Note: After speaking with several women who have had c-sections, I’ve noticed a common thread among them: they have strong feelings about it.  So, since I’m packing for our upcoming move this week, I’ve asked my BFF (a very talented writer) to describe her c-section experience for Controversy Wednesday.  I hope you’ll take time not only to read this but to comment if you’ve undergone the same surgery. 

Remember, friends, how we treat guests?  With kindness, an open mind, and a sense of humor.  Alright then.

Kisses,

Jaime

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C-Section? You mean Get-Outta-Jail-Free-Section!

I hate telling people I had a c-section. Though there’s something cool about having had a major surgery to impress people with, c-sections are looked at more as a cut-and-run (no pun intended) kind of way to escape the real birth experience. The only part of me that remotely enjoys sharing that I had a c-section is the same part of me that put Band-Aids all over my uninjured body when I was in pre-school in the hopes that my classmates would think I had been-there-and-done-that. For the most part, whenever I say I had a c-section to someone who has either never had a baby, or a mother who gave birth through the ol’ tunnel of love, there’s a pretty standard response I get: “Lucky you”! Eh hem. I’d like to politely disagree.

Here’s how the birth of my beautiful monkey went 14 months ago:

3:30am – Checked into hospital

10:00am – Doctor shows up. “You in labor, gurrrl!” (no, she’s actually kind of a stuck-up whitey with a pole up her butt, but she’s more interesting when I make her sound like Whoopie Goldberg in Ghost.

Next 10 hrs – Pain, boredom, Larry David movie (bad idea), pain, anxiety

8:00pm – Start pushing

10:00pm – Whoopie Goldberg tells me that after 2 hours the baby has made no progress, and the baby and I both have a fever now. I get wheeled to the OR.

10:34pm – Through a 3-4 inch incision just below my bikini line, out comes my little monkey.

When I was 34 weeks in, I learned in my birthing class that if the baby hasn’t flipped by week 34, that there’s a decreased chance that they will in time for the birth – and most hospitals opt not to deliver breech babies these days – thus, a c-section. For a couple of weeks, I felt disappointed and sad, to say the least. I felt like the homeopathic hippies in my life would pity me and my baby for not having a real, healthy, and proper birthing experience. Returning to birthing class the following week would be like a trip to Payless for the footless man. I decided my body wasn’t good enough to have a baby the natural way, and I was going to have to deal with the abashed consequences of getting off scott-free. I spoke to a friend who had recently had a c-section. She told me what I know now which is that there is nothing “scott-free” about having one.

However, by my 36-week appointment, my monkey flipped over. My 1.5 second long excitement to this news reverted immediately to the original fear of “Oh my God, that means she’s going to come out of where???” (It’s always something, right?) The homeopathic hippies in my life were thrilled.

But as the itinerary above shows, flip or no flip, she came out the side exit door anyway. Thirty minutes prior, after 2 hours of unproductive pushing, Whoopie recommended the c-section. I felt like I had somehow failed the whole process: my body wasn’t strong enough to push; my muscles were too tense to relax; and maybe even, my soul wasn’t worthy of being the mother you are. I know, that’s going kind of far, but after 32 years of life, nine months of pregnancy, nineteen hours in a hospital bed, and a minor in women’s studies, I was going to make this molehill into a mountain, goshdarnit. But then, like that moment at the end of the movie, when the hero pulls himself up by his bootstraps and takes one last stand, I said to my husband and Whoopie: “I’m going to try one more time”. My husband took my right leg, the nurse took the left one, and Whoopie waited at the other end for signs of life. Three contractions and three of the greatest pushes known to mankind…

Nothing.

Thirty-four minutes later in the operating room, the whole thing was over. And my new life began.

I peed through a tube for a couple of days after my monkey was born. When the nurse pulled the thing out and kindly told me it was time to walk to the bathroom, I thought I had been given Nurse Hatchet. “Get up??” I thought. “Why, you must have confused me for someone who is capable of sitting up!” My first trip to the bathroom, which was only about five (normal) steps from my bed, took approximately fifteen minutes. It was a few weeks before I was able to walk normally again. Because I pushed for two hours, I still managed to get all beat up downstairs, so sex wasn’t much fun for about 6 months, and then I learned I was crazy dry down there (until I discovered Vagifem – woohoo!) Parts of my abdomen were numb for months afterwards, and my incision scar is still mildly itchy on an almost daily basis. So in response to how “lucky” I was, I think the only thing that was lucky was that modern medicine got my monkey out safely.

Then there’s the mess of people (my husband included) who think that a c-section isn’t good for your baby, and that if they don’t get squeezed through your teeny tiny vagina, coming out with a conehead, that they’re going to encounter a slue of health problems in the future. I’m no doctor. Again, I’m no doctor. But I think my daughter is as healthy, and will continue to be as healthy, as any conehead out there.

Sure, I guess I wish I had had a “normal” birth. But maybe that’s just because my ego hates feeling like I haven’t earned my stars, though I know I have. But the other reason I have shame about my c-section, is that I feel like I’m not a member of The Club. I feel like, because I didn’t have my baby the old fashioned way, I am in some way, not invited to join the “pains of motherhood” club. Even when my own friends tell me the stories about their labor, it seems almost as if they’re talking to a childless woman, and not me- the person who had a baby just like they did. But again, maybe that’s just my fragile ego talking. But if you had a c-section, I know you know what I’m talking about.

Whether you had an emergency c-section, or a pre-scheduled elective one:

1. You had to work hard to have a baby – just like the rest of them.

2. Your baby’s ear infection is not because he came out the side door. He’s a baby. He gets ear infections.

3. You’re a mother – just like the rest of them. The cool thing is, you have a pretty little scar to remind you every day that you brought this beautiful being into the world.

Hey next-door-neighbor guy,

Please stop using a chainsaw to do whatever the heck you’re doing between the hours of 9am and 11am and 1pm to 3pm.

Sincerely,

MOTHER OF AN INFANT

Distraction, aka Whatever It Takes

I sit down to write this after having completed my new least-favorite task as a parent: The Dreaded Diaper Change.

I look forward to changing Seabass’ diaper with about the same amount of enthusiasm I reserve for doing my taxes.  But taxes come only once per year.  Diaper changes happen upward of, oh, FIVE TIMES PER DAY.

Why does he hate having his nappy changed so much? 

• He hates lying on his back.
• He hates staying still.
• He has had, off and on, a nasty rash that irritates his nether-region.

 So, to entertain himself during the inevitable changing times, Seabass has chosen to explore his own body.  And he has found his parts. 

Now, I knew this day would come, but I had no idea it would come so soon.  Apparently I’m not alone in my surprise, as evidenced by the results of a recent Google search.

All of this would be fine with me – boys play with their stuff, n’est-ce pas? – if it weren’t for the fact that Seabass has also discovered the existence of poo down there, too.  When I change his diaper, the moment that front flap comes down, it’s like Christmas.  Poo!  Get it! Grab it!  Fling it!  Spread it all over my chest!  Pooooooo!  Poo may very well be the only thing that makes diaper changes bearable for the little dude. 

Needless to say, this is positively disgusting.  I’ve tried everything to streamline and sanitize the process, but to no avail.  We’re not talking about some toy that I can take away and put out of reach.  They’re his own feces.

[Aside: If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know that I love talking about poo.  So in the abstract, this situation is pretty great, pretty hilarious.  Such irony is not lost on me.  But, in practice, cleaning up baby dung is gross and not funny at all.]

We’re at a turning point, obviously, because this system cannot be sustained.  I can’t keep laying him down only to watch him a) cry and wail, b) tug his thing with impunity, or c) play Monkey In The Zoo.  Another routine must be devised.  BFF Caroline performs her daughter’s diaper changes standing up.  Are Seabass and I ready for such acrobatics?  I don’t know, but I’m willing to give it a go.

And the winner of the Little Book of Breastfeeding Recipes giveaway according to Random.org is…

Sara Nesper!  Woot!

Thanks to everyone who entered to win.  Stay tuned for more book giveaways!

It is Seabass’ 10-month birthday today, and I’m excited to report that he is an absolute joy. 

Yesterday, I had planned to take him to the gym, drop him off in childcare, and sweat buckets in a spin class.  But as soon as I started to strap him into his carseat, I realized I didn’t want to do it –  I didn’t want to be apart from my baby for anything.  I even said as much out loud to no one in particular. 

So I took him out of his car seat, shed my spandex and re-clothed, packed a picnic, and brough Seabass and Murphy down to the park for a couple hours.  The weather was spectacular yesterday – you gotta love California in March! – and people on the street seemed carefree and a little giddy from the sun and the warmth. 

I took this video as Seabass watched some city workers trim a tree on the edge of the park.  For a little boy, is there anything better than a sunny day at the park watching a crane and guys in hard hats?  I think not.

In my last post I mentioned Babies with Laser Eyes, which purports to be “the finest collection of babies with laser eyes on the webernets.”  On the site, I noticed that the owner, who self-identifies as “Froggie,” invites baby photos for laserfication.  So I sent along a shot of Seabass in his monkey Halloween costume and look what I got back.  TRUE ART.

Thank you, Froggie.  And to the rest of you, Happy Monday.

Note: No boys allowed today.  Just trust me on this one.  If you’re a guy and you’re dying to know what the following post says, forward it along to a female who loves you and ask for her interpretation, if you must.  Run along, now.  Go on, shoo.

A new book recently came out by the author of the awesome blog, Finslippy.  It’s called Let’s Panic About Babies! and the sub-header reads, “How to endure and possibly triumph over the adorable tyrant who will ruin your body, destroy your life, liquefy your brain and finally turn you into a worthwhile human being.”  While I don’t necessarily agree that babies “destroy your life,” I do agree with the rest of that sentence and applaud the authors for having the cajones to put it in print.

I also love their use of a “Babies with Laser Eyes” image on the cover.  Nicely done, ladies.

Anyway, this post is girls-only because I have have have to direct you to something from the Let’s Panic About Babies website that involves the V-word.  Trust me: I wouldn’t do this unless it were absolutely necessary.  And it is, because this is the most eloquently hilarious bit of writing I’ve read in a long time.  Anyone who has given birth will understand.  Here is the link.  Read it and weep.

The man of my dreams.

Here are a few SAT problems for you to work out:

Nuts are to squirrels as _______ is to Jake.

Blood is to vampires as _______ is to Jake.

Vegas is to gamblers as _______ is to Jake.

The answer?  SNOWBOARDING. 

The dude just can’t get enough.  And now that we have a baby?  He can’t get any.

To watch Jake snowboard is to watch a master at work – sort of like watching someone sculpt on a wheel or bake a souffle.  He makes it look effortless even though it isn’t, and the joy he gets from cascading and carving through the snow is written in every graceful move that he makes.

I, on the other hand, hate the snow.  Hate hate hate hate it.  Of course, when we were dating, I made a point of trying to snowboard to painfully hilarious effect for the sake of our budding relationship.  Once the ring was on my finger, however, I revealed my snow-hatred and Jake couldn’t bring himself to accept it. 

In fact, he wanted so much to believe that I had a latent love for the snow that he struck a bargain with me: He would take piano lessons from me and I would snowboard in the Swiss Alps with him.  Switzerland sounded pretty great – cheese! shopping! cafes! – so I agreed. 

Six months and many hours of piano lessons later, Jake took me to Switzerland to snowboard.  In the shadow of the Matterhorn – literally – I strapped a board on my feet and proceeded to fall and cry my way down a mountain for, oh, about 15 minutes, before throwing a tantrum in the snow and giving up.  Jake, fed up but unfailingly patient, told me to go back to the hotel.  I rode the board on my butt down the mountain (which was actually quite fun), returned all of my gear to the pro shop, and whiled the rest of my day away in a quaint cafe, drinking coffee and nibbling pastries.

He believes me now.

Anyway, since “the incident” as we now call it, Jake hits the slopes without me.  Every winter for the past several years, he has grabbed a buddy and gone on a snow getaway to one incredible resort or another – Park City, Whistler, Tahoe – where he can do what he loves best without me getting in the way. 

When we had Seabass last May, the annual ski trip was the last thing on my mind.  So when fall came along with Jake’s announcement that he’d be snowboarding in Vail this year, I didn’t know what to say.  As Jake’s wife, of course I wanted him to enjoy himself and continue to do what he loves, despite the new responsibility of fatherhood.  But as Seabass’ mother, I was less-than-thrilled to lose my caretaking partner, even for a short time.  The fact that I could never run off on a vacation with a friend now didn’t exactly help.

But in the end, I decided he should go.  That was before the proverbial poo poo hit the fan.

A few weeks ago, Jake came home with a printed calendar and an apologetic look in his eye.  “We need to have a family meeting after dinner,” he said, “And I’m warning you, it won’t be easy.”

Boy, was he right.  Jake’s office had just let him know he would be traveling to New York for two separate weeks flanking his snowboarding trip.  Now I really didn’t know what to say.  He’d already booked his flight, lodging, lift tickets, you name it.  How could I ask him to cancel?

Then, we saw the house.  It’s not much – just a teeny tiny 800-square-foot house built in the 1950s on the other end of town.  And it is in our price range if we eat beans and rice for a couple years.  So we put an offer in, and it was accepted.  Now, we’re in escrow, which closes the end of this month – when Jake was supposed to be in Vail.

I’d like credit for the fact that I STILL didn’t ask Jake to cancel his trip. Sure, I was in complete denial that I could 1) work a part-time job, 2) raise an infant, 3) pack and 4) move all by myself…but at least I wasn’t playing the martyr.  And that’s pretty much how things were going until yesterday afternoon.

“I’ve cancelled my Vail trip,” Jake said with resignation.  “I just can’t do it.”

“What?!?” I gulped, extremely surprised, to say the least. “But all your plans!  Why didn’t you just go forward with it?”

He heaved a sigh that would break a heart of stone.  “I can’t handle all the stress of money, work, the baby, and the house with a vacation thrown into the middle,” he said.  “It’s okay.  I’m okay.”

“Wow,” I said.  “Well, so long as you’re at peace with your decision…”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he chuckled.  “But I’m getting there.”

And that’s how it was left.  He’s not going snowboarding this year because of money, work, family, and a house.  This is the hard reality of growing up: not enough time, not enough money, not enough energy, not enough freedom.  Don’t get me wrong – I love that Jake is a man, not a boy, who steps up to meet his responsibilities head-on.  But I don’t want to see my independent, carefree husband being paralyzed in the web of adulthood.  Who would?

A while back, I wrote a Controversy Wednesday post on CRYING IT OUT which attracted some attention, not all of it positive.  You may remember my follow-up post entitled “Apology Thursday: I WAS WRONG” in which I begged forgiveness for being a know-it-all about sleep and included a photo of myself at my most haggard as a peace offering.  Incredibly, this is the most-read post of all time on Higher Highs, Lower Lows, according to my analytics.  This tells me that you all are a bunch of sick puppies who like to watch others suffer.

Anyway, I’m here again to say that I was wrong.  Wait, scratch that.  I wasn’t wrong so much as I was an arrogant nincompoop.  And here’s why: Seabass is having what we’ll euphamistically call “sleep issues.”

About a month ago, the little dude – who up until this point had been the portrait of restedness (is that a word?) – decided to stop taking his afternoon nap.  He would happily take his morning nap from 9am until about 11:30am or later, but at 1pm, could not fall asleep for his scheduled afternoon siesta.  At first, I thought it was a fluke.  But after a few weeks of this, it had become a habit, and I was – AM – pulling my hair out.

I e-mailed my go-to girl for sleep, Deb Pedrick, with www.familysleep.com.  “Try waking him from his morning nap at 11am and putting him back down at 1pm,” she said.  “Let’s allow him to be a little tired so he really wants it later.”  I did as I was told, and it worked!  For two days.  Then Seabass was back to crying/babbling/screaming for the hour I allotted him to be in his crib.  I wrote Deb again.

“Okay, let’s try waking him up at 10am now,” she wrote, intrepidly.  “If he’s only had one hour of morning sleep he should want it by the afternoon.”  So, once again, I did as I was told, and it worked!  For two days.  By this time, I was getting pretty tired of waking a peacefully sleeping baby only to have him cranky for the remaining eight hours before bedtime. 

“I can’t keep waking him,” I wrote Deb.  “I’m not getting anything done because he’s hardly ever asleep.  So I’m going to let him sleep as long as he wants in the morning, give him a shot at sleeping in the afternoon, but not push it.”  Deb said that was fine, especially since Seabass’ night sleep was super consolidated and luscious at 12 glorious hours every night.

So, that was the plan this past weekend, and all was well.  Until Seabass awoke at 11pm last night and didn’t stop crying until I went into him at 12:15am.

Little sleepy dumpling.

Now, look.  Generally speaking, I am really confident in the “cry-it-out” method.  Every night when I put Seabass to sleep, I look at him and wordlessly say, “I’ll see you at 6am, buddy,” as in “I won’t be seeing you any earlier.”  And this has worked wonders for both his own sleep and ours.  Nine nights out of ten, he’s silent as a mouse.

But every great once in a while, he wakes in the night and cries like it’s going out of style, and last night was one such occasion.  When I realized he’d been awake for over an hour, I went in and scooped that little dumpling into my arms.  I think he was a little surprised, like, “Whoa!  You’ve never done this before!”  but it didn’t stop him from crying intermittently for the next hour or so, even with me rocking him.  He didn’t have a fever, and there was no other obvious reason for his discontent.  The only thing I could imagine was that he had another tooth coming in.

I am very, very, very protective of my sleep because a well-rested mommy means a patient, happy, playful mommy.  But in the wee hours last night, I held my precious little boy and enjoyed the act of soothing him just by being near.  His crying eventually tapered off, his movements became more calm, and his eyelids drooped.  He never fully fell asleep while I was there, but when I lay him back down in his crib, he cried for only a moment before finally falling silent.  I, on the other hand, was awake much longer trying to fall back asleep.

Why is it that, despite having missed three total hours of sleep last night, Seabass was still up bright and early at 6:30am?  It makes no sense, but since when was making sense a baby’s modus operandi?  In any case, as I slithered out of bed to start the day this morning, I noticed no resentment that I’d lost valuable sleep last night.  In fact, my thoughts were only of Seabass, hoping he was doing better since the last time I’d seen him and looking forward to his shining, rosy-cheeked face.  It struck me that I was comfortable in my role as caregiver, that maybe I’m finally growing into this whole motherhood thing, 10 months later.