Dirty Dancing, Sort Of.

Two months into Motherhood, I wrote about trying to understand who I was now that I had this alien baby. I likened the journey to a choreographed dance, learning new steps while incorporating a few old ones. Fast-forward 13 months, and I still find myself occasionally tripping over my own feet. Picture the Dirty Dancing music montage where "Hungry Eyes" is playing and Patrick Swayze is trying to teach an uncoordinated Jennifer Grey how to dance. She steps on his toes, can't get the timing correctly, and giggles when she's supposed to be serious. I'm barely holding it together Jennifer Grey right now. But I have hope, because if you've seen the whole movie, and I know you have, she's a spectacular dancer by the time the credits role. I mean, who can forget the final scene? Please tell me you have stayed up long into the wee hours of the night, your freshman year of college, perfecting the moves from the final scene, with the girls who live on the same floor as you. Who's with me? Jenny, Sara, Pam - you'd better raise your hands.

I've made some serious advancements in putting the pieces of my revised self, post baby, back together again. The photography gig is going really well and despite Old Man Winter, I'm booking clients. My brother had been on me for a while to update my website, something about flash (not boobies) and html and optimal viewing, blah, blah, blah. I'd been dragging my heals on working on the site because I knew it was going to take me about a billion hours to update and revamp. These days, time is precious commodity. Finally, I just bit the bullet and sat my ass down one evening after Lucy had gone to bed, and got to working on it. I was right - it took nearly a billion hours, or closer to five, which in Mommy time is pretty much the same thing, especially when working evening hours that are best spent zombified on a couch, eyes trained on The Real Housewives, or Girls, or Broad City, or Togetherness. Yes, I watch them ALL and then some. Point is, with the sacrifice of a couple prized evenings, I got the website done. And dammit, it looks fabulous.

Writing has definitely been on the back burner, but I did something today that forced me to dust off some old work, and put a new piece together. I auditioned for the Pittsburgh show of Listen to Your Mother. Gulp. At about high noon on this quiet snowy Sunday, I stood before a panel of three women, and performed my pieces. I think it went well! They laughed when they were supposed to, and they got teary-eyed, too. Both good signs that my writing, and how I told my stories, evoked a reaction. Now it's a waiting game. A fingers crossed, breath held, waiting game...

Slowly, I'm making progress at redefining who I am. There will never be a time, though, when I'm not Lucy's mama; Motherhood underscores everything. It's the nature of this blessed beast. But, I'm discovering that while being Lucy's mama is part of my everyday, it doesn't have to be my everything. I can be her mama, and be a photographer. I can be her mama, sweep some blush across my cheeks, dab on some lipstick, lint roll the dog hair off my pants, scrape the crust of god knows what off my shoulder, drive myself downtown, and rock an audition. 

The more I do for myself, the better of a mama Lucy gets. It's a win-win situation. Now someone lift up your arms, I'm going to jump into them cause - and you knew I was going to work it in somehow: 

nobody puts baby in the corner.  

Month Four.

She is four months old today, and I'm more in love with her than ever. 

In reaching her fourth month, Lucille’s two biggest accomplishments have been being able to sit unassisted for almost a minute, and sleeping (HALELUIJAH!) through the night. She slept through the night, FOR REAL, needing no patting and no replacement of the pacifier, for the first time, just two nights ago. Picture me doing Balki Bartokomous’ dance of joy. Unfortunately for me, she didn't have a repeat last night. Such is the story with babies - three steps forward, one step backward. At 2 am, I am resolute in my desire to sleep train her (cause I know she can do it), but then morning comes, and then it's time for her first nap of the day, and I still so very much enjoy holding my baby as she falls asleep in my arms. I'm constantly having an internal debate about wanting to have a child whom I can just lay down in a crib for sleep, be it evening or nap time, and the selfish desire to hold and rock her into dreamland. That's Mommyhood for you. For now I'm holding onto her - literally. In a couple weeks I'll revisit the idea, because if we're going to do it, I'd rather do this before heading back to work.

She has blossomed into a full-fledged gurgling, cooing, smiling, and even on occasion, chuckling baby. Lucy goes places with me and with us without much ado, and is pretty easy-going in that respect. She loves her doggie, Olive, and Olive loves her. They are becoming great friends and it warms my heart. She's a champ with tummy time, but really isn't doing much rolling over. She's graduated to 5 ounces per bottle!! Tomorrow she has her four month appointment, and we're both so curious to see how much she weighs and how tall she's become. This morning we gave her a little taste of avocado, more as a ceremonious moment, rather than one about really eating. Her face was priceless, and whether or not she actually swallowed any avocado remains unknown. I'm just glad she was interested in it. We'll keep giving her opportunities to try out this new thing called "food."

Just the other day I was sifting through the various video clips I have of Lucy, and I came across the only one from her very early days. In this clip she is just five days old, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I totally teared up watching it: a wee little thing, barely able to make any noise other than those kitty-like mews.  I ached so desperately to hold that sweet bundle again. The truth of the matter is, of lately, I’ve been feeling quite sentimental. I’m almost certain I can attribute this emotional phase to the fact that in just a short month, I’ll be back to work, and Lucy will be in daycare. I’m ready in many ways to get back to work, and even a little excited. And I’m of the belief that daycare will be good for her social development. She’ll make new friends and meet new people; her world will become that much bigger. But I’m also sad knowing that once we step into our new daily rhythm, during the week, I’ll only have a few hours with her while she’s awake; a dramatic departure from our days as we know them now. 

I’m working hard not to dwell on how much time is left before our next big step, because I don’t want to waste this final month doing just that. Instead, we’re enjoying our days together, playing, laying around, going places when the stinking weather allows for it. I’m not usually one for getting irritated with winter, but this winter season has been a doozy. Sitting in our storage room is our lovely new jogging stroller and we’ve yet been able to christen it because every two seconds it’s snowing or freezing, or everything is frozen over making for one large ice rink.

It’s a special time. I’m well-aware that these days I’ll never get back. Seeing that video of my five day old baby made that painfully clear. I have a bazillion photographs to document these fleeting moments, but I’m also constantly reminding myself to put down the camera and just enjoy her.

Be in the moment, fully present, just us two, mother and daughter.

Happy four months, my sweet Lucille.

Month Two.

My daughter has existed outside of my body for two months now.  For 62 days, Lucille has breathed the air of this world beyond the dark warm waters in which she first came to be. For 62 days I have been a mother. Ask me what that means exactly and I feel like how the Scarecrow looks when he furrows his brow and puts a finger to his temple. 

I am both the noun and verb of mother: “a woman in relation to a child to whom she has given birth,” and “to bring up a child with care and affection.” It is a state of existence, a frame of mind, a physical entrapment or attachment depending on how things are going that day, or even the hour, or possibly the minute.

I am still perpetually tired; there is a thin film of haze that lives in my brain, but it's manageable and unlike the heavy fog of the first few days when we brought her home. When given the opportunity to nap, though, it seems impossible. When I put Lucy down, a small bean in the middle of our king size bed (we call it the magic nap bed - cause IT IS magic and she naps better there than anywhere else), and lay down to nap alongside her, I don’t. Instead I end up staring at her perfect little face. I watch her pink bowtie lips purse and smile, the small bubbles that sometimes form. I marvel at her long eyelashes and the ever so kissable cherubic cheeks. I’m amazed at her miniature hands down to the creases in her knuckles. This is what it is to be a mother. To be hypnotized by someone only 62 days old, so much so that you’ll forgo sleep just so you can stare and burn every fraction of their being into your memory, knowing full well you’ll pay for the deprivation of rest later on.

Since birth Lucille has grown 3 inches and now stands (is it appropriate to say this since she doesn’t actually stand yet?) at 23 inches tall, and weighs in at a solid 11 lbs, 7 oz. She’s meeting all her milestones and smiling in reaction to us. She recently discovered her fist and sometimes her thumb and she can, on occasion, roll from belly to back during “tummy time.” In month two Lucy has gotten to meet my mother, the west coast grandma, she experienced her first Thanksgiving, and she met her first friend and future playmate (Big Red's buddy had a baby girl). Lucy tracks both her father and me as we walk into or out of a room and she likes bath time. 

The biggest realization I have had in month two of Lucille’s life is that I can do this. I can now identify, with respectable accuracy, her cries – thus nurturing a happy baby. No longer is it just about meeting the need of a cry for hunger or of tiredness or a wet diaper. She is, in ways we probably don’t even know, absorbing the world around her and learning to live in it. Lucy is playing with her tongue more and more, sticking it out, clicking it inside her mouth – a precursor to baby babble? She kicks her legs vigorously and waves her arms when she’s excited; a primitive form of communication, what will someday turn into noises, then words, and then sentences. And then maybe someday into a Pushcart Prize or the Nobel Prize for Literature. Relax - I know that would be me projecting my desires for my life onto her. I refuse to do that. If Lucille wants to be a writer, bravo. If she doesn’t, bravo still. She will be who she wants to be, so long as it’s not a stripper. BUT, if she did actually want to be a stripper, then damnit I hope she’d be the best one out there (all of you gasping clearly don’t know my sense of humor).

In two months, I have come to understand motherhood as both helplessness and as someone who has superpowers (you were right, Pam).  The helplessness is the kind that comes with watching your daughter receives her first set of inoculations. How a mother’s heart quakes when her child is in pain. But the superpowers are the innate ability to comfort. She knows me, and when I hold her close, she is pacified. I am awash in oxytocin when this happens – pure satisfaction unlike any other.

The other day as I was feeding her, I asked her, “Do you like me, Lucy – do you love Momma?” I was obviously not expecting a response, but the questions were real, something I’d been wondering for a while. The next day, a friend who lives in Colorado sent me the following text:  I had a dream you and Lucy surprised me with a visit at school. As tiny as Lucy is, she was speaking. She said, “Lucy is happy. Lucy loves mommy.”

And there was my answer.

Happy two months, my sweet Lucille.

Identity: Putting Myself Back Together After Baby

As a new mom, I have been fortunate enough to find a group of other new moms that meet every week. We congregate, sit on cushions on the floor with our babes, and talk. And we talk and talk and talk about everything. I’ve said before that stepping into motherhood has brought me to my knees, made me cry more than I ever thought I would, and has sent me on a doozy of an emotional roller coaster. For all those reasons and so many more, this community of women has been invaluable to me. It has allowed me to share my insecurities and questions without fear of judgment. Each week that I go and sit on the floor with Lucy next to the others, I leave feeling a little more reassured in my work as a mother.

Recently during one group visit, a Mom brought up the idea of identity. She was struggling with figuring out who she was post-baby, and Kathy, our ingenious and fearless leader, asked the rest of us how we were dealing with this idea of identity. I didn’t say anything, but left considering my new space in this world.

I know logically I’m still me, but even knowing this, I sometimes have a hard time fitting all the pieces together to make sense. A friend from work texted me the other day and asked if I was enjoying my time with Lucy, to which I replied “yes, very much,” but also that right now I “can’t imagine going back to work in March and having to turn on my teacher brain.” How will I quiet the new mommy brain I’ve acquired in order to turn on my teacher brain again? It seems impossible because as of the moment, my mommy brain is what occupies 90% of my life. Then, a few days later, something happened that made me realize the former me is still there and eventually, it will all fall back together again – I got my period. Seems like a minor event, but it wasn’t in the sense that it was a clear reminder that even though I’m now Lucille’s mother, I’m still Ilene.

The best way for me to understand this new identity that I have, or rather than new, let’s say revised identity, is to liken it to a prism.  Some time ago, a dear friend of mine was traversing dark days. She sent me an article she found in an online journal which stated that we, as women are always “in flux, [we] are changing, [we] are flowing in a new way, and this is an incredibly powerful opportunity to become new again: to choose how [we] want to put [ourselves] back together.” It is a powerful idea to believe that we have the choice how we want to see ourselves and not let anyone else dictate that for us. The article also goes on to talk about how we are prisms, and why diamonds are as beautiful as they are – because they are fractured. Consider a diamond with no cuts, no facets. It would be dull, no? In order to help myself along this journey, I have taken to thinking of myself in these terms. I am a work in progress. The me that I knew before this baby is still there, but stripped down/fractured. Right now my waking life consists mostly of caring for my daughter, but slowly, the pieces of me that were, are returning.

Like a choreographed dance, I am learning one movement at a time. I had a baby. My cycle returned, and in a few months, I will go back to work adding another piece to this dance. Eventually I will add back things like photography, exercise and cooking meals from new found recipes. Each movement adds another dimension to the self, another step in choosing how I put the prism of my identity back together again. Right now that idea of "normal" appears to be far fetched, but I remind myself to be patient. Patient that in time I will find some kind of new normal and be able to do these things again. 

I know it won’t be smooth sailing all the time, and it will never be perfect, but it will be me. 

And that will be okay.

Month One.

Today my sweet Lucille is one month old. A month. I’m not entirely cognizant of how time has tucked into itself. We are moving through the days and nights somewhere caught between mild lucidity and a foggy haze; the leaves on the maple tree out back have long since reached their peak and just a few are left clinging desperately to the branches. Friends have walked into our home to marvel at and meet our daughter, bringing with them delicious food, and gifts for the babe. There have been phone calls home to California to talk and Skype with the west coast grandparents, and more diapers than I can count have filled our garbage cans. I’m certain I’ve looked at the clock in Lucy’s room on more than one occasion, forcing my wickedly tired eyes to focus on the big hand and little hand, only to realize it’s the wee hours of another morning.

This is first-time parenthood. Overwhelming, exotic, all-consuming, and exhausting. I’m still not certain how it’s possible that the honeyed smelling baby asleep next to me (as I write this), is ours. Literally ours of our flesh. It’s almost too much to comprehend and maybe that’s why it’s easier for folks to call babies, miracles. Then there’s no need to explain or understand.

I knew going into this – parenthood – that it would be a topsy-turvy time in our lives. The magnitude of just how completely a baby can turn your world upside down is humbling. It will bring you to your knees and the tears, oh my. The tears come for both good reason and no reason at all.  You can read as much as you think is necessary, research, and prepare, but actually living a newborn is an experience almost impossible to articulate.

As of today, here’s where I stand. I am tired but managing despite the lack of a straight 8-hour stretch of sleep. The mornings are a little tricky because I try to get myself fed before the baby wakes up. I have a general sense of when she might wake up, but it isn’t always accurate. What I should do is get up an hour before her expected waking, but I’m so freaking tired from having been up three hours earlier, that I linger in the warm cocoon of my bed.  Once she’s up, she’s changed and fed and then entertained for a short while before she falls back asleep for a catnap. The rest of the morning unfolds in a series of feedings and naps. There’s always the “big” nap to look forward to, which usually happens somewhere around 1 pm. That’s the time of day when I have the most down time, but “relaxing,” per say, isn’t always possible. See there’s this thing that happens when you have a baby. Biology has dictated that since you spent nearly ten months bringing this little creature to life, it was damn well going to equip you with all the tools necessary to keep it alive – read: a keen sense of hearing. I can hear every squawk or peep and I immediately go on standby ready to meet her needs. Essentially I’m on call ALL day.

The afternoon looks a lot like the morning, and we all look forward to Big Red getting home.  Dinner is not always a tandem event, sometimes he eats while I mind the baby and then we switch. If we’re lucky, she’ll be napping and we can get dinner down together.  She goes to bed after her last “evening” feeding,somewhere between 8:30 and 10:30 pm. And then it’s quiet time for the both of us for a short while before I inevitably succumb to the lead weights strapped to my eyelids.  Big Red handles the “dream” feed and then I take care of the crazy 3-4 AM –ish feeding.

And then somehow yesterday becomes today and we do it all over again.

There are moments of pure bliss and joy when I look at her, especially when she’s fallen asleep on my chest and her little body is a delicious warmth curled into mine. At the moment, nothing could be better and I want little else than to hold her this way for hours on end – forever, really.  I inhale her scent and rub my cheek against the silky softness of her head. Then there moments of wanting to press pause and take a break, wanting to get out of the house at will, wanting to take a shower, wanting to eat a proper lunch.  Life with a newborn is a double-edged sword, and in the fissures of total exasperating frustration, I quietly tell myself that this phase is tough and that we will get through it because it’s just what you do.

There is a sense of pressure though to “enjoy every moment.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told this in the past month. Show me a new mom who actually enjoys every single moment and I’ll give you my next paycheck. Not realistic AT ALL. That bar is failure in the making. There are more moments of joy than there are frustration, but they certainly don't negate the frustration. That's reality. My good friend Dacia sent me a text the other day and it went something like this:

                                                Nobody knows what the f*ck they’re doing with this parenting

                                                thing. In the words of Phil Dunphy, “You fake your way though

                                                it. And you just hope you don’t raise a serial killer.”

True that.

Somewhere between late nights, fussiness, feedings, diapers, and kissing the cutest cheeks in town, I have missed fall altogether. When I pass by the window in our dining room, I am startled to see our maple tree has long since reached its colorful peak of red and gold and the leaves now lay scattered in our yard.

As we move into the hibernation and stillness of winter, I remind myself that my best is the best for Lucille (thanks, Anna), and all that she needs right now is to be kept warm, fed, clean and loved.

I am certain my daughter, my daughter, is receiving all four – especially love. In spades, she is loved. Happy one month, my sweet Lucille.

Lucy's Birth Story

You were born on a Wednesday when the colors of autumn had just begun to ink their marvelous stain on the trees. A middle of the week baby, brought into the world as the seasons changed, a Libra.

I got up to go to work that morning, feeling as I had been, ready and waiting for your arrival, but not sensing anything different. The lunch bell rang and I walked a couple blocks to a store to buy some lunch: a package of California rolls and a candy bar. On the walk both to and from the store, I did notice I was feeling more tightening of my belly, but I’d assumed it was another round of Braxton Hicks contractions – practice for the real deal.  Lunch was as lunch always was, sitting in the PD room with my colleagues, chatting about everything and nothing. When the bell rang to begin fourth period, I got up and immediately sensed something. I went to the restroom and saw I had flooded myself. I wasn't sure if I’d peed myself or if my water had broken and what I was looking at was amniotic fluid, so – I went about my business and started class.

And then things changed.

Every time I stood up from my desk, my body, well, leaked. At that point I was starting to believe that this wasn't pregnancy induced incontinence, but something more.  I excused myself from my students and went back to the restroom, and that’s when I confirmed my water broke. Instead of going back into my room, I walked downstairs to the office and let the secretary know that I’d need someone to cover my class as my water had just broken. She got very excited. I just stood there. Leaking.

I went back up to my room to collect my belongings, and within minutes the nurse and two teachers showed up. It didn't take long for my students to figure out what was going on. Their excitement was endearing. I went to the nurse’s office, called the Midwife and let her know what was going on. They suggested I go to Triage and get assessed since I wasn't, at the moment, having contractions. I called Big Red and let him know that my water had broken, and for him to make his way home and wait for my next call. There was no pain, no sense of urgency at that point, so I drove myself to the hosptial.

After being admitted into Triage, it was determined that my water had in fact broken and that I was 3-4 cm dilated. At that point it was around noon, and I called Big Red to tell him to bring the bag, this was the real deal.

Within an hour, we were shown to our Labor & Delivery room. We set up camp, and quickly thereafter the contractions showed up with a vengeance. There was no getting used to a gradual increase in pain as the pain went from virtually nothing at all to a screaming yawp of fire. I was dilating quickly, and the contractions were coming one on top of the other with little rest in between. Big Red would look at the monitor and tell me that the graph of the contractions was not the nice bell curve that we thought it would be, but rather sharp steep peaks. Out the door flew my birth plan, and intentions of a natural childbirth without the aid of anesthesia. I looked at Big Red, said our code word phrase: “Chocolate: I want an epidural.”

The resident anesthesiologist showed up within minutes, an angel in my book, and proceeded to administer the epidural. It took some time as the contractions did not allow much time in between to insert the needle into my back, but eventually he was able to get it in. And then the relief. Sweet, sweet relief from the intolerable pain – pain so venomous, I was certain that each time a contraction wrapped its gnarly arms around my pelvis, I left my body. And then I was relaxed. And we watched some TV, and we chatted. But it wasn’t long before I was beginning to feel an odd pressure in my bottom. We alerted the nurse and I asked to be checked. I was complete. 10 cm. The midwife assessed that I should “labor down;” resist the urge to push and allow my body to bring the baby down lower into the birth canal. That way, when I did begin to push, it wouldn’t take as long. I was game. That lasted maybe half an hour, because at some point, my body just started pushing against the pressure without my permission. It was show time.

Big Red held my right leg, and the nurse held my left. Pushing seemed to come easily enough for me and I was able to work with each contraction and bring the baby down further and further. The mirror above my head on the ceiling showed the entire scene, and when I did have my eyes open (for some reason it was more comfortable to push with them closed), I could see peeks of the baby’s head.

Lucille Katherine Marshall was born at 9:40 pm, on Wednesday, October 9, 2013. The entire labor and delivery process was roughly nine hours in length. Her APGAR scores were 9 and 9 (the first given at one minute and the second give at 5 minutes, each after birth respectively). Because it was determined earlier on that there was some meconium in the amniotic fluid, Big Red was not able to cut the cord and she was not placed directly on my chest after birth. That did not deter from anything. It was only a handful of minutes before the nurse brought my daughter over to me. She lay on my chest, her skin to my skin, a head full of dark hair, steel gray eyes, the longest feet and toes I’d ever seen. I marveled that this little creature was something that, minutes ago, was living inside of me.

Big Red made phone calls to our parents and announced her name. It had been a secret, her name. It was the last surprise we could hold onto, and we did, successfully, for the duration of my pregnancy. He was, so incredibly amazing during the entire process. He knew when to touch and comfort me, and when to leave me alone in my pain. He has, without skipping a single beat, slipped so eloquently into fatherhood, it is a travesty to think he once doubted his abilities. Big Red changed the first diaper, and he is so gentle with her, you'd think he was holding a gossamer winged butterfly. 

Everything about Lucy’s birth was amazing, surprising, life-changing, and humbling. I am forever a woman transformed. I do not have super powers, and I’m not in any way smarter than I was before my daughter’s birth. What I am is a woman who was lucky enough to bring a life into this world. I have been charged with the care of this sweet little girl; a responsibility so awesome, I cannot look directly into its depths.  Instead, I will allow the love – inexplicable, instantaneous love—springing up from a well somewhere hidden I did not know existed within me, to wrap its light around her life. 

Today, my daughter is a week old and I can hardly believe such a swath of time has already slipped between my grasp. Every snuggle, every kiss of her cherubic cheeks, every gurgle and squeak - I am savoring every moment I can. 

Earthquakes.

I grew up in Southern California, and as part of my upbringing, earthquakes, the talk of, the experience of, and preparing for them was quite normal. In school we'd have earthquake drills (get under your desk, cover your head, and put your ass towards the window), and in elementary school, every year we were asked to bring in an "earthquake kit." A giant ziplock baggie that contained shelf-stable food, juice/water and snacks. At home you were supposed to have an AM/FM radio that was battery operated or wind-up, flashlight/batteries, a store of food and water, blankets and a first aid kit. It was all par for the course.

Thankfully, while I have experienced my share of earthquakes, none was ever terribly horrible. I was never at the epicenter of such an episode and at the most got jolted, but was never in any real danger. I remember some earthquakes being large enough to wake me, but not worrisome enough to get out of bed. Some were big loud rumbles that shook the whole house then rocked you side-to-side while standing in a doorway, others were little tremors that made you stop, look around, register that something was happening, and then go about your business.

Big Red and I are, as you know by now, preparing for our own life earthquake - one that should be arriving in the next 3.5 weeks, give or take. Hopefully it's "take," cause I'm about done with this gestation business. And quit with your, Hmmm, it doesn't look as though you've dropped yet, and the, I don't think you want her to come any earlier than necessary, she's much easier to take care of while in there, or the, get your sleep now while you can! Once again, thanks for your ill-timed unsolicited remarks. I'd like to punch you all square in the teeth. As for the OVERLY USED "get sleep now" commentary, guess what - I can't get sleep now even if I wanted to. I'm uncomfortable. Sleeping through the night is a long gone affair. Frankly, I'll be more practiced at NOT getting sleep than if I could still sleep through the night, so shove it biotches. And shut up.

Anyhow, back to our life earthquake. When we get home, we are fully expecting things to be wonky and I'm definitely guessing neither one of us will want to get in the kitchen and cook. No way. So in order to prepare our own earthquake survival kit, and for all the million aftershocks, I've been on a cooking spree. The last couple of weeks I've been putting together and cooking freezer meals. Today was my last day of preparation and I feel good about what I've stocked, some of which I made double batches:

• Veggie Lasagna
• Stuffed Pepper Soup
• Turkey Burgers
• Chicken Enchiladas
• Black Bean & Corn Soup
• Million Dollar Spaghetti
• Beef & Broccoli

Not only did I include the meals above, but I also made two trays of ready to pop in the oven apple crisp. Meals are important, but so is appealing to the sweet tooth! I even went as far as typing up a list of all the stocked meals, how to defrost and cook/reheat and what we may need to add along with each. That has been printed and posted on the fridge so that when Big Red reaches in to grab something, it'll be clear what to do.

It'll be hard to stay away from those apple crisps, but I won't allow myself to give in on behalf of Future Mom Me, because I know when we're beat ass tired, and all we want to do is have a home cooked meal, I'll also be grateful there's a dessert as well.

In other recent news, last week we toured the hospital where I'll be delivering. We got to see the triage rooms (step 1: early labor), the labor/delivery rooms (step 2: active labor and delivery), and the post-natal rooms (step 3: recovery). The labor/delivery rooms were surprisingly spacious and we were both impressed. I will admit seeing those rooms did make me a little nervous; I had a moment of oh shit, this is really going to happen - we're going to be in one of these soon.  I'm glad we did the tour though, as now we know exactly where to go and what to expect. I think it would have been more unnerving to be in labor for the first time in my life and not have seen those surroundings before.

One thing I'm going to do my best with, given everything goes without any major hiccups, is labor at home for as long as I can. The Midwives have told us that a good rule of thumb as to when to come to the hospital (again, so long everything is fine and after speaking with them on the phone) is known as 4-1-1: contractions that are four minutes apart, lasting at least a minute and consistently happening for an hour. Our birth class instructor followed up with the same advice, and also made the point that home is where we are most comfortable, and statistics show that once you arrive at the hospital labor can slow down due to the unfamiliar environment.

Really though, we need some luck on our side. I'm determined, we've done our homework and learned relaxation/breathing techniques, I have a tremendous support system in Big Red, but the last component is luck. Let's hope this little gal brings us the luck we need for the delivery we're hoping for.

An Era On Pause

We rounded another bend in the road towards parenthood: we’ve started our birth class. 

The punch list is getting smaller and smaller with every passing week. Items are being checked off the list with efficiency; we’ve chosen a pediatrician whom we really dig, the hospital bag is just about packed, the bouncy seat was put together, her bed sheets have been laundered, and her “go home” outfit has been selected. I’m still planning on taking a one-night nursing class (on the calendar as "Boob 6:30 pm"), just to get some of the basics down.

School is back in session which means I’m back to work. And boy oh boy am I feeling a difference in my level of energy – I have none. By the end of the day I’m socked and my feet and ankles have all but disappeared into fleshy loaves of bread. Because reaching my toes is a bit of a grunt-inducing task, last night I asked Big Red to press on one of my feet so I could see what it would do. To my horror his thumb left a depression that took several seconds to recover and plump up again. It was like a Tempurpedic mattress! I also now have a small numb spot on my belly thanks to the last leg growth of the baby. Both of these symptoms aren't anything too terrible, and mostly just annoyances. The evenings are kind to my feet and by morning they've returned to a reasonable state (I can see definition in my ankles again). I’m sure it helps that Big Red is willing to give foot rubs, too.

For most of this journey I've had very little to complain about and much for which to be thankful. I’m lucky in that I've been around babies my whole life, even working in the infant room of a daycare center while in college. Wobbly heads, changing diapers, and the general handling of a baby is not something I ever worry about. In fact, I love babies and can’t wait to hold my own. Last night though, the instructor at our birth class said something that stuck with me in a way that it hadn't until just then. She was talking to us about early labor and the stages of the whole process, what to expect and all that jazz. She encouraged the class to, while in the segment of early labor, take time to be with our partners. Watch a movie, go for a walk, even to cuddle because once we leave the house, “You leave as a couple and return as a family.”

For thirteen years it has been just us. We've had each other all to ourselves. When she made that statement, even though logically I've know this is what will happen after I deliver, the tiniest hint of panic and sadness came over me. And not because I’ll have to take care of someone else, or the energy required to do so, but more so because the era of just us will now be put on pause for at least the next couple of decades. I thought about it again on the way to work and to my surprise I got a little teary-eyed. In that moment I wanted to turn the car around, drive home, and give Big Red a giant hug. This is the first time in all these long months I've felt emotional in a way that I could not control.

Thirteen years has been amazing – all the ups, downs, twists, and turns, and I’m so glad we took the path we did and have had those years to be just us before we become a family. I know my husband inside and out, and can predict with sniper accuracy how he will react in virtually any situation. And he can do the same for me. No doubt that will aid us in this next chapter. This also makes me more resolute to remember to work hard to create those moments of just us, when we can, even after the baby arrives.

Today happens to be Big Red’s birthday. We’re going to go out to dinner to celebrate. I still need to wrap his gifts, and thankfully I get home before he does. But when he does get home, I’ll give them to him, along with a great big giant hug. And the evening will be that much sweeter. 

The Friendly Truth.

There are about a BILLION websites, blogs, posts, Facebook pages, aps - you name it - dedicated to anything having to do with a baby. For the most part I've used, when in doubt, the ever popular What to Expect When You're Expecting, and my favorite blog: Pregnant Chicken. Amy Morrison, the "broad behind the bird," is my kind of chick (pun intended). She serves up advice without holding back, and I appreciate that. I can't speak for other women, and can only do so for myself when I say that I don't want anything sugar coated. Yeah, yeah I know this is going to be an amazing experience, I know it will change my life forever - I've got a handle on the big stuff. What I want to know about is the little stuff. The gross stuff. The stuff that makes people blush and not want to say out loud because they themselves are too squeamish or they think I can't handle it. Trust me, I can handle it.

I want to be in the know.

BUT.

(Cause there is always one.)

I want to know when I ask for the info.

Just wanted to keep that clear.

Fill me in AFTER I've asked to tap into your wellspring of knowledge, and not a second before. Because if you do so, while you may see me smiling and showing off the gorgeous row of teeth for which my parents paid a sweet many pennies, this chick ain't really listening. Sorry darling, it's the truth.

At 30 weeks and ticking, I have found that even though I've got a couple of reliable resources, the very best sources of information are my contemporaries. The women in my life who have recently birthed babies. My fabulous posse of lady friends know me well-enough to know that when I ask about something, I don't want the abridged version. And they've been wonderful. They've filled me in on what's going to happen down there, what state my boobies may be in after the little miss arrives, and what to expect while giving birth. It's the kind of information and honesty I appreciate.

Most recently I queried my posse about what to bring with me to the hospital. They were quick in their responses and many of them had great tips. What I found hilarious was the overwhelming consensus to pillage the hospital of the mesh underwear I'll be given post-delivery. Most said take a few out of the pack I'm given, put the rest in my personal bag and then ask for more. Apparently, as it may be no surprise to anyone with a working logical mind, the area south of my belly button will be in a bit of a state after the baby arrives. These mesh undies are comfy, and no one cares (especially the wearer) if they get messy. Just pitch and put on a fresh pair. Also on the pillage list was the ingenious invention of the ice-pad maxi pad. I'm to grab and store as many of those puppies for myself as well. Who knew?!

Other than pack the hospital bag, there is little else for me to do by way of preparing for my daughter's birth. Everything we need has been purchased, received, washed, folded, stored, set up, laid out, shelved, and is ready for her.

10 weeks to go...

Tact

28 Weeks!

Yesterday marked 28 weeks, the seventh month of pregnancy, and the start of the third trimester. The home stretch. Stretching of uterus, belly, boobies, skin, all of it. So far, I've been lucky enough to avoid any stretch marks, but I'm not a moron, and I'm not going to believe for one second I've made it unscathed. The baby will grow a lot in these last few weeks, and with it my belly. I'm prepared for whatever happens, and while I'm slathering on coconut oil and cocoa butter, I know well-enough not to proclaim a victory this early. That funky little line, otherwise known in medical terms as the linea nigra, showed up a few weeks ago.  Just the slightest little vertical line right down the center of my belly.

As we enter this last phase of pregnancy and preparation, I'm beginning to think about who I want alerted when I go into labor and who I don't. My thinking probably lies more along the lines of who I don't want alerted. I've talked about being one of the last in my circle of friends to have a baby and how I've watched them throughout their pregnancies and listened closely to their gripes and joys. What I've gathered is this: having a baby can be the most wonderful experience of someone's life, but it can also be stressful and chaotic. What I don't want to invite is more chaos. In the hours and days just after delivery what I want is time with my daughter and my husband. I don't want visitors, even well-wishing visitors, traipsing through the room as my husband and I are bonding, getting to know our daughter, and as I try to get the hang of breastfeeding. Now I'm not a shy lady, and it's not that I'm worried about my boobies on display, it's just that I want that time left to us.

Somehow though, and maybe it's a cultural thing, folks seem to feel entitled for a visit, especially if they're family. Why does not wanting anyone at the hospital, including family, seem so counter-norm? Let's face it folks, I'm the gal who's birthing this child, she'll belong to my husband and I, and if that's our wish, then people need to be okay with that. It's not like the baby going to get up and leave. She'll be around an hour after birth as well as five days after birth.

Babies are awesome, and this particular little girl is a big deal to a lot of people - she's the first grandchild on both sides of the family. She's the golden child and I'm trying to understand and see things from all perspectives. I just don't want to be made to feel like I'm being unreasonable or selfish because I want time to myself and husband with our newborn daughter. Most of the time I think folks just go with the flow, and I'm sure learning to stand up for yourself and your preferences can be difficult, especially when it comes to a newborn - the very little creature everyone has been dying to see and hold for nearly 10 months.

But riddle me this - why don't more people ask the new mom or dad to be - What do you want?

As of this moment, here's what I'd like: No hospital visitors, no one home when we bring her home for the first time, and few days to ourselves before people stop by for visits.

So what's the right way to ask for space? Can I just say the following, "We'll let you know when she arrives, and we respectfully request that you give us time, including our stay at the hospital and our first few days home, before you call for a visit. And please call first; we'd appreciate no spontaneous drop by of the house."

Unless anyone else has any better ideas, it'll have to do.

The Nursery & The Bump

Perfectly cozy & colorful. I can't wait to bring her home!

Maternity Photography: Horseshoe Hill Photography, 26.5 week baby girl bump.

Last Summer of Me

Today is the first day of summer. A year ago today I wrote about all I had accomplished on day one of summer 2012. This time around has been even more leisurely; this summer is going to be a little different than last because it's my last one as just me.

Today marks 24 weeks in my pregnancy. Baby girl is just four months away from making her big debut. Her room is virtually complete, just a few minor odds and ends to tie up. Invitations for both showers, one on this coast, one on the other, will all be out by the end of the week. We've signed up for birth class (to begin in August), and I'm taking my maternity leave paperwork in tomorrow to my midwife to have it signed. Aside from some small craft projects and the organization of our storage room, there isn't much left for us to do before she arrives other than enjoy these last few months as just us.

This morning I woke up with Big Red, had breakfast and lounged around watching the morning news. Olive and I went for a walk and then I did some yoga. I've got a book next to me that I might get into, Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, but I don't have an agenda of any kind. There are no goals this summer other than to enjoy the quiet and calm, and try to do some kind of daily exercise (yoga or the elliptical) besides the ritual morning walk with Olive. I've been craving a pineapple upside down cake lately and yesterday my trip to the grocery store resulted in a basket full of plenty of fruits and veggies, a couple of steaks, and the ingredients to make my cake. Pineapple has appeared throughout my pregnancy - probably the one consistent craving I've had. Fruit really. I have a hard time if I don't have access to fruit. Don't worry, I'm not complaining. I'm well-aware that this is a fine craving to have versus that of pizza or candy.

I can only imagine how my summers after this one will be markedly different and forever changed. Neither one of us is ignorant to this fact and it's absolutely beyond irritating when folks try to tell us how it's going to be. The full gravity of the addition to our family has certainly not yet hit us, and probably won't until she's here. We get that people, we get it. It doesn't frighten us as we know our normal will just become a different kind. As for me personally, I'm sure there will come a moment when a summer day with my daughter will seem as it always has been.

She Can Wear Blue Too.

We found out on Monday that we're having a girl. A baby girl. Holy shit. It's a girl. And then I got excited and thought about all the different things I could do to her room. This is so going to be fun. After telling the West Coast grandparents, I went onto my registries to add a few more clothing items - that's when I realized as soon as you type in or search "girl," everything comes up pink. Literally everything.

Um, I'm not a pink ruffles kind of woman myself. I prefer black to pink actually. I don't wear a lot of dresses and my favorite outfit would be jeans, a t-shirt and some flip-flops. Comfort over fashion, for sure. After some intense searching I did find some items that weren't drowning in pink. Is this my fate? Is this her fate?

I read some time ago and loved Peggy Orenstein's book, Cinderella Ate My Daughter. It's fun and funny, but above all speaks to those of us who champion a world where little girls aren't sexualized and where women are taught that their power does not come from physical perfection. Who says girls have to wear pink? My daughter (can I just say how weird that was to type) will most certainly wear pink, it's inevitable, but she can and will wear blue too. My instinct is to fight, vehemently, against the princess-obsessed girl culture we live in. Life is complicated and if the goal is to raise a confident, independent and well-adjusted young woman, can that, should that, involve the inundation of pink, princesses, and rhinestone-studded words across her ass?

Clearly I've got some time before I have to figure this all out and before she starts to ask questions and has the capability of pointing out a poorly proportioned Barbie doll with over-sized tits, teeny-tiny feet, and a gap in her thighs ten miles wide, in the store, so I'm going to start my own crusade to raise a healthy young woman with what I know best: books.

For a while now I've been compiling lists of books for both boys and girls that represent each gender in a healthy light. Here's what's on tap for our little miss:

• Pippi Longstocking
• Madeline
• Suki's Kimono
• Stand Tall, Molly Lou Melon
• Princess Smartypants
• Grace for President
• Harriet the Spy
• The Secret Garden
• The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
• Chrysanthemum
• Little House on the Prairie
• Little Women
• Ramona Quimby
• Girls Think of Everything: Stories of Ingenious Inventions by Women
• Amelia to Zora: 26 Women Who Changed the World

This little one will also know that she will not be the best at everything she does and that's perfectly alright. Trophies and medals are reserved for the best for a reason. I can't stand our current culture's trend to acknowledge everyone, even for the smallest accolade. They don't hand out "participation" medals to all Olympians. I'm not interested in doling out reward after reward. Dangling a reward like a carrot will only motivate her to get the reward; what about developing her intrinsic nature to motivate herself? I'm not saying that the occasional bate isn't useful, and no doubt I will have to employ that tactic more than once, but when that's the only incentive then that's when I believe it becomes a problem.

She'll skin her knees, she'll come in last, she won't get the boy (or the girl if she so chooses), she'll fail a test and she'll be alright.
She'll be stronger and better for it.

Say My Name

Later this fall, Big Red and I will welcome our first child into our family. Olive will be a big sister. Things are going well and while I have not yet been able to feel anything, my belly has definitely begun to grow. I'm nearly 18 weeks along and have pretty much been wearing maternity pants for a month now. Truth is I may never return to "regular" pants because these genius elastic-waist bands are so freaking comfortable. It's like wearing sweatpants all day. Takes me back to my college years.

In just nine days I am scheduled to have the big anatomy scan, and yes we will be finding out if this little nugget is a boy or a girl. Oh yes. This mamma is a planner from cell to flesh and I don't think I could function if I had to wait until the birth. Everyone has an opinion about whether one should wait or not to find out the sex. Frankly, I could give a shit. Last time I checked, I was the one with the sore boobies and the growing tummy; sounds like the choice is ours despite the whole, "But don't you want to be surprised?" argument. Being told whether this is a girl or boy will garner the same surprise regardless of whether I'm lying on a bed with some blue-goo on my belly, comfortable and relaxed, or lying on a bed, having just pushed out a squirming screaming newborn. It's a surprise either way. Period. And because I'd like to have as much ready as I possibly can, I want to know. Now. In nine days. Case closed.

I have found that being pregnant opens the door for everyone and their mother to 1. touch your stomach, 2. tell you everything they know about parenting, 3. tell you their horror of a birth story, 4. ask you what you're going to name the kid. To which I will respond with the following: 1. a karate chop to your wandering touch or a reciprocal hand to your belly, 2. stop you and tell you I'm only having this child so someone will do the dishes for me, 3. proceed to interrupt your story and tell you about all my soccer injuries, 4. let you know I'm not revealing names.

Ahh, the name. Along the lines of opinions, so are the mired waters of the name discussion. The ritual and tradition of naming a child is as old as time, and is a very personal choice. I would NEVER make a rude comment to someone who has shared their choice of names. While I may not particularly like their choice, I'm going to damn well keep those thoughts to myself - as should everyone else. Nor should people proceed to tell a parent-to-be some wild story about an "Emma" they once knew and how she was a slutty whore. Because I know not everyone can hold their tongue, Big Red and I will not, I repeat NOT be sharing our name choices. We may leak to a few very close people, but that's pretty much it. Choosing a name for a child is a big responsibility, at least that's how we view it. Big Red has an aversion to the current more trendy names out there right now, and we both agree we like names that have been around for a while. This kid definitely will not have a Top 10 name, in fact they will probably not even have a Top 100 name. Last night we were perusing and using the US Social Security Administration website, plugging in possible choices to see where they ranked in popularity. It was both funny and a fun discussion. Turns out my name, Ilene, is a name that is not even in the top 1000 names for the past decade. Score me.

The very real responsibility of giving a name is undeniable  We want the name to be strong, time-tested, and to sound professional. We're not interested in unique spellings, or something easily butchered. Other parents may follow different guidelines, these are ours.

Lucky.

A new year. And of course the inevitable reflection of life and my existence within it. I said back in September that I was going to consider dismantling this blog. As of right now, I've decided against it. There is still a strong sense in keeping some of my life off the screen, but there is also a want and desire to write about it. The author in me, perhaps seeks to share, or at the very least engage in the act of writing. And "publishing" on this blog holds my writing accountable to me. For now, that's good enough to remove this blog from the chopping board.

Every new year's eve, I find myself saying, "this year will be better, I can feel it." I felt that on December 31, 2011, and I felt it again last night. 2012 held both sunshine and rain. Big Red took a giant courageous leap and made a career change and also got a brand spanking new car! I got healthy, lost a bunch of weight, and then began fostering a romantic vision of starting down the road to a family. It happened quickly for us, near the start of summer, and just as we were beginning to wrap our heads around the idea - after 11 weeks, it was gone. Just like that.

And then school started; my "kids" were now seniors, this would be our fourth year together! I had incredibly high hopes for the first semester. Alas, it fell hard, and has fallen quite flat. The class I was/am teaching has missed the mark. I know it and that has been rough. As for forging on towards a family when we were cleared for take-off once again, the family train became a mission. Too much of a mission. My personal life and professional life, both for which I had grand visions, became blurred and disappointing. I was trolling through a fog and it sucked.

This winter break was exactly what I needed, and somehow I've convinced myself to pull my ass out of the muck at work, just enough to get through the remainder of the semester, making the best of what pieces of the course I can salvage. I'm determined to end the semester on a positive note.

As for the personal, I am giving myself permission to step off the train and attempt to relax a bit. I don't want to hear, "just don't think about it," because that's virtually unattainable. In fact, it IS impossible. Trust me, I'll be thinking about it all plenty, but I'm working hard not to allow this vignette in my life to become all-consuming. I don't want to hear questions about how is it going. That's incredibly infuriating, regardless of the source: friend or family. I'm inquisitive myself, and love to know about the lives of others - I understand that. This journey in life is incredibly personal - more so than any other. I know people care, and I know they want to know - but tough titties. If I've got news I want to share, trust me, I'll share it. Moving on.

My eyes are not averted, just refocused on the other just as important pieces of my life: my husband, my Olive, my family, my friends, my health, my creativity, and my peace.

On the advice and encouragement of a friend, I'm going to my very first acupuncture appointment next weekend. Totally excited! Even Big Red was intrigued (I think I may have even detected a hint of some interest from him...). It's a new year and I can't think of a more appropriate time to have my chi or "life energy" realigned and balanced. I'm completely open to it.

My resolution intentions for 2013 are to remember (thanks Mia) that this is just how it is right now, live in the present without projecting, seek to find balance, and to enjoy.

This year will be better, I can feel it.

Happy Birthday

Today, after 64 hours of labor, seven of which included pushing "like a goddamn champion," one of my dearest friends gave birth via cesarean to a healthy baby boy. Dad reports that he has hands like a point guard, and yes - they have a name, but are going to sleep on it. Wise decision after such a long battle to bring this little guy into the world. His name, whatever it may end up being, will be with him forever. A charge his parents are not taking lightly, and rightfully so.

He is a Memorial Day baby, a gemini. According to the stars he will have no sense of danger, nor fear of failing. He will go after what he wants and make an amazing friend. He will love with a wide-open heart and be blessed with good health. He will believe in selfless acts of kindness, and will not be concerned with materialism.

Baby Boy C - I wish you all that the universe has to offer. You were brought into this world by a strong mama bear, and a papa who stood by her side - all 64 hours of it.

You are loved.
And I can't wait to meet you.

Moms.

I called my own mamma in California and wished her a happy one. She reported that my brother had invited her and my father over for brunch later today. He was whipping up some kind of surprise for her/them. Then I spent the day with my mother-in-law, who is far from the traditional monster-in-law hag who ruins everything. I got super lucky in the mom department and lucked out in the mother-in-law department as well. We went to lunch first at the Green Mango, a Thai restaurant. Then we went shopping (squeal!), and then we had banana splits.

Um, pretty much an ace day in my book. The only thing that would have made it perfect would have been if my own mother was here to join us.

Can anyone ever really anticipate what motherhood is all about? I have tried to imagine what I may be like as a mother, and of course I have this romantic notion that I'll strike a wonderful balance between super cool hip mom and don't-mess-with-me authority mom. A mom that every kid wants to hang out with, but also respects and looks up to. I would hope that my kid(s) sees me as someone he/she could speak to about anything, but I know that's not always the case. I also imagine creating amazing days of fun filled with crafts and adventures in the backyard. Maybe it's all a fairy tale, but what's wrong in shooting for the moon? I may land on a star.

Because it is not mine to claim yet, and I have no authority from which to speak, I'll leave you with the words of others:

"A mother has far greater influence on her children than anyone else, and she must realize that every word she speaks, every act, every response, her attitude, even her appearance and manner of dress affect the lives of her children and the whole family. It is while the child is in the home that he gains from his mother the attitudes, hopes, and beliefs that will determine the kind of life he will live and the contributions he will make to society."
                                                              ~N. Eldon Tanner

"Sometimes when you pick up your child you can feel the map of your own bones beneath your hands, or smell the scent of your skin in the nape of his neck. This is the most extraordinary thing about motherhood - finding a piece of yourself separate and apart that all the same you could not live without."
                                                               ~Jodi Picoult

The world is full of women blindsided by the unceasing demands of motherhood, still flabbergasted by how a job can be terrific and torturous."          
                                                               ~Anna Quindlen

So many have tried to define it, characterize it, write about it, trash it, and immortalize it. Oprah says it's the toughest job you'll ever love. A print I saw on Pinterest today: Make sure you pick up a bottle of wine for you mom today. After all, you're one of the reasons she drinks. Cute. Very cute.

Mum. Mummy. Ma. Mere. Madre. Moeder. Mutter. Mumsy. Mairig. Mare. Mam. Mommy. Mamma. Mom.
To all women who have given life or reared one.
Happy Mother's Day.

Kylie Jane Photo Shoot

I have been waiting to photograph this gal since she was just a wee little peanut in her mommy's belly. None of the snow that fell early this morning could keep me away from this anticipated chance to photograph another newborn. The little miss was fast asleep on her mama's chest when I arrived, and cooperated very well with all our handling of her, posing, reposing and wardrobe changes - or no wardrobe at all! Even her daddy got in on the mix. 

Big thanks to Lyndsey and Ryan for once again (I did Lyndsey's maternity shoot) allowing me to continue working on my craft. 

Lyndsey's Maternity Session

Today was Lyndsey's maternity session. The weather has been sketchy the past few days - cold, grey, and rainy - our town's holy trinity. Thankfully, this morning I awoke to clear blue skies and a bright and beautiful sun. Score. We did the shoot in a park that's hidden and happens to be near my house. I didn't even know it existed! I'll definitely have to be taking Olive there soon. The past few days of dank weather left us with soggy leaves and a sloshy muddy ground, but we made it work. Lyndsey and her husband Ryan were fabulous and willing to pose and repose and trek through some mud until the great shots were captured. You know we're all a fan of the bump, so we definitely captured plenty frames with the bump, front and center.

I hope someday after Ryan & Lyndsey's little Miss Kylie is born and grown into her britches, she'll look at these pictures and smile; looking at just these few makes me all warm and giddy.

Giddyup

Photo Cred: Healthmad.com

Yeah. You know what this is all about. Yesterday was my annual visit. Oh joy. Actually it wasn't so bad. After a little more than a decade of throwing my feet up into these stirrups - giddyup! - I find myself treating these appointments with little production. You go in, get nekked, put on a gown (does anyone remember when they were paper?), saddle up and relax. They ask you random questions about your personal life, the date of your last period. They thoroughly check your undercarriage and feel you up, you put your clothes back on and The End.

When Big Red and I first moved back to the East, and when I finally scored us some health insurance, I was faced with the most annoying task of finding a doctor. I hate to play Russian roulette in that giant text of biblical proportions you get when you sign up with a provider. I'd much rather go on recommendations and referrals. Because I didn't know anyone, that was impossible. I tried searching various websites with ratings and reviews and found what I thought was a decent start. Nope, that doctor was lame. Said he was going to follow-up with me, and never did. Sent Big Red out for x-rays and then said he would call for a follow-up, and never did. We were done with him quickly. Thankfully, both Big Red and I are in good health. We don't have chronic conditions that need maintenance. The only thing that became a bit of an issue was my minor case of asthma. I'd run out of a prescription for my rescue inhaler, and when I tried to get a new one, the lame doctor didn't want to sign off on it because I hadn't been back to see him. Boo. For a while there I had to just work through my bouts of uncomfortable wheezing. Last year, I surveyed my colleagues and got several quality referrals. After getting more information from the source, I decided on giving a new PCP a go. She was a hit with both Big Red and I. While we loved our PCP, and while I was super relieved to have found us a good doctor, I still wanted to see a gynie for my annual visits. I wanted someone who specialized in this.

Because little ones have hit the radar in this gal's brain, I've begun to research birthing options. I love watching documentaries and came across one produced by Ricky Lake: The Business of Being Born (2007). The blurb from Netflix: Director Abby Epstein's controversial documentary takes a hard look at America's maternity care system, juxtaposing hospital deliveries against the growing popularity of at-home, natural childbirths that some expectant parents are opting for. 


Because I'm intrigued at the idea of natural childbirth, but fear the possible complications, I started a search of some kind of possible compromise. And I found it. Big Red are lucky in that our Steel City is a hub for the world of medicine. We have a system of hospitals, more than 40, tied to one of our universities. Situated within that conglomerate of hospitals is one specially devoted to women. And within that hospital is a division of Midwives. SCORE!  The midwife center is now where I currently go for my well-women visits, and where I plan to deliver. Beyond this, the women, the midwives and the nurse practitioners are so incredibly nice. It's unbelievable how friendly and warm they all are. In all my visits, I have never once felt rushed. They speak with you and not at you. They answer all questions and never make you feel like you're asking something ridiculous. They never scoff at your hopes, and they smile when you tell them you're a teacher and you'd love to "plan" the birth of your first child. In fact, they agree it's a great idea since I, ahem you, have the summers off.  I love it there and I feel lucky to have access to such a wonderful facility.

One last thing. So, when you're up in the stirrups, sans the spurs, and the beloved speculum is, um, in place. That pressure? I feel like I can handle that pressure pretty well. Does that mean I might be able to handle childbirth without the aid of pain numbing drugs? In the pretty little perfect world of my brain, that means yes I can! My guess is that I'm grossly underestimating the severity of childbirth. For now, I'd like to still believe I have super human tolerance.