Nanny Needed

I haven't had much time to write lately.  It seems the older Ian gets, the more time I spend with him.  I rarely want to do anything else, but I must take some time for myself to.  Luckily, The Prince recognizes this fact and, today, he decided to take Ian to visit my in-laws, so I could have a few hours to myself.

This last week has been especially stressful.  First, there was more drama with my family (can't even get into it because it makes me sick to my stomach to think about it).  Then, there was my first daycare tour.  I'll be returning to week the first week in July.  We placed Ian on the waiting lists for two daycares when I was 12 weeks pregnant.  He has just now made it to the top of the list (just in time).  I knew it would be hard for me to accept that I am going to be leaving Ian in the care of strangers, but I had no idea just how hard it would be.

We (The Prince, Ian and I) went to the first daycare last Thursday.  It is for state employees and we had heard good things.  UGH!!!  The carpeting was dirty and frayed.  There were dirty and broken toys everywhere.  Way too many kids were crammed into way too small of a space...and none of the 50 or so kids were smiling.  In one room, a little girl came over and hugged my legs and begged me to be their new teacher because the teacher they had was mean.  Seriously!  The infant room had 10 infants at the time of our tour...usually there are 16.  There were 3 adults in the room.  Most of the infants were crying and the teachers were paying no attention to the crying.  Two were getting breakfast ready for the older infants and one was changing a diaper of a younger infant.  Babies were just sitting and laying around.  I didn't even make it out of the room before I started bawling.

New York state requires that daycares have one adult for every 4 infants under the age of 2.  So that's what daycares do...a 4 to 1 ratio.  It's too much.  I have friends whose children go to daycares and they are perfectly happy with the care their babies receive with the 4:1, but I can't do it.  Ian is used to my constant care and attention.  We've practiced attachment parenting, so he has never been left to just cry it out (not that he has never been allowed to just cry for a few minutes to blow off steam...but he knows I'm there and I love him while he does it).  Putting him in the daycare environment would be traumatic for him...and I say that with certainty.  Even The Prince, who is all about saving money (and daycare is cheaper than any other childcare option) walked out of that first tour saying...NO WAY!

After the first tour, I placed an add for a nanny.  The Prince and I decided that, even though it will likely cost about half of my take-home pay, it is worth it while Ian is still an infant.  His well-being and our peace-of-mind needs to come before financial concerns. 

We took a second tour, yesterday, of the daycare on the campus where The Prince is a professor.  It was sooooo much better, and we feel really comfortable sending Ian there...when he's a toddler.  The infant room was, once again, depressing.  I watched one teacher put a crying baby in a crib, say "take a nap," and walk away to write in a notebook.  Another teacher in the infant room was talking about how her son would be starting at the daycare now that he is 2.  I said "He didn't come here with you to the infant room?"  She said "Oh no...he's with people I trust."  Really?!?  Glowing recommendation.

So, we've put ourselves on the waiting list for an opening in the toddler room next year, and will hire a nanny to get us through until then.  There are a lot of candidates.  I received 30 responses to our ad.  I reviewed references and background checks, read profiles and started my stupid grading system.  I narrowed the candidates down to the 7 best (although it is really difficult to say who is "better" than someone else when the criteria is so subjective).  What I'm doing now reminds me a lot of what I did to find the right egg donor for us.  At noon today, I wrote to the 7 top candidates, explaining what we are willing to pay and what we expect in return.  I assumed that this would weed-out the people who are not on the same page as us, so we don't waste anyone's time.  So far, 5 have responded that they would like an interview.  It looks like next Saturday is going to be spent conducting interviews. 

I'm excited, but scared.  This is one of those things that you have to get right.  Ian's safety and happiness depends on this decision.  I can't stay with him everyday for the next year, so I need to make sure that the person who is spending time with him is going to be able to care about him...not as much as I do...but close.  Who knew, a year ago, that finding a nanny would be on my to-do list.  I know you are probably sick of hearing me say "what a difference a year makes," but I can't help it.  It's just surreal.

Transfer Update - Take Two

One year ago today, I was providing an update of my first donor egg cycle embryo transfer.  Little did I know that one of the two embryos being transferred would stick for the long haul.  Little did I know that the tiny 10-cell being in the picture below was going to become the little boy I am holding in my arms today.

Ian's first photo

Ian turned five months old today.  He has his own little personality.  He has very clear opinions about EVERYTHING and he will let you know what they are by yelling his babble at you when you misstep.  I have to pinch myself to remind myself that this is my new reality.  No more failed IVF cycle after failed IVF cycle.  Now my days are spent changing diapers, working hard to elicit the most beautiful little smile in the world, and loving life.  I can't believe how much has changed in my life in one year.  I know I've said that before, but it is true everyday.  I can't believe this is my life. 

In my post from last year, I talked about the doctor making me chant "I believe."  I found it ridiculous at the time, but I chose to actually believe in that cycle...and for once, I hadn't set myself up for the fall.  My dream came true and I couldn't be more grateful for the blessing I've been given.

Please Send Some Love

One of our IF sisters is having a rough time right now.  I'm not going to go into details because I think it is for her to share what she is comfortable sharing whenever she is ready.  But I know she could really use some love and encouragement right now and the blog world support system is one of the best.  So, I am asking all of you to take a second to head over to Krystyn's blog at http://www.bringonthebabies.com and give her some bloggy love.

Thank you so much for your help.

Saying Thank You and Goodbye

Today, Ian and I went to Mommy and Me yoga.  The class is held in the upper floor of the building where my fertility clinic resides.  I took Ian downstairs, after class, during the office's lunch time, to show him to all of the men and women who were so instrumental in getting him into my arms.  I loved it and hated it at the same time.

You see, when I walked into the fertility center doors, I realized immediately that there are still many painful memories haunting me there.  There was one woman sitting in the waiting room when I walked through the lobby and I could read the pain and frustration in her face.  I wanted to say to her..."I know.  It does get better.  I promise."  But that's not a promise I can make...and a woman holding a baby is probably the last person she wants offering her advice right now.  I can only pray that the glimpse she caught of my infant carrier didn't make her day any harder.

When I saw the doctor and nurses, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude.  I ended up chattering like a middle school girl talking to the boy she's been crushing on.  I was trying to be impressive and struggling to find something witty to say.  I kept randomly saying "Thank you" in the middle of conversations because I couldn't keep the words in my mouth.  The gratitude I feel towards those people is overwhelming.  Having Ian sitting there, in the midst of the clinic just made the "homecoming" all the more intense.  And although I know there is a remote possibility that we will be back there someday, trying again with one of our frosties...it felt like goodbye today.  A real goodbye.  Not the surreal experience I had on the day I was discharged from the clinic.  This visit brought a sense of closure.  And with that closure... I experienced sadness for what I lost in the past, peace about where I am at in the present, and hope for where I will be in the future.  I cried on the way home from the visit with the clinic, but I'm not crying anymore.  I am able to move forward, with gratitude in my heart.

I'm "That" Mom.

I'm that mom who...

1) ...called the pediatrician twice in the last two days.  The first time because one of Ian's cheeks seemed "too red" to me.  The second time because he had cried all day and wasn't drinking as much as usual.  The "cheek" issue resolved before I was even off the phone with the doctor (apparently teething can cause redness in the baby's cheeks).  The second call resulted in my giving Ian Tylenol...which resolved what turned out to be just another teething issue in 15 minutes.  The pediatrician must LOVE me.

2) ...shows everyone pictures of her baby.  I mean EVERYONE!  Receptionists, people in elevators, doctors, nurses, grocery store clerks.  I, of all people, should know better.  You never know what that person is going through and if looking at your baby is going to ruin their day.  But I can't help myself.  I waited so long to have a baby to show off...I just can't seem to stop.

3) ...posts pictures of my baby on Facebook everyday (or almost every day).  I have read IF post after IF post about the daft, inconsiderate women who think their stupid babies are so magical and so amazing that they shove pictures and updates about their babies down everyone's throats.  Guilty as charged.  I am now daft and inconsiderate.  And I do think that everything Ian does is adorable and worthy of being shared with the world.  I know that's stupid...I don't care.  Love makes you do stupid things.

4) ...can't stand the idea of my son going to daycare in a couple of months and yet... I start counting down the hours (and minutes) until his bedtime before I've even had breakfast some days.  I adore spending my days with Ian.  But all day, every day, for almost five months, is starting to be a bit much.  And the feeling is mutual.  There are times that Ian gives me a look in the morning as if to say "Ugh!  Not you again."  I think I will need to try to find a babysitter so that I can have a couple of hours here and there to myself during the week.

5) ...still thinks about IF almost everyday.  Isn't that strange?  Some days it is because people tell me that Ian looks just like me.  Some days it is because I will feel a pang in my remaining ovary.  Some days it is because I am talking to or thinking about my best friends...almost all of whom I met in my IF support group.  I guess when you spend years defining yourself by a condition that you have been forced to endure...it isn't easy to drop that label and forget about what you've been through.

6) ...sings songs about EVERYTHING to amuse the baby.  We have a "Poopy in the Pants" song, a "First We Do the Diapey Change And Then We Get a Baa" song, and...my personal favorite... a "We Don't Bite The Booby" song.  If anyone bugged my house, I would likely be committed.

7) ...talk to my baby in the car...while I'm driving.  The people next to me must think I'm a crazy person as I talk, sing, make faces and do all kinds of other things to try to ease the crankiness of a baby that can't even see me...because he's facing the back of the car and I am looking out the windshield.

8) ...takes my son for hour long rides in the car just to get him to stop crying.  Not a great option given gas prices...but some days it's just necessary.  He LOVES going for rides and will fall asleep within 30 seconds of hitting the highway.  Gas could cost $10 a gallon...and it would still be worth every penny on his "bad" days.

9) ...cringes when my mother or mother-in-law gives me antiquated parenting advice.  I'm mouthy by nature and it is really difficult for me to bite my tongue and not just blurt out "That's wrong...research showed it was wrong a decade ago!"  So far, I've behaved and focused on the love behind the advice.

10)...loves my life.  Changing poopy diapers (and poopy clothes) five times a day.  Wearing puke-caked shirts (and pants and hair) more often than not.  Sleeping less than I did when I was pregnant (which I didn't think was possible when I was pregnant).  I love it all because it means I have Ian.  It means I'm a mom...even if I am "that" mom.

Thank you

I just wanted to send a quick thank you to all of you who commented on my last post.  I had chest pains last night and this morning because I was so stressed out about the situation with my family.  Every few hours, another email would pop up and it was more words of encouragement from all of you.  Slowly, I felt more at peace with the choices I made and I felt so much better.  I really can't thank you enough for being the family that my "real" family just can't seem to be for me.

Too Mad to Come Up With A Title

I received a call at 9:00 p.m. tonight from my mother.  Naturally, I assumed someone was hurt or dying because why else would she call me when she knows for sure that Ian is sleeping?  She opened the conversation with "I need a loan of $20 or more from you.  There's a family health issue and the person with the family health issue asked me for the money.  I don't have it, so I need to borrow it from you.  It will be my loan though."  I said "Let's cut the crap.  What is wrong with [my sister] now?"  Then my mom launched into a huge story about how my sister (who is 26 years old, mind you) took my 6 year old niece to the hospital and found out she has bilateral ear infections.  My sister supposedly needs $14 to get my niece's medication.  My mom wanted me to wire transfer her $20 (which costs $5-$7 to do) and she would then use $5 of that money to wire the remaining $15 to my sister.  My mom told me that not helping would mean my niece could lose her hearing in both ears.

I explained to my mom that Medicaid would cover my niece's prescription costs.  Apparently, my sister doesn't have Medicaid for my niece because they wanted her to take two classes before getting Medicaid, and the classes would interfere with her (20 hour a week fast food) work schedule.  I told my mom that there are loads of free clinics in the city where my sister lives.  My mom said that my sister told her there wasn't and my sister had already been to the hospital and no one would help get the prescriptions.  At that point...I called BULLSHIT.  No hospital is going to send an uninsured child home without medications that she desperately needs.  Hospitals have pharmacies and frequently provide prescriptions to children late on a Saturday night, when normal pharmacies might not be open.  Even if everything my mother was saying was true, there are dozens of charitable organizations that could provide an emergency "gift" for the cost of the prescriptions.  In fact, one such charitable organization just bought my sister a refrigerator and stove last month because child welfare workers had found out that my sister didn't have any appliances and my niece had no home cooked meals, milk, fruits or vegetables, etc. for months (except for the meals provided at school).  (Every time I think child protective services is finally going to step in and do something for my niece, they find a new way to bandage the bullet hole...giving my sister time to find new ways to F-up as a parent and giving my niece more time to learn that madness is normal....GRRRRR!)

My mother got furious with me and said that she couldn't believe I could be so heartless.  She kept repeating that if I refused to help, I would be responsible for my niece's suffering.  Finally, I said "You know that [my sister] is on drugs.  She's admitted it to you.  There are clearly ways for [my niece] to get her medicine without $14.  Do you truly believe that this money is for a prescription?  And even if it is...do you really think you are helping [my sister], by enabling her to not avail herself of the resources she has available to her?  Is that really what is best for [my niece] in the long run?  And did it occur to you that the reason she doesn't call me directly to ask for the money is because she knows I'll call her out on the fact that her story doesn't add up, while you are so eager for her love and approval that you will ignore the obvious?"  (I know...not my finest hour, but my family can push my buttons in a way that no one else can).

My mother told me that my sister wouldn't ask me directly because I had told my sister the last time she borrowed money from me that she was never getting another F'ing cent from me.

In fairness, that's not exactly what I said.    Almost exactly a year ago, my sister called me crying, begging me for $50.  She explained that her electricity had been turned off and they had no food in the house, so she and my niece would starve for two days, until she could get to the food pantry, if I didn't wire money to them.  (This was the 100th call of its type over the last few years).  I told my sister that, at 25, she needed to get her shit together.  She was a mother...and she needed to act like it.  Her husband was getting deported so she had a real chance at a fresh start.  I explained to her that she was welcome to move closer to us (as she lives over 4 hours away) or even move in with us, so we could help her out.  But I was not going to continue to enable her to live her life the way she was living it by sending her small amounts of money over and over and over.  There was a lot of crying, and she was clearly not happy with me, but I wired the money and she never overtly asked me for money after that.  She didn't get her shit together either, but at least I could sleep knowing that I wasn't actually making things worse.  Apparently that wasn't exactly how my sister remembers that conversation.

Anyhow...back to tonight's conversation with my mom.  She kept repeating how I should send the money to her.  I said "No.  I'm not spending $5 to send $20 to you."  She said "Well how the hell are you going to get the money to her?"  I said, "I'm not."  She said "What do you mean your not?  You have to.  It is for [your niece].  Don't you love her at all?"  I said "I sure do.  And..no.  I'm not sending the money."  I was promptly hung up on.

I started crying at that point and haven't fully stopped yet.  I'm so angry.  Angry for being put in this position by my family.  Angry that my niece is being used this way.  Angry that she might actually have bilateral ear infections that aren't being treated because my sister can't even be bothered to get herself on welfare!  Angry that my mother thinks it's okay to make me feel like shit so that she can keep enabling my sister to act like an idiot. 

Oh...and I almost forgot to add...My sister also needed money to go to court next week because her landlord is attempting to evict her.  My mom told me my sister needs $244 to pay late rent.  Here's the problem with that.  First...I know how much her rent is each month and $244 doesn't make any sense.  No one pays $106 of rent when they don't have the rest.  Second...you don't get taken to housing court after one month of missed rent.  It takes about three months from the first missed rent date to the time of the court date, assuming the landlord immediately instituted eviction proceedings (which almost never happens in the type of establishment you can rent for $350 a month).  So she hasn't paid her rent for at least three months.  Third...this is the eighth eviction my sister has gone through in the last 6 years...that I know about.  I'm not counting the homeless shelters she and my niece have lived in, as those places never actually kicked her out. (Can you sense my sarcasm there?)  So I'm angry that my sister is a habitual liar and can pay for pot and other drugs, but can't be bothered to keep a roof over my niece's head.

I'm just so pissed!!!  I keep waiting for my sister to hit "rock bottom" so she can start to rise up.  I want to believe that one of these days she is going to wake up and realize that she's got to change.  I'm pissed that I might be wrong...this may just be who she is...forever.

And then...there's the other emotions.  My heart is breaking for my niece.  There's not much I can do for her.  Child protective is already involved.  I'm not going to go into full out war with my sister to try to take custody of my niece away from her (a VERY hard thing to do in NY).  Sometimes I just wish I could forget that I have a sister or a niece.  How awful is that?  My poor helpless niece...and I'm trying to forget she's there because it hurts too much to think about how she is being forced to live.  And adding to that hurt...my old friend Guilt.

I feel guilty for making my mother mad.  Guilty that my niece may be sleeping (or not sleeping) with terrible ear pain and illness, and I'm not sending money to help her.  Guilty that I am having to force myself to love my sister (and mother) at this point.  Guilty that I can't fix their problems.  Guilty that I spend more on two weeks worth of Ian's fancy diapers than what I am being asked to send to my sister...and I still won't send it.  Guilty that Ian probably has more clothes and toys at 4 months old than my niece has at 6 years old.  Guilty that, even though we take my niece out to the store to get her clothes, shoes, toys and school supplies when we visit, we only visit once a year.  Guilty because my family truly sees me as the selfish brat in this situation.  In their minds I have more money than I know what to do with and I am too selfish to help them with their basic necessities.  It's not that simple...but I understand why it looks that way to them.  And for that, I feel guilty.

My husband says I need to let this go.  He says I can't fix the problem and I did the right thing, so I need to just get some sleep and focus on the fact that I am being a good mom to Ian...screw the rest of my family.  It's easier said than done.  My head is pretty sure I did the right thing.  My heart isn't.  That's why this is bothering me so much.  That's why I'm venting onto my blog.  That's why I'm still crying.

My Blog Has a Sister

I struggled a lot with the idea of how to deal with making this blog stay true to its purpose, while not forcing myself to avoid writing about a big part of my life right now (my weight loss efforts).  I thought I would just find a way to incorporate the weight loss discussions and updates into this blog...but it just never felt right.  So, I've officially started a "sister" blog to this one.  You can find it at http://cannotweighttolose.blogspot.com/.  That blog will deal with all of my "weighty issues" while this one can remain my place for reflection on infertility, motherhood, etc.  It isn't easy for me putting my dirty obesity laundry out there for the world to see, but it needed to be done.  I'm tired of hiding from the obesity issue...just as I was tired of hiding from my feelings about infertility a year ago.  Blogging was my life saver during my IF journey.  I'm hoping it can play the same role in my weight loss journey.  Please don't feel obligated to go check it out.  I'm still going to be writing on here, and I'm guessing that reading my weight loss blog would be on the same excitement level as watching paint dry.  But, if you do decide to check it out and even comment, I only ask that you not reference this blog.  I feel like my friends and followers on this blog "get it."  I would hate for anyone just stumbling across this blog because of a cross-reference from my other one to make me lose the safety, security and support I feel from this blog.  Thanks, Ladies.

P.S.  I just have to say, as I am writing this Ian is picking his nose in his sleep...and it's cute!   I swear to God, having a child makes your brain turn to mush.  I better go before he wakes himself up or, worse, hurts himself.

Random Reflections

Let’s see…where was I at a year ago today?  I was fattening up my uterine lining to prepare for my donor egg cycle.  I was fantasizing day and night about what my donor was like.  I was picking out a gift and writing a letter to the donor, to show my appreciation for the wonderful gift she was giving to The Prince and me.  I was stalking the donor coordinator at my infertility clinic, nervously anticipating that something was going to go wrong with the donor’s cycle…because my history of IF had taught me to expect the worst.  I was worrying about potential future repercussions of referencing my infertility struggles on Facebook.

It’s really strange to look back at where I was at a year ago, knowing what I know now.  Knowing that the donor’s cycle would go perfectly and we would get more beautiful eggs to work with than we ever could have hoped for.  Knowing that my uterus would plump up and form a lovely little home that embryo Ian would nestle into for an entire pregnancy.  Knowing that I would finally experience a Mother’s Day that didn’t completely suck.  Knowing that no one would ever put me down or ask awkward questions about my IF “coming out.”  Knowing that many friends and family were suffering from IF in silence, and were inspired to reach out for some support once they knew they weren’t alone.

The only thing that hasn’t changed is that I still wonder about the egg donor and think about her sometimes…though it no longer takes up much of my time.  When people say that Ian looks like me, I always think of her for a second.  I’m not sure if that will ever change.  But it is always a positive thought.  I’ve realized in the last year that the fantasy I had built about who the donor was is not realistic.  I’ve also realized that I don’t want to try to find out who she is.  There was a time when I did.  I was so curious I couldn’t stand the idea of not knowing more about her.  But now I just feel a profound respect for her…and her privacy.  I would not be pleased if she decided to look me up, and I am going to afford her the same courtesy I expect.  The Parents Via Egg Donation Organization  blog recently asked about privacy boundaries between donors and recipients and it got me thinking about how much my thoughts and expectations have changed in the last year. 

There’s a part of me that wishes I knew then what I know now.  I could have saved myself from a lot of stress and anxiety.  But there’s another part of me that is happy that I went through those experiences…just as I needed to…as a process and a period of personal growth. 

Got Milk? The Link Between Breastfeeding Difficulties and Infertility

Let me start out by saying, breastfeeding is not easy. In fact, let me take that statement a step further and say that it is downright hard. I liken it to trying to learn a complicated waltz with a partner you’ve never met before, when you yourself have never danced before. Initially things are clumsy and frustrating…even painful at times. But slowly, both partners start to get the hang of it and it becomes easier and more rewarding. Before you know it, though it is still work, you find that you're enjoying yourselves. For Ian and I, it took us about three months to really get our “dance steps” down. I know lactation consultants tell people that it can take two weeks to get the hang of breastfeeding (BF), but I think that's an optimistic estimate.

Because Ian was born prematurely, he wasn't able to really latch and suck for a long time. I started pumping within hours of his birth and had such an amazing supply, we actually discussed the possibility of me donating breast milk. Then I took Ian home and, over time, his appetite increased. The problem was, the more he ate, the less I produced. Slowly, the frozen stockpile I had accumulated while he was in the NICU dwindled down to a single vial of 2.5 ounces of milk...that's half of one meal for Ian. I felt like a failure. I worked with the doula, increased my water intake, drank disgusting mother's milk tea, ate oatmeal until I wanted to puke, and meditated while pumping. Nothing worked. I can’t tell you how many tears I shed, or the number of hours I spent awake in bed worrying because there was only one bottle of milk in the fridge for Ian.

I decided to look into what research, if any, had been performed on women having trouble with milk supply, so that I could “fix” the problem. While asking Dr. Google my questions, I stumbled across references to research showing that women who used ART to achieve pregnancy were more likely to have breastfeeding problems. One of my close IF friends had also mentioned to me that she was having milk supply issues and that she had been told that there could be a hormonal connection between IF and decreased milk supply. At that point, my interest was piqued and I started focusing on the IF-BF connection.

My online research turned up some speculation from the medical community that the same hormone problems that cause female-factor infertility can also cause difficulty with lactation (specifically, there appears to be a link between problems with breast milk supply and PCOS, possibly attributable to increased adrogen or estrogen levels). But I could find no actual study defining such a link. It makes sense to me that there could be a physical link and I hope that the issue will be researched further by those far smarter than I.

The only “actual” study I could find addressed the emotional/mental causes of lactation problems after ART. That study, a 150 subject Australian study, showed that there is a link between difficulties with BF and women who have undergone infertility treatments. Specifically, that study found that the link seemed to be explained by psychological factors. The researchers found that women who conceive through ART often have less confidence in their ability to care for their newborns and have greater levels of anxiety when compared to women who conceive naturally. The researchers found that the lack of confidence in mothering skills, anxiety and feelings of guilt bleed over into breastfeeding. The study showed that women who undergo IF treatments are less likely to try, or continue, to breastfeed. And those who do try are more likely to report milk supply problems.

It makes sense in a way. Anyone who has ever breastfed, or tried to breastfeed, will tell you that there is a definite mental/emotional component to breastfeeding. For me personally, I have to close my eyes, take a deep breath and think about my milk flowing down in order to get “let down.” If I'm stressed or upset about something, Ian will get frustrated because I just can't get the milk to him. So, I have no doubt that emotional and mental perceptions effect BF.

I also know from experience that IF has a significant impact on confidence. Prior to writing this post, I though that I had not experienced a lack of confidence in my mothering skills (I happen to think I'm a really good mother...so far)...but I forgot about how I felt when I was struggling with my milk supply. When my supply started to dwindle, I absolutely panicked and overreacted to the situation. Ian was not going to die if my milk supply stayed sucky. We just would have had to supplement with formula. Not my ideal, but not the end of the world. If I truly am honest with myself, I think my extreme level of stress and anxiety when my supply started to go down was a result of my residual fear that my body will fail me (and Ian). I learned to stop trusting my body during IF. Perhaps I haven't been able to build that trust back up. At the first sign of my body faltering, I jumped right to the conclusion that I was heading for a catastrophic failure. And I'm betting I'm not alone in that feeling. Once that ball starts rolling, the usual suspects follow...frustration, guilt, anger. All of the emotions that will further inhibit BF creep in and before you know it, you are in a vicious cycle of milk supply decreasing due to stress, which causes more stress, which causes more supply problems, etc. etc. etc.

Please understand, I am NOT saying that if you have used ART to get pregnant, you are going to have breastfeeding problems. I don't even think the researchers mentioned above would argue that is the case. Lots of women report that they have problems with BF after their doctor tells them they will have problems breastfeeding. It's a self-fulfilling negative prophecy of sorts. So to be clear...I am not saying any of you will definitely have BF issues. I don't think IF or ART is a direct cause of BF problems across the board. Rather, I think the baggage that us former IF'ers sometimes pick up during our journey (and never put down) CAN cause breastfeeding problems...and that's worth acknowledging and examining. So for those of you out there struggling with your supply, please know that you are not alone and it is not your fault that you are having a tough time. There's a bunch of us in this together and I am sure we will all be there to support one another through this obstacle, just as we supported each other through IF.

(P.S. For anyone who is interested, I wanted to let you know that I have really improved my milk supply by taking the prescription Reglan. It is an acid reflux medication that, for some reason, has the side effect of causing increased lactation. My OB said it doesn't always work for everyone, but it has worked extremely well for me. It has no known negative effects on the baby, so if you get to the point where you are really desperate...it might be worth asking your doctor about that option).

Four Months

Video of Ian "swimming"...his new favorite activity since he learned to splash.

Four months.  That's how long it has been since my little miracle entered this world.  My blog renovations aren't quite complete yet, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to provide a proud IF mommy update.

Ian went to his four month baby wellness appointment with the pediatrician today.  He is 16 pounds and 4 ounces, putting him somewhere between the 75th and 90th percentile for weight.   And that's on the full term baby growth chart...Ian grew out of the premie growth chart (that they told me he would always be judged on) months ago.  His height on the other hand...let's just say my guy is a "Little Teapot"...as in "Short and Stout."  He is 24 inches today.  I was 22 inches when I was BORN!  His doctor isn't worried about his height in the slightest, so I'm not going to let myself be upset about it, either.  He is ahead of the curve developmentally and healthy as a horse.  That's all that matters.

He is officially wearing size 6 to 9 month clothing.  He was in size 3 to 6 month clothing for all of three weeks.  Lots of people told me to leave the tags on clothes until he actually was ready to wear the clothes, so I could take back what he never wore.  I didn't listen...washing everything out of excitement every time he moved up a size.  I REALLY should have listened.  We could start a college fund for him with the value of all of the clothes that I washed and he never even got to wear once.  Even though he needs to move up to the size 6 to 9 month clothing so that it will fit around his rotund belly, all of his pants are about four inches too long for him.  I suppose I should learn to sew so that I can hem the pants.  But, realistically, my poor guy is probably just going to have to wear rolled-up pant legs until he's old enough to protest about it (or until one of his buddies tells him it is uncool).

Speaking of buddies, Ian has recently started attending get-togethers with other IF babies.  He's still a bit too young to actually play, but he likes to watch the other babies and it won't be long before he's drooling on toys with the rest of them.  It is really amazing to see the joy of the IF mommies that I spent years in the trenches with, as they watch over and love their little miracles.  None of us wanted or deserved to be part of the IF club, but as we move forward in our journeys together, it is so wonderful to watch as one at a time dreams come true and amazing parents are born.  We are all so appreciative, so full of awe, and so acutely aware of how blessed we are, in a way that I think is rare to find outside of the IF survivor community.

I've had four months to bask in the joy and gratitude of finally being a mom, worried that those feelings would fade when the "newness" of having a baby wore off.  I'm happy to say that those feelings haven't faded yet.  My love just grows by leaps and bounds each day.  One year ago today, we were just getting started on the meds for my donor egg cycle...the one that would lead to my pregnancy.  So, for those of you out there who are still in the trenches and struggling to hold onto hope, please know that miracles happen and when they do...it is all worth it.  Every needle stick, every broken heart, every tear, every sleepless night, every fight with your spouse, every negative pregnancy test...all worth it when you finally get to feel the love of being a mom.

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

I have decided to redesign my blog.  I'm going into the renovations without any specific idea of what I want my blog to become.  My hope is that my intuition will guide me as I go, so that I end up with a blog that is ready to tackle the next leg(s) of my journey.  There are a lot of other things I should probably be doing instead of working on my blog (working on Ian's nursery, writing thank you cards for gifts we got three months ago, coloring my hair), but for three months I've devoted all of my time to Ian and his needs...I need to devote a little "free time" to what makes me feel good.  Right now...that's my blog.

I have no idea how long it will take me to complete the renovations to the site.  I'm not even going to give an estimate because, as anyone who has ever had a bathroom or kitchen remodeled knows, these things always take much longer than expected.  In the meantime, I will continue to read my friends' blogs and to keep you all close to my heart.

One last picture of the Little Prince to keep you company while I'm gone.

Crossroads

Lately I've begun to wonder what is going to happen with this blog.  I've been following many blogs for the year (plus) I've been blogging.  Some blogs have gone private.  Some bloggers have opted to end their blogs for various reasons.  Those reasons include: having a baby and not having time to continue blogging, stopping the journey towards parenthood and finding it too painful to continue writing about that decision, finding that infertility is no longer a subject that dominates enough thought each day to warrant continuing an infertility blog, etc.  Some bloggers who have found their "happily ever after" change their blogs to mommy blogs.  Some say goodbye before signing off for good.  Some just stop writing one day.  Just as each journey is individual and each blog is individual, the right way to approach a "blog transition" varies based on the individual writer.  I guess the question is, what "blog transition" is appropriate for me.

I have NOT been blogging nearly as much as I used to.  I miss it terribly.  I don't want to stop blogging all together, as I find writing incredibly therapeutic and emotionally rewarding.  I've made the most amazing 'blog friends" over the last year and I feel like I continue to make more friends with each post I write and each post I read.  I don't think I can just quit writing this blog...it would feel like I was moving away from my friends and family.  That means I need to figure out what type of transition is appropriate for me.  The subject which dominates my thoughts these days is not my infertility journey, but the amazing outcome of that journey.  Don't get me wrong, I am still at a point where not a day goes by that I don't think of my infertility/egg donor journey at least once, but even so my blog could very easily turn into a "mommy blog," as I LOVE writing about my little man.  I feel weird about officially morphing my blog into that though, as I feel like it isn't staying true to the infertility roots of this blog.  I also have a major life decision coming up that I need to deal with, and I would love to focus my blog on that for awhile, as it is another journey of sorts (without getting too involved in the discussion, the topic involves the possibility of undergoing weight loss surgery), but that topic is only tangentially related to infertility and/or motherhood.  I don't think I'm up to multiple blogs when I have difficulty already being "present" on this one.

I look at my blog homepage and I think of all of the things I want to change visually.  I look at my blogger name (Princess Wahna Bea Mama) and I worry that it doesn't fit neatly into my situation anymore.  I am in need of change.  I need this blog to continue to reflect who I am and where I am at in my life.  I'm just not sure how to do that. 

So, what do I do?  I know the decision is ultimately mine, but I would LOVE it if you...my blog friends...could give me words of advice, support, guidance, etc.  I have lots of blog friends at lots of different stages of their own journeys...through infertility and through life.  You all have a way of making me think about things that I overlook when I'm trying to analyze something on my own.  I would love any help you have to offer.

Mommy and Me Yoga

Ian and I had our first Mommy and Me Yoga class today.  It was a really special event for me, as the yoga instructor for the Mommy and Me class is the same instructor who taught my Prenatal Yoga class and the Yoga for Fertility class that I attended during my last two years of infertility treatments.  She has been an amazing support.  Her kind and calming energy has worked wonders for me throughout the years and, today, it worked wonders on Ian too.  He was so relaxed that he delighted the rest of the class with a symphony of flatulence.  I was really embarrassed at first...especially because he tends to smile and laugh every time he lets out a loud bout of gas.  But all of the other "mommies" were laughing and so I was able to relax and enjoy the humor of the situation.  Ian is quickly teaching me that I've got to just let go and roll with the punches.  He's going to turn my world all topsy turvy...it's his job...he's a child.  I need to learn to enjoy the ride...and I'm already starting to get there.

Ian's Birth Story (Unabridged version)

I’ve promised this post for awhile now, but could never seem to find time to write it.  I know that it has to be done though, as I am starting to forget the details of Ian’s birth…something I really don’t want to do.  The story is really long, but breaking it into several posts just didn’t feel right.

I want to give a quick disclaimer…I didn’t sugar coat any of this.  If you are going to have a baby and you try to avoid people’s labor and delivery horror stories, you probably should avoid this.  Mine was by no means a “horror” story, but it wasn’t pretty either.  And…as with most things…my experience was my own.  Just as women experience infertility differently, I think the same is likely true with giving birth.  Also, skip it if you don't want to see a picture of a newly born baby.  I have an edited version (so as to make it G rated) of our very first picture of Ian in this post.  I had considered leaving it out, but this is my blog and my story and it feels right to me to have a picture to go with my words. 

For those of you who still want to share in this story, and are willing to commit the time to reading the whole thing, I hope you enjoy.

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As most of you know, I went into labor at 30 weeks and was already four to five centimeters dilated by the time the doctors caught it.  I was hospitalized and placed on bed rest, trying to keep my “bulging membranes” from breaking.  At 33 weeks of pregnancy, my contractions were consistently measuring at three to five minutes apart.  However, I had only dilated one more centimeter during the three weeks I was in the hospital.  The day I hit 33 weeks, I started feeling really crappy.  I was more crampy than normal, felt sick to my stomach and couldn’t seem to shake some serious grumpiness.  I threw up breakfast and barely kept down lunch.  When I had my fetal monitoring it showed that my contractions were consistently two minutes apart.  But an internal examination revealed that my cervix hadn’t dilated further.  Everyone assumed this was just my normal super-slow labor. 

The next day, I felt the contractions change.  My back became sorer and I was having a tough time ignoring the contractions.  I took Percocet…something I had been doing a good job holding off on up to that point.  One of the resident doctors felt my back and hips and told me my pelvis was separating more, likely causing the pain, but that it was all perfectly normal “late pregnancy stuff.” 

That evening (December 2nd), my friend (an awesome massage therapist and fellow IF sister) came to visit me.  She gave me a light massage to help ease the back contractions.  It was such a blessing to get a quick break from the pain.  She commented that she could really feel the contractions in my back.  I appreciated the validation as I was feeling like everyone was so used to me being in labor that I was beyond getting any sympathy when things got more uncomfortable.  When my friend left, I told my husband that I was feeling better, so he went home to get some sleep.  Within an hour, I was calling the nurses into my room.  I couldn’t explain what was different about the pressure and pain I was feeling.  I just knew something had changed.  One of the residents checked my cervix again and said it was about six centimeters dilated still, but she could feel my contractions very strong internally.  I was moved from the antepartum floor to a labor and delivery room, just to be safe.  I called The Prince.  He initially said “Call me back and let me know if it is real labor.”  I can't tell you how angry I was at that response.  Luckily, I wasn't the only one who was angry about his response…my nurses were livid that he wasn’t immediately coming to be with me.   So, during my second call, when I was still bickering with The Prince over whether he needed to come to the hospital or not, one of my nurses took the telephone and told him he needed to get his butt to the hospital “NOW,” regardless of whether I was having the baby that night or not.  By 11:30 p.m., The Prince was in the labor and delivery room with me (on his best behavior).

I was given two doses of medication to stop/slow my contractions and received yet another internal exam.  I was still only six centimeters dilated, but the baby had moved down two stations.  My contractions were between one and three minutes apart, and were lasting about 45 seconds.  That was when the nurse from hell was assigned to me.  We'll call this woman “B” (and I won’t comment on what that “B” stands for).  B was the only labor and delivery nurse I have ever met that I despised.  She started right out telling me (and The Prince) that this wasn't “real” labor because I clearly wasn't experiencing the kind of pain women experienced during “real” labor.  I explained to her I was on week three of constant contractions...I didn't feel my pain reaction was likely typical.  She was unconvinced and kept pushing me to take pain medication and additional medications to try to stop the contractions.  Finally, at 3 a.m., I was so angry I asked to speak to my doctor.  Dr. C was out of town so his partner, Dr. S was my doctor for delivery.  She was in the middle of a triplets c-section, and so a resident (actually two residents) came in to talk to me instead.  I explained to the residents that, after three weeks, I knew what was status quo for my labor and what was not.  What I was experiencing was of the “not status quo” variety.   The residents encouraged me to take some pain medication so that I could get some sleep, but they would not agree with B (who really irritated one of the residents by repeatedly interrupting her while she was talking to me) that I should take more medication to slow the contractions.  The residents agreed with me that, if this was “true” labor, taking too much of that medication would only prolong delivery and increase risks to the baby.  I explained that I wasn't going to take any pain medication because I wanted to wait until I spoke with the doctor (Dr. S), so I could be clear-headed during the important conversations.   B left the room in a huff, saying I should just call her if I needed her.

From 3 a.m. to 6 a.m., The Prince and I dosed on and off.  My contractions were really intense, but there were two minute breaks between most of them and I could sleep during the breaks.  With every contraction, I breathed and worked on visualizations I had started practicing during my hospital stay.  I considered calling the doula, but decided against it because something inside of me felt like I needed to get through what I was experiencing on my own.  At 6 a.m., B started with her crap again.  A nursing student was shadowing B and it was all I could do not to make some nasty comment about how B was the last person who should be training someone in patient care.  The contractions were increasing in frequency again and I was starting to waiver on whether I wanted pain medication or not.  What I was not wavering on was my distaste for B.  The Prince kept telling me that I should ask to be assigned to another nurse, but honestly, I didn't see the point because, after hours of B telling me that I wasn't in “true” labor, I was starting to believe her.  I didn't want to be the “pain in the ass patient” if this wasn't the real deal.  I held out on the pain medication because people kept telling me Dr. S was on her way into the room. 

At 8 a.m., Dr. S came to my room and took a history of what had happened over night.  Again, B kept chiming in with her opinion, but Dr. S didn't seem to pay attention to her.  When Dr. S did her internal exam, she turned to B and said: “Get the room prepped.  She's at eight to nine centimeters and the baby is coming.”  And at that moment...a huge, pivotal moment in my life...the only thing I could think of was…“SUCK IT, B!!!”  Seriously.  That was my immediate thought…”Suck it you stupid, mean nasty lady!  I was right and you were wrong. Hah!” 

And then the petulant two year old in me stepped aside and I put on my big girl pants (figuratively) again.  Immediately panic set in.  I was really going to have this baby.  After weeks of “false alarms,” this was it.  I was going to be a mother…and we were going to find out if our baby was okay.  I asked to get up to go to the bathroom because all of the sudden I had to pee like a race horse (and the panic was making me feel like I would die if I stayed on the bed/table any longer).  I was told “No” but I got off the bed and went to the bathroom anyway.  They couldn't really tackle me and, at the time, it didn't bother me in the slightest to pee in front of a room full of people.  I quickly realized, of course, that peeing wasn't relieving the feeling that I was so sure was a full bladder and being squatted over the toilet was not the ideal position when the baby was moving down.  So, I hopped back onto the bed/table and scooted down as directed.  Dr. S informed me that it was obvious my water wasn't going to break on its own, so she would need to break it for me.  I consented...happy to find some relief from the building pressure that was quickly overtaking the pain of the contractions.

Dr. S took something that resembled a crochet hook out of a sterile bag and proceeded to break my water.  I felt a quick pinch and then a huge rush of warm water between my legs and down my butt.  Dr. S said “There’s really a lot of fluid” as we kept waiting and waiting for the waves of fluid to stop coming out with each contraction.  The Prince just kept saying “Holy crap!”  I had to laugh at the look on his face…his expression was something between “I’m gonna’ throw-up” and “Cool!”  I was relieved to hear that the fluid looked good and clear.  Then…the first “transition contraction” hit.  Suddenly, I was the one saying “Holy crap!”  I told Dr. S “Something’s wrong,” and Dr. S replied “No.  You’re just having your baby now.”  I said the only thing I could think of… “I want an epidural,” and I was informed that we were well past that point.  I explained that they didn’t understand.  I REALLY NEEDED an epidural and would have asked for one earlier if I had only known that the baby was coming.  Dr. S was unpersuaded by my pleas.  She also denied my request for pain medication, explaining that taking any pain medicine at that point wouldn’t do any good and would only slow the baby’s respirations.  I begged The Prince to make them understand (as if he had veto power in the room).  But, ultimately it became clear that no one was listening to my complaints and I was going to have to just grit my teeth and do it…have that baby. 

I tried to distract myself by staying focused on all of the people who had come into the room to prepare the incubator and emergency equipment for the baby.  The room was full of the NICU team (which consisted of about eight people), three nurses who were taking care of me (inclusive of B and the nursing student), Dr. S and a resident.  My husband (and his camera) were at my left, while all of the NICU team and the nursing student stayed at my right.  Dr. S, the resident and B remained positioned at my feet/between my legs.    

I’m not sure exactly when Dr. S told me that she needed to help the baby…before I started pushing or after a couple of pushes.  It’s a bit hazy.  But I do know that she had to reach inside and pull the “lip of the cervix” up and around the baby’s head because he was stuck on it.  There was so much pain and pressure at that point, I couldn’t tell what sensations were from reaching or pushing or pulling or baby scooting.  I just knew that it felt like there were bicycle handlebars wedged between my hips, trying to come out my butt.  That was exactly how it felt to me…and I repeatedly said so to anyone who would listen to me.  They kept “shushing” me…telling me to conserve my energy so I could push the baby out.  I was pretty sure there was no way I was getting the baby out.  (And I was pretty vocal about that belief, too, the entire way through my delivery).

When Dr. S had me start pushing, I had no clue what I was doing.  I thought I knew…bear down like you are trying to poop, right?  That’s what I had always heard.  Well…whoever used that as advice on how to push a baby out has a very different bowel system than I do.  I started out pushing like I was trying to take a poo (P.S.  All that worrying I did about actually pooping on the table was wasted energy…as when the time comes…you could really care less if you are taking a giant poop right on the doctor’s head, so long as the baby comes out).  I was quickly scolded by B that I wasn’t “placing my energy in the birth canal.”  Apparently I was “using my face too much.”  Who knew that I poop with my face?  (By the way, you will know if you used your face too much when you are done because you will have tiny and huge coin sized spots all over you face where the blood vessels burst from straining.  Mine show up in every picture of me with Ian for the first two weeks of his life).  So…by trial and error…I slowly figured out which pushes were wasting my time and energy and which ones got things moving in the right direction.  Of course by trial and error I mean B telling me what a crappy job I was doing whenever it was wrong.  I yelled at her repeatedly in between contractions, telling her she was mean and “not helping.”  The nursing student took over the counting for the pushes because I think everyone in the room knew my feelings about B about two pushes in.  The nursing student was awesome and upbeat, but I still struggled. (By the way…my “pushing advice” would be…you will know you are doing it “right” when this God awful guttural sound comes out of you, leaving you to look around to try to figure out where the Exorcist noises are coming from.  I could never mimic that vocalization if I tried…but it came out of my mouth from somewhere deep in my stomach…and it got that baby moving fast).

Every time I had ever talked with anyone about labor or watched a show about a baby delivery, the woman was always depicted as pushing to the count of ten and then relaxing and breathing.  No. no.  You push to the slow count of ten…three times in a row before you get a break.  I was NOT prepared for that.  I eventually gave in (of course) and pushed for over 30 seconds at a time.  But initially I resisted and argued that I had been the victim of false advertising regarding what delivery entailed.  I would quit after ten seconds…only to realize that your contractions don’t quit just because you think you need a break.  When your body says “Push!,” you push whether you feel exhausted or not.  When I think back to the “pushing,” it seems like it went on forever.  But I remember saying to The Prince, when it was all done, that it seemed like it only took a few pushes.  In reality, I pushed from a little before 9:00 a.m. to 11:01 a.m.  I’ve been told that two hours of pushing is considered a really quick delivery.  God help the women who push for longer.  They must be in much better shape than I was in.

The thing I really remember the most clearly about the delivery, is how The Prince behaved.  I had been so concerned about whether he could be emotionally present and sympathetic and helpful during labor and delivery.  He was AMAZING!!!  When I was crying that I couldn’t do it (and B was saying “You have to!”), The Prince would get my attention and would hold my hand and say “You are doing it!  You are doing so amazing. You are having our baby.  I love you.”  Over and over he repeated that…meaning it (or at least convincing me of it) every time.  He really kept me going.  He also did a great job helping me hold my left leg up.

Which brings me to my next gripe about delivery.  No one told me I had to hold my own legs.  Sure there is a person holding each leg at the knee, but during delivery they tell you to reach under your thighs and pull them back towards you, rounding your back into a “C” shape.  So…essentially you are holding a serious crunch position with a pregnant belly, and pulling your legs to you from around that pregnant belly, for at least 30 seconds at a time…over and over and over.  I did prenatal yoga…didn’t prepare me for holding that position.  I thought I had to do the pushing and the hospital bed and people at my legs did the rest.  I thought wrong.  When they say a mother brings her baby into the world…they aren’t kidding.  The mother does the work…lots of work!

So…fast forward to 11:00 a.m.  I was spent from pushing.  I was certain that baby was not going to come out and I was going to need a c-section because I was too tired and in too much pain to push.  I told everyone I was going to try one more push, but I knew it wasn’t going to do anything because I had nothing left to put behind it.  I didn’t even hold the push a full 10 seconds.  I just couldn’t do anymore.  That’s when Dr. S said “Reach down and touch the baby’s head.”  I said “Yeah right.”  I hadn’t felt the “ring of fire” that everyone talks about experiencing when the head crowns, so I thought they were just trying to keep me from quitting by tricking me.  Plus, I always thought it was pretty gross in natural birth videos I watched, when the baby’s head was hanging out of the vagina and the woman was reaching down there to touch it.  I always felt like there was no reason to do that when you could cradle the baby a couple of second later…after it was out of your vagina.  Then, I heard The Prince say “There he is,” and Dr. S said again “Reach down and touch his head.”  The Prince (who is never forceful) grabbed my hand and moved it towards the bottom of the bed and said, through tears “Touch our baby. You can do this.”  I moved my fingers a couple of inches and there it was…a wet, hairy little head.  That was all it took.  I drew up strength from God only knows where…strength I was certain just seconds before that I didn’t have…and with one quick push the baby was out.  I get it now…why the mother reaches down to touch the head.  That first touch seals the deal…it causes your body to surge with a strength and a protectiveness and a love for that baby that allows you to do absolutely anything (even push some stocky shoulders out).   

I heard The Prince ask “Is he okay?,” and then I heard a cry…a gorgeous, strong cry…of a baby with mature lungs that wasn’t fighting to breath.  I didn’t get the “baby on the chest moment” that I might have had if Ian had been born a couple of weeks later.   And The Prince was not offered the option of cutting the cord.  Ian was born at 11:01 a.m. on December 3, 2011.  He was 33 weeks and 2 days old…premature enough that time was of the essence in getting him into an incubator and cared for.  Thanks to my gestational diabetes, he was a chunker and he weighed 5 pounds and 13 ounces (initially reported on my blog incorrectly as 5 pounds and 11 ounces).  

Ian enters the world...not the friendliest greeting.

The extent of assistance Ian needed to breathe was the clearing of his lungs...the same thing all babies need.

The NICU team quickly wrapped Ian up like a mummy in Saran Wrap, to keep his body from losing heat too quickly.

This is how Ian looked the first time I saw him, when the NICU team held him for me to see before whisking him away.

 As soon as Ian was out in the world, The Prince’s attention shifted solely to Ian (as well it should).  I, on the other hand had been sufficiently assured by the NICU team that Ian was safe and on his way to the NICU, so I drew my focus back to what was going on with me.  The NICU team told us it would be an hour to an hour and a half before we could see Ian, so I felt I had that much time to rest.  Hah!

No one told me you had to deliver the placenta too.  I have watched calves and puppies be born, and always the afterbirth/placenta slides right out after the baby animal comes out.  I just assumed the same happened with humans.  Not so.  And, in my case, my uterus was so stretched out from three weeks of contractions, it couldn’t contract enough to get the placenta out.  Even with an increased oxytocin drip, Dr. S had to reach inside of me and “gently coach” the placenta out with her fingers while the resident pushed on my stomach (my very sore stomach).  I also had an excessive amount of bleeding (it looked like someone was murdered at the bottom of the bed and all over the wall behind the doctor’s stool) which had to be stopped with additional hormone infusions.  Once the placenta and bleeding was taken care of, it was time for stitches.  At that point, I said “Now that the baby’s out, is there anything to prevent me from getting some pain med?”  Dr. S said I could have some Stadol and B brought it to me (after dropping it on the floor the first time).  While B was giving the medicine she said “See.  I’m not so mean am I?”  To which I replied “No.  You’re just judgmental and condescending.” (Go me!)   Ultimately, the tearing was pretty severe.  I had to have six internal and seven external stitches.  Interestingly, I whined about the pain of the Novicane needle going into the vagina during the stitching process.  You would think that after having a baby, you could handle any pain with ease…but that stupid needle really hurt.  By the time the stitching was finished, it was past 12:00 p.m. and The Prince was anxious to see Ian in the NICU, so I hopped in the wheelchair, made a quick stop in my room, and away we went to the next floor up in the hospital. 

In the elevator, on the way to the NICU, I told The Prince that if I ever got it in my head that I wanted to try to have a vaginal birth ever again…shoot me.  I promised myself that I would never forget how “awful” the experience was.  And yet, by the next day, the memory of the pain was starting to fade.  I have heard it said, and I think it is true, that women have to forget the childbirth experience or there would never be enough babies to populate the world.  I am writing about how painful things were, but I don’t “feel” the pain.  You know when you think back to breaking a bone or endometriosis cramps, and your body feels the pain a little just because you think about it…like the trauma of the pain stays in your body for future reference?  Well…that doesn’t happen with childbirth.  Within a day or two my memory of the pain had significantly faded and had been replaced by a hormone high that I can’t even describe.  I have to admit, there is something strangely empowering about having gone through that experience.  The Prince acknowledged it.  For weeks after Ian was born The Prince would occasionally look at me, smile, and say “You did so well,” or “You are amazing!”  He’s right.  If I had known what was involved in childbirth, I would have said “I can’t do that.”  In fact…I did repeatedly say I couldn’t do it as I was doing it.  When you have a baby, you find a strength you didn’t know existed.  No one can ever take that away from me.  And...if I had to go through the delivery experience every day, for the rest of my life, in order to keep my sweet Ian with me, I would do it in a heartbeat.