into the shower where the heat would loosen everything up and I could get on my way without making his hands fall off with muscular dystrophy. Painful for both of us.
For Christmas I was loaded up with massage everything. A lower vertebrae massager, a foot bath and a handheld massager that would reach my back or my feet or whatever needed to be given a good go-over. Including my brothers' heads at some points while they were staying with us. You know. For kicks and giggles. We even may have tested it out on my belly. Shhhh. Steven was giving his last shot to my comfort at this point.
Well. The lower vertebrae massager was a miss, as was the foot bath that did nothing but get my feet wet. The handheld massager was a winner because he could use it on my and push as hard as I needed him to without losing circulation in his hands or having the muscles in them cramp up. It was glorious.
One of the girls was watching me painfully waddle around at work and suggested using either epsom salt or baking soda in the water of a foot bath to help with the swelling. I was so excited that I had a special dish to dip my dainty feet in so that I could try this! Oh, and it even blows bubbles. Exciting, right? I got home that night and Steven filled the bath up with some warm water and I loaded it up with baking soda. Whether baking soda truly expires or not, I don't know, but I do know that it did nothing for my swelling. Instead, when I lifted them up out of the water to check on their condition I had fatty baking soda biscuits for feet. My feet were no longer feet. They were swollen to round balls and covered in baking soda dusty grime. Sitting still was just too much for them to handle, I guess. It was all I could do not to stare at them as I rinsed them in the tub and got into bed. I couldn't believe that those appendages belonged to me! I've got long toes to begin with, and seeing them red and puffed up like little smokies was almost too much for me to handle. Even if I wasn't sick, I didn't feel so hot because of those ugly little things protruding out of what used to be a gloriously thin ankle attached to a well defined calf. Not going to lie, as enjoyable as this whole pregnancy thing has been, I am ready to be thin.
I thought I was doing awesome. That the hard parts were over and that all I needed to worry about now was what in the world it felt like to need to go to the hospital. Until my feet started swelling. I don't know if it is the feeling of stepping on them or the pure grossness of looking at fat piggy toes that is worse. Either way, there was a very uncomfortable week where my feet would swell for no reason and my back would ache like crazy.
Poor Steven would rub and knead everything that hurt right before I went to bed so that I could get to sleep and he would have to start all over again in the morning so that I could get up in the morning and get myself into the shower where the heat would loosen everything up and I could get on my way without making his hands fall off with muscular dystrophy. Painful for both of us.
For Christmas I was loaded up with massage everything. A lower vertebrae massager, a foot bath and a handheld massager that would reach my back or my feet or whatever needed to be given a good go-over. Including my brothers' heads at some points while they were staying with us. You know. For kicks and giggles. We even may have tested it out on my belly. Shhhh. Steven was giving his last shot to my comfort at this point.
Well. The lower vertebrae massager was a miss, as was the foot bath that did nothing but get my feet wet. The handheld massager was a winner because he could use it on my and push as hard as I needed him to without losing circulation in his hands or having the muscles in them cramp up. It was glorious.
One of the girls was watching me painfully waddle around at work and suggested using either epsom salt or baking soda in the water of a foot bath to help with the swelling. I was so excited that I had a special dish to dip my dainty feet in so that I could try this! Oh, and it even blows bubbles. Exciting, right? I got home that night and Steven filled the bath up with some warm water and I loaded it up with baking soda. Whether baking soda truly expires or not, I don't know, but I do know that it did nothing for my swelling. Instead, when I lifted them up out of the water to check on their condition I had fatty baking soda biscuits for feet. My feet were no longer feet. They were swollen to round balls and covered in baking soda dusty grime. Sitting still was just too much for them to handle, I guess. It was all I could do not to stare at them as I rinsed them in the tub and got into bed. I couldn't believe that those appendages belonged to me! I've got long toes to begin with, and seeing them red and puffed up like little smokies was almost too much for me to handle. Even if I wasn't sick, I didn't feel so hot because of those ugly little things protruding out of what used to be a gloriously thin ankle attached to a well defined calf. Not going to lie, as enjoyable as this whole pregnancy thing has been, I am ready to be thin.
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