Tough Mudder Whistler: It Was Nice Knowing You All

So... yeah.

I am not fit.
I am fat.
I have no muscle tone.
I get dizzy walking up the stairs.
I had surgery in February that resulted in nerve damage in my abdomen.
It hurts to lift things and carry things and I'm not supposed to exercise using my ab muscles.

Oh... and I signed up for Tough Mudder Whistler.

I paid my non-refundable $160ish before I had my follow up with the surgeon. It goes without saying that I didn't quite expect the news he delivered to me.

Since signing up, I've seen the course profile. It is, in a word, terrifying. In several words, it's holy shit what I have I done I'm pretty sure I won't live to see my baby again.

Um, hi 16km mark. W.T.F.!?!???!??!

Look at his face. Now imagine what his balls must look like.

I wanted a challenge. My other Mama friends had decided to give 'er a go, so I thought it would be an excellent goal to work towards. A reason to run some of this baby fat off my frame. I'm not saying that I weigh only 10 pounds less than when I was 8 months pregnant, and I'm not saying that I still mix in maternity pieces into my wardrobe... I'm just saying that not being able to use my abs, coupled with all the health issues in the past 18 months, has rendered me quite... {{soft}}.

What's the big deal, you ask? Well, there are also obstacles along the course. So, barring the fact that my current treadmill record is 5.2km and 19km will likely kill me, all along the route energy will be expended doing things like swimming through a massive container of ice water (the "arctic enema"), getting electrocuted ("electroshock therapy"), and having to crawl facing the sky, in water, breathing through chain link fence. Seriously.

This is f*cking terrifying.

I actually lose sleep at night over it when I think about it. I really want to accomplish something that says I am strong again. My body works again. I can push past the obstacles, both physical and mental. And, you know, likely not walk right or be able to lift the baby up for the next two weeks as I recover in an ever-refilling bath of epsom salts while drinking some malbec straight out of the bottle. #ClassyMom.

You can bet your ass it's going to make an awesome blog post, even if it's "Hey, our car broke down on the way", or "I twisted my ankle putting my shoes on at the start line"... but still.

Anyone ever completed a Tough Mudder race? Tough Mudder Whistler? I'm mostly excited about bunking in a condo with two other couples and their babies. I'd say my priorities are in order, no?

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The Queen of Farts?

Whenever I'm feeling particularly gross about my body, I just think about Kate Middleton, aka Duchess Kate blowing a huge fart into her hand, running over to Prince William, and cup-a-farting that baby into his face.

In my mind, she then skips away, laughing maniacally. Not sure if he refers to her as Babykins in a situation like that or not.

Then, I feel a teeeeensy bit better about things.

I mean, everyone poops, but if royalty cup-a-farts, then all is not lost.


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The Frustration Continues...

I have wanted to write this post for a while... and then on Tuesday I was given more depressing news.

Since I found out I was pregnant, I have essentially been unwell. That puts me at 17 months of dealing with one or more health issues or infections.

If you have read this blog, you know that my pregnancy was tough. There were some bad times. Some scary times. Twice I thought that I had lost my girl, and I thought she was stillborn in addition to those times. I could write a long, detailed experience of each one, but I kind of feel that overall... well, that no one really gives a shit. I know people have encouraging words, and I know the people that read this don't wish bad things on me... but no one likes to read about downers.

Having said that, I apologize for this post.

But I have cried myself to sleep for the last 5 nights. Am I lucky to have what I have? Yes. Could things be worse? Why, you're damn straight they could, I should be blissfully grateful for all the wonderful people, experiences and things I have. But my reality is trying sometimes. I know that people overcome far more, and are so much stronger and so much more capable.

But it seems there is only so much I can handle. So much I can take. So I am going to list, in point form, all the shit I have been dealing with since I found out I was pregnant in October 2012.

Fun? No. Funny? Not this time. I'm quite sure no one will WANT to read this, but I need to do it for me. It feels like the only way to get it off my chest.

October 2012 - Discovered I was pregnant. Basically had symptoms of Mono, as well as a sinus/chest infection and a cold.

November 2012 - Excruciating pain, call to 911, ambulance ride, talk of ectopic pregnancy, forced morphine despite pregnancy, being told to shut up and "keep it down" by the ER doc. Finally diagnosed with a hernia in my gut. Finally heard that the baby's heart was beating okay.

December 2012 - Bleeding. Cramping. Visit to the doctor where she essentially told me to expect the worst. A day of waiting for my emergency ultrasound appointment, as I tried to accept the fact that my baby had probably died. Finally got in there for the scan. Was kind of in shock when the technician told me the baby was fine. Such a relief. It actually took me a few days to accept that she was alive and well.

January 2013 - May 2013 - Extreme nausea. Vomiting. Fatigue. Back pain. Hip pain. Inability to sleep. Bleeding from so many places. Serious discomfort. People telling me to get out and be active, while I could barely climb stairs or find the strength to throat punch them as required.

May 2013 - Traumatic birth of my baby girl (she is okay).

June 2013 - 10 days after she was born, I was still experiencing excruciating pain. TMI DISCLAIMER: After a trip to the ER on my birthday, and a brush off from the doctor, I had a follow up ultrasound the next day. Shit was WRONG. Baby and Hubby were at home. I had just come from our family portraits at Sears. I was told to head back to the ER immediately as there was still baby leftovers in me.

After waiting about 6 hours, I had to call the on-call OB-GYN. Otherwise I have no idea how much longer I'd have waited. I didn't bring a breast pump. I didn't have my baby. But my body was still HALFWAY DILATED to birthing with what was going on. I was admitted. There's more to the story, but I needed surgery.

June & July 2013 - Infection in my uterus, boobs, and more. Lots of pain meds and antibiotics.

August 2013 - More boob issues. So many nursing issues, they deserve their own post. A month-long unidentified bladder infection that my old OB claimed to have left me voicemail about (she was so so so lying).

September 2013 - Poor OB care and another uterine infection. My fallopian tube was ready to burst. Severe infection requiring twice daily IV antibiotic therapy in-hospital. Trip home cancelled to introduce my baby to family because I was so weak I couldn't even do stairs. More pain meds. Overall, 8 antibiotics administered over a 3 week period.

*All this time, I STILL wasn't supposed to be using my abdominal muscles because my hernia would pop out and be very uncomfortable*

October & November 2013 - More infections. More pills. More tears. Milk supply issues as always, still sore nipples, still pumping, still fighting for it.

I don't even remember December 2013 and January 2014, but I know there were many dizzy spells, still no use of my abs, no way to really get active and back in shape. Trapped, frustrated, unwell.

February 2014 - Belly hernia "day" surgery. Was supposed to go home at 5:30pm. Doctor ended up using mesh to repair two separate areas. My abs were totally wrecked from the pregnancy. When I woke up, I was in some of the worst pain I've ever felt in my life. I was admitted and doped up for 4 days. It was awful. More pain meds.

March 2014 - Signed up for a tough obstacle course with the Hubs and other mamma friends. Hoped to train hard upon surgery recovery, FINALLY. Still had sooo much pain to the left of the scarring and repair areas. Surgeon informed me this week that it is most likely nerve damage from the local freezing needles they used before surgery. That it may take months to heal, or may never heal. That I still can't use my abs, that the repair areas are full of "an impressive amount" of scar tissue, and that it will also take months for that area to regulate and not be sore every time my daughter's foot brushes against my gut. That I shouldn't do the race. That I can't do ab exercises. That pushing through the pain will not be helpful. And that I will likely need cortisone shots in my stomach to help alleviate the constant pain.

Now, I've left a lot of stuff out. This is the Cliffs notes. I know it could be so much worse, but I am so tired of being in pain EVERY SINGLE DAY. I can't walk the dog. It hurts to carry and lift the baby. I can't EXERCISE HARD and start to lose weight and feel healthy again. My body hates me. I don't know what to do next.

What do you tell yourself when you feel defeated? How do you push through when the days are long, and they hurt?


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My Labour Story: Part 4... My Heart Breaks

I had a great visit with a friend tonight, and I got to recalling a part of my labour story... I know I haven't finished it on here, and it's been intentional. I feel like it was traumatic and it hurts to think about. I wanted to document the story so I would always remember the emotion... how things happened and the details. I don't honestly think I would forget, but I know the mind has the powerful ability to block out the bad things to trick us into further procreation. Ha.


Anyway, if you haven't read the first parts, you can find:
Part One HERE
Part Two HERE
Part Three HERE.


I follow the Badass Breastfeeder on Facebook, and she shared the following photo. It got me thinking that I NEED to tell this part of the story. To gain some kind of acceptance and closure to how things went down.

It really is true.

I just re-read part three to refresh my own mind. And while I am F_CKING HILARIOUS, I also feel sick inside revisiting that night. But here goes. (The things I do for you guys... hehe).


I was pushing and pumping my pain pump thing. The nurse somehow got approval to let me keep using the pain pump because I was feeling things so much but still pushing despite it all. She really was great. Alice, I thank you.


Do you remember the monitors I talked about in Part Three? They showed both the baby's and my heart rate. What I couldn't see in my insane state of determination was that the baby's heart rate was sitting just over 200. Not a good thing. I also remember the Obstetrician commenting that her head felt swollen, and that was also not a good thing.


The Hubs could see the monitor, and after all the pushing, he could tell that something wasn't right.

The doc had come back in, and it was then that he said he believed it best to use the vacuum to help get the baby out. I had heard horrific stories of forceps deliveries, and I really really didn't want that. It was unspoken that if things didn't move along soon, I would need to have a C-section.


As you all know quite well by now, I am a huge wuss and I probably would STILL be recovering today if I'd been forced into the C-section. I heal sloooowly and always have complications. It's kind of my thing.


So I prayed to the vagina gods to spare me lifelong disfigurement and I agreed to the vacuum. The doc said it should be fairly easy to get her out with it, along with my pushing. He casually asked the nurse if they should call "peds" (pronounced peeds, meaning pediatric docs). He played it so cool. So did she. She said "probably". I had no idea that my baby was in danger and that I needed to get her out. NOW. Like, NOW NOW. She made a call, but it didn't register in my brain.


I commend the Hubs for staying calm and supportive. I can only imagine how scared and helpless he must have felt knowing there was absolutely NOTHING he could do to help the baby or change things for the better. He did the best thing he could have, by staying calm and essentially pretending he knew nothing. For that, I thank him. I had been the calm one throughout the start, but he was clutch when I needed him. Had he started to panic, I would have lost my shit and things could have ended much, much differently.


Now, a lot of moms will tell you that after enough hours of pushing, you won't give a shit who sees your boobs, your lady parts, and it won't matter if you poo all over the walls. Surprisingly, I was okay with the nurse (though I would have preferred to have wiped my own butt if given the choice... damn huge belly and peeing laying down...), and I eventually was comfortable with the male OB I had.  I was not okay with students, I was not okay with shitting myself (though if it would have helped the baby I would have). I thought that we were still smooth sailing.


Then 4 more doctors entered the room. I specifically remember trying to cover my lady parts with my hands, WHILE MY LEGS WERE UP ON A BAR, mid-push as the OB was trying to Dyson out little Baby D. Yes, apparently I was still a bit self conscious, but also taken aback by the new viewing section of my labour.


The room was set up in such a way that there was a table across from where I was laying, where they test the baby's reactions (APGAR score) and clean baby up before handing back to mom. These doctors quietly began setting up, not saying a word, besides whispering with the nurse. I remember feeling totally confused and starting to feel nervous. I didn't think this was standard operating procedure, but I was totally exhausted and relatively vulnerable.


I asked who the male doctor was. I don't remember if the OB answered me or not.


I kept pushing. I may have been crying, I don't remember.


I remember that Baby D got closer to freedom, and then the worst burning pain I've ever felt took over my loins. I may have sworn a curse word or two, which was pretty tame for me considering I hadn't really before that.


And then she was out.


All day we heard as other babies were born around us in the nearby rooms. Sweet, frantic little newborn cries as they were thrust into the bright, loud scary world. The same sound in each room.


My baby made no such sound. She made no sound at all. The OB held her up, and I still can see her little white limp body in his hands. No noise. No sign of life. No sign of anything.


I asked if she was okay. No one spoke. I raised my voice. I asked if she was alive. I started to yell, asking if she was breathing, if she was okay. No one spoke.


The team of doctors took her to that table, and surrounded her as they worked. I couldn't see her at all.


I remember the OB casually mentioning that the umbilical cord had been wrapped around both legs, and somewhat tangled. I remembered thinking that explained a lot because no one could seem to figure out how she was positioned in me (my bump looked quite weird and they needed a bedside ultrasound to figure it out the day before).


The OB wasn't a jerk. He wasn't dismissive. He was just incredibly calm and I think trying to get me to simmer down. But not hearing anything was just awful.


There was no crying, no coughing.


I was stuck on the delivery table while the doctor started stitching up all that had been burning. I could feel the stitches and I remember he had to give me another needle with extra freezing there so he could do his handy work.


I felt so helpless and so so scared. I was certain she was dead. The little squirmy ball of baby inside of me for the past 8 months came out silent and still. I was starting to go into shock.


My baby still wasn't making any noise. I asked the Hubs over and over what was going on. It was kind of a blur, but I remember that feeling of being trapped on the table and feeling so powerless.


At one point they asked the Hubs to come over, and I think he then cut the cord.


Then, I heard some kind of sound, and I think the Hubs said she was ok. I didn't believe him.


Then this little, sweet, monkey of a girl was passed to me. She was wrapped in a towel. I don't know if I asked the Hubs to take her photo, or if he did it on his own. I remember the flash went off and the team of doctors actually shouted/scolded him, even though it was accidental.


I held her for all of 45 seconds, and then she was whisked away.

My first few second with her. Looking at this brings back the disbelief, fear, and pain. I remember thinking she looked so beautiful and so perfect.

She didn't get skin to skin contact.
I didn't get to try to nurse her.
I didn't get to feel her sweet little newborn skin on my chest, or get to feel her heart beating.
I didn't get to shower her with the love I had.


They took her away. And that was it.
I didn't understand. I wanted to see her, I needed to see her. The doctor finished stitching, and the nurse told me I had to stay laying down.


The Hubs didn't know what to do. I was hysterical and she was leaving, so I told him to go to her. To go with her. I didn't want her to die alone if she was going to die.


It all felt like an awful dream. It didn't feel like I had a baby. I remember the doctor cleaning up... I had bled quite a bit. I remember the spot light that had been on me was turned off. I was told to rest. It felt in my heart that my little girl was dying in some hospital room near me, and that I wouldn't see her again.


At that point I'm pretty sure that the Hubs knew she was stable, but in my state of shock I couldn't understand that.


I remember trying to rest, and then insisting that I needed to see her. I have no idea how much time had passed. I know the Hubs was there for part of it, and the nurse was trying to get him to sleep in the chair there with me. But he was also with the baby. It is all mixed up in my mind.


The nurse said I could go to her in the Intensive Care Unit if I could walk to the bathroom. I got to the bathroom, and once I tried to sit down, I remember shaking so violently and shuddering so hard that I smacked my head off the shower and almost hit the floor. I've heard of women "getting the shakes" after labour and medication, but this was more seizure-like than I ever could have guessed.


I was in incredible pain and so unbelievably cold. The nurse barely stopped me from face planting on the tile floor. I had no control over my body.


It took her and the Hubs to get me into a wheelchair to return the 10 feet I needed to pass to get back to the bed. At that point she told me there was no way I could see the baby. I remember crying so hard. I was certain that I was going to die. I know that probably sounds quite stupid and dramatic, but I had nothing left in me and my body was turning on me entirely. I had been awake for a long time, with no food, in shock, and completely out of control.


The pregnancy felt like an illusion. I had no baby. I was confused and weak and so tired. I remember wanting the Hubs to be with her, and being so sad and scared that I was dying and that I wouldn't get to see or hold my baby again.


Around 6am or so, I think, we were moved up to a room on the maternity ward. I remember crying, sick that I wasn't with my girl, and Alice patted me on the head and told me to rest, that I would see my baby soon. Alice was just so sweet and kind and rational throughout.


I wanted to hug her and thank her and cry on her shoulder, but I was too weak to do anything but lay on my side in the fetal position and whisper thank you to her through my tears. I clearly remember the Hubs giving her a big hug and thanking her immensely for her help. I remember feeling so glad and thankful that he did because I couldn't, and I remember feeling so much love towards him for being so candid and sincere with her. I know he appreciated all she did for us.


We tried to sleep. Our neighbours in the room were loud jerkfaces.

I will post about my first real meeting with my baby next. But this is crazy long.

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The I'm-Pretty-Sure-I-Didn't-Cup-His-Balls Massage Experience (First World Problems)

I have no time. I really don't. My time is at an utmost premium now. If I have some time when the baby is asleep, or out with Daddy for a bit, I need to plan for it, schedule it, and maximize the hell out of it.

Phone calls and Skype are sheer luxury. I decided to just call my Mom and Dad to chat the other day, despite an unhappy baby, and I moved into the next room. (Don't worry, the Hubs was with her, I didn't actually abandon her and leave her with the dogs or anything). And she crawled for real for the first time. That's what happens when I step away. I miss important things with my baby.

I digress.

So, after much planning, thinking, hoping and aching (muscles, not loins, people), I scheduled an evening massage so that the Hubs would be home with Baby D, and I could go get some of this I'm-tired-and-slumpy posture pain, neck pain, back pain, and general muscle blah-ness revitalized.

I had to book two weeks ahead. The anticipation was killing me. I even booked with a DUDE, on the advice of my chiropractor (also a luxury - my last appointment consisted of both her and I trying to calm the baby's cries, as I rocked her in the car seat with one outstretched arm while the chiro TRIED to adjust me). I think I left feeling worse.

So, onto the massage. A wispy guy, quite thin (WARNING SIGN - how's this dude going to beat the hell out of me sufficiently?) greeted me and we proceeded to the treatment room.

Now, I am fat. It's true. I'm still 50 pounds heavier than the day I found out I was pregnant. I will detail another post on that in the future, but let's just say anyone around me appreciates a dimly lit room. Especially when even XL underwear can't contain my crack and all-that-is the junk in my trunk.

Nope, this dude preferred intense fluorescent light. Okay.

Tucks the sheet into said underwear. We both know my crack is still hanging out, looking to make small talk. Epic. With every sweeping motion on my back, I can feel my love handles and butt just bouncing about.

It was mixed parts I-feel-so-gross-I-want-to-curl-up-and-disappear and... no, actually it was pretty much just that.

It was all soft and Swedish-like. I am a masochist at heart and I need lots of pressure and knots to be WORKED OUT, MAWFAHCKAH. This dude felt like he was swiffering my fat. I asked for more pressure. He didn't really change anything.

Within the first 10 minutes, I nearly cried. I waited and looked forward to this so badly. I needed some pain relief. I was about to lose an hour of my baby-free time on a sad, pathetic massage. I wanted to just ask him to stop, say let's forget it, but the cheapskate in me knew that I'd have to pay either way. So I laid there, bummed to the max (both literally and figuratively) and hoped it would improve.

It did not. It got worse.

This guy had no hand rest below the face-holder hole. So I put my arms at my sides. The table left little room for my arms (or rather, my wide torso left little room for my arms). And that's when I'm sure it happened. As he was leaning in to do his trademark swiffer move, I'm quite sure that his junk landed squarely in my upturned right palm.

I told myself I'm sure I'm just imagining. Just relax. And it probably isn't considered cheating on the Hubs if there is both sheet and pants-protection between my palm and the dude's junk. Amirite?

Then it happened again.

I actually felt revolted and full body shuddered. He stopped swiffering and asked if I was okay. I said yes and tried to glue my arms and hands to the sides of my body. You know, total relaxation.

I shouldn't really be surprised, considering my track record. I blogged about some bad experiences back in the day on this post here, and also on this one.

Before the massage started, I had asked if he could massage hips. I know some therapists aren't comfortable because it usually means manipulating stuff through your butt cheeks. He asked why they were hurting and I said mostly from carrying the baby in a carrier.

Well, throughout we had a definite language barrier. This became painfully clear when he massaged my MUFFIN TOP. I guess he thought that was my hips? Jesus I just wanted him to stop and go away. No woman needs to feel her muffin top moving around like that. That ACKNOWLEDGMENT of the fat there. No, let's all pretend there is nothing to see here, and move on!

Ahhh, anyway, after the longest time it was finally over. And to just sweeten the experience, as I was getting dressed afterwards, I had to use my typical force to get my too-small jeans over my too-quickly-expanding arse. The ultimate feel good wave rushed over me as the belt loop I was gripping ACTUALLY RIPPED OUT of my jeans, unable to overthrow the force of my arse-resistance.

I left the room to pay, head hanging in shame and defeat.

I wish I looked this good...

But not before two (new, wrapped) super-plus tampons fell out of my purse, in front of the two older men in the waiting room. What's that you ask? Why, yes, I *DID* stomp on them as I fumbled for my credit card! No, no I *DIDN'T* realize what they were or that they were mine until one of the men wouldn't meet my gaze as I said hello and I happened to look down and see them.

Gawd, I feel so attractive right now.... Pass me another Coke. And I seem to be craving muffins now, too.....


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A Wonderful Moment

I had fully anticipated writing about 6 snarky, embarrassing posts since the last one or two. I always tend to write them in my head when I am out somewhere, or when I am rocking the baby to sleep. I never seem to do it. Or justify spending the time.

But this afternoon I had such a wonderful moment, I just have to document it here. I don't want to forget it, and I always mean to put pen to paper in the baby book or her notebook, and then I always forget.

Baby D has been fairly unhappy - whining a lot, not letting me out of her sight. Teething, tired, hungry, and who knows. Often, when different or new people are around, she is quite smiley or at least not totally miserable, and the other person has no idea what it's been like for weeks in and out of her being so hard to soothe.

But... this afternoon...

Earlier, she woke up from her nap around 11ish. A touch unhappy, but willing to giggle if I jumped in her direction or made funny sounds. Her smiling was encouraging and it made me smile.

I showered fast (just the vitals, as us new moms seem to do), and she was getting impatient. I got dressed, got her dressed, took a short movie of her and a few pics. I had intended on going to get bulk stuff at Costco - I've been meaning to go for a few weeks, and I am antsy to get it done.

I knew I'd have to time it right, and hope she'd last. She usually gets upset in there, but The Hubs hasn't gotten his membership card, and I refuse to go on the weekends. So that means bringing her in the day if I want to get the latest sale.

I had a feeling she wouldn't do well. And to be quite blunt, I am so sick of not enjoying her; I try to soothe her upset while I run around the house trying (fairly unsuccessfully) to clean up, wash dishes, do laundry and tend to the dogs. I am always behind on house work, the clutter builds, yet I am trying and stressing and worrying what The Hubs will think when he sees the state of the place at the end of the day.

I decided to fuck it.

I wanted to enjoy my baby this afternoon. I got out her light snowsuit. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. I got her bundled up in my Ergo carrier, got the dog harnessed, and we walked outside. We talked about the trees. We walked up the path and talked about dog poo. And how much Mommy loves her Baby. And we talked about the sounds of nature, and how pretty it is, and how peaceful it can be if you just stop and take it in.

On our walk today... she looks unimpressed, but we had fun. I enjoyed my baby immensely today.

We stopped and listened to the water rushing past in the stream. I could see her little blue eyes taking in the trees, the moss, the rocks. I could see her look to where I was pointing... where the birdies were chirping. When we started walking again, she squawked at me to stop. I did, and she quieted and listened to the water and the birds again.

It was beautiful. Even the dog was relatively good.

We walked home. We had some lunch, and she ate some cheddar and puree like a rock star. She smiled when I tickled her feet. It made me feel so happy. We even went without a bib and avoided total shirt destruction.

I knew she was ready for sleep again. We went to her room, and I nursed her with the little, dwindling milk supply I have left. She stared in wonder at the sunshine as it made a new pattern on my shoulder, through the slats of the blinds. She smiled.

She wasn't falling asleep right away on the pillow, which was unusual for her if she is pooped. So I turned her, facing the same way as me, and we rocked together. She touched her toes, and I put little kisses all over the side of her face, her head and her hair, and her ears. I didn't hold her tightly to be still, I didn't change anything.

She chewed on my fingers a bit, and talked a little. Kept making the "mumumum" sound. And then she did something totally beautiful.

She turned her head to me, mouth wide open, to give me a series of Baby D kisses. It was so incredibly sweet, my heart nearly exploded in my chest.

And I thanked her and kissed her head.
And then she turned and gave me Baby D kisses for a second time!

After that, she rolled her head to the side, and fluttered her eyes as she fell asleep. She stirred awake, and I whispered in her ear that I will love her always and forever.

Then she closed her eyes and was off to sleep.
I rocked her for a while still while the tears of gratitude, joy and love spilled down my cheeks. Her little toes still, her little hand wrapped over my arm. I am so lucky to be her Mamma.

It's the moments like these that are a reminder that it's not always hard. That sometimes the house is better off being a mess. That a Mamma should sometimes (if not always) just trust her gut and choose to enjoy her baby while she can.

And now she's already awake... that was a fast nap.

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Winning. I Think.

Hey, like me on Facebook, dammit. I'm pathetic on there.

I'm pretty sure I'm winning at life when all in the same day I:

• Chew the Vitamin C from the kitchen counter that is, in fact, not at all chewable.
• Put the yogurt away long after breakfast. In the dry pantry.
• Assume my coffee cup is empty and casually carry it downstairs to the kitchen, only to discover it was not empty and I've left a trail of vanilla-hazelnut-carpet-stainyness down the ENTIRE F_CKING carpeted staircase.
• Lay down to empty the washing machine filter to see water rush out... and moments later feel my socks become saturated (5' away)... and THEN see that the laminate floor, wood trim, cable box, and associated power cords have been flooded with water.

Stop hatin'.
This can be yours one day, too.

Just hit yourself over the head a few times and piss the Universe off. Nothin' doin'.


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My Sleeping Child: For Baby D

My Sleeping Child

My sleeping child
My tired, sweet little baby

Asleep, so peacefully, breathing lightly on my chest
Sometimes restlessly until a few more rocks and whispery kisses put you at ease

My sleeping child
So full of life
Potential
Inner beauty
Outer beauty that I can't help but praise

Your little hands, flexing ever-so-slightly as we rock together
Your fingers, sometimes tickling my ribs and making me smile in the glow of the night light.

My sleeping child
Your quiet breathing so near to my heartbeat
Calms my soul
The most quiet, soothing whisper in the dark of night
I have to resist kissing your sweet little face awake

My sleeping child
The reason I am on this earth
My reason for being
Your sweetness and innocence filling my heart with overwhelming joy



My sleeping child
So perfect
So darling
So free of doubt, guilt, shame, sadness

My sleeping child
How I hope you will grow to know how loved you are
By Mommy
and Daddy
and every other family member who knows you and sees the wonderful girl you are

My sleeping child
How I promise to be the best parent I can be
To learn as you learn
To strive for patience and calmness
To guide you gently and with understanding and love

My sleeping child, rest well
Dream of colours and smiles and love and yummy milkies
Of doggies and kisses and snuggles and naked bum time

My sleeping child
How I love you so



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I Should Be Sleeping...

I am tired. Ever-so-tired.

Yet I am awake, and debating whether or not to finish this glass of red wine.

It came from a box.

I'm a classy   ho   woman.

You guys have NO IDEA how many blog posts I have written in my head as I have been trying to sleep. Or not sleeping. Or nearing sleep. Or feeding the baby with my ever-deflating boobs.

Yet I never seem to make it here to publish ANY OF THAT GENIUS content.

Things like my dog randomly shitting on the floor. My child randomly puking on my chest. My husband randomly getting me pregnant again.

Hahaha, just kidding, that last one is disgusting. And also untrue.

I seem to be living in a world where meals are luxury and taking a poop is only negotiable depending on the mood of the kid.

Don't get me wrong, lil blue eyes here is totally worth it. It's just an adjustment. And I may have been selfish and selected this pic because I don't look horrid in it. She is adorable, if not startled a bit by the flash, lol.

And I have sort of turned into the mom-blog, much to my dismay, simply because that wasn't what I set out to do here (not that there is anything wrong with mom blogging, but my existing.. uh... customer base? Following? Mom and Dad who still read this? Probably aren't interested in my such mundane adventures.)

I feel like it would be really beneficial for me to get back to the what-the-f_ckery of my posts of days past. But time is at a serious mothers_cking premium, because I can never seem to get my shit together (or the laundry done, for that matter). All I can do is try, but I SUCK at follow through.

How was your Christmas?

I got a Keurig, and I am so happy that I will hopefully not make a shitty cup/pot of coffee again. My poor new mom friends have been subjected (more than once) to me losing count of the spoonfuls of coffee grinds in my old machine, to horrendous results.

Anyway, I hope to make it back more often, even if that means less sleep. I got a new fangled iPad mini for Christmas (total luxury splurge) and I hope to find a program where I can draw on it with a stylus (anyone know of such an app?). You will all be subjected to my shit animations, like this old classic.

Okay, so this post was about nothing, but I am interested to hear about your holidays. You know, if anyone else out there still reads me.

Happy Yule Logs, etc.


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Expectations: Dinner

I'd like to share how my expectations have evolved (devolved? disappeared?) over the past few years.

What I'd Expect Of A "Nice Dinner":

2010:

Perhaps a fancy restaurant by the water somewhere. Mood lighting that makes me look half do-able to the hubby (though, if you asked him, I'm sure sunlight, flourescent, candle, lamp, overhead ceiling fan, and flash lighting would all be acceptable on that front. He's easy to please, lol). A server who flings out the FABRIC napkin on one's lap (if the concept didn't creep me out and I didn't grab it lightning-ninja-fast-style and place it on my own lap first). At least a half bottle of wine to split, at the obscenely marked up price at whatever overpriced restaurant we were at for the special occasion. A starter salad, with difficult-to-pronounce fancy lettuces and stinky cheese. Gluten filled deliciousness for a main course (to be passed with tremendous bloating and gas the next day or two in private, at my leisure). The oft-disappointed, overly-inflated restaurant dessert (Horizons, I'm looking at you, $17 for a banana split? Fo rizzle?). Nicely, leisurely stretched out to fill the evening.


2013 (45 minutes ago):

A gluten-free microwaveable frozen dinner (We have too many friends and outings these days - no two day private farting opportunities any longer, nor the luxury of feeling like crap by choice when dealing with an infant all day and night long, every day), eaten by the dimmed light of the laptop, on the floor, beside my bed where a sleeping baby lies. Also? Eaten cold still (between dashes down to the kitchen to throw it in the microwave, and the return sprint upstairs to make sure said baby isn't smothering herself in the comforter, or rolling off the bed in her sleep), and eaten quickly, so she doesn't detect my absence and/or awaken prematurely from her nap.

Napkin? I don't need no stinkin' napkin. My shirt is a battleground of puke and BO, anyway.

Dessert? A gnawed off fingernail edge, as I lay beside her worrying about the messy house, the to-do list, and the frustration of not being able to nap beside her while my mind runs a mile a minute.

I still consider this a win, since I actually INGESTED dinner. And before 10pm at that. I'm practically Charlie Sheen winning ALL OVER THIS MAWFACKAH.

My, how times have changed!

Though, I still plan on having a honkin' glass of wine later on tonight. You betchur ass I am.
____________________

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Starbucks Is Ridiculous

That's right, I said it.

Now wipe your non-fat, no-whip, no water, half caff latte foam off your nose and listen up.

I feel like such an utter idiot when I walk up to order coffee at Starbucks.

First of all, Y U NO HAVE NORMAL SIZES STARBUCKS!?

Y U MAKE ME FEEL DUMB?!?

I know it's supposed to be like an authentic cafe experience, with the barista and fancy Italian-ish names, but, let's be honest here, you started in Seattle.

And the worst part is that when I just ask for "the smallest size" or "a medium", the barista almost ALWAYS shoots back some foreign-ish, totally meaningless word back at me. I glaze over, much like a terrified deer in headlights. I usually explain at this point that, well, I'm not sure. Which cup is that?

*DERP*.

I can already hear the snickers of the seasoned coffee-goers behind me in line. It's like I'm wearing a neon sign labelling myself "STARBUCKS NEWBIE. BE GENTLE."

I ask to see if I can get something without milk (since I am currently off of dairy for the baby, and her rapidly pooping bum). "Can I get it with soy milk, though?" I ask, fearing the barista may lean over and slap my foul mouth for requesting such an atrocity.

Instead, she gives me a smile that says "Oh, you pathetic little soul, OBVIOUSLY you can. You PAY for crazy requests here. It makes you feel special!"

I'm not sure... do they only have one kind of coffee? Is there decaf drip coffee, for us elderly fogies who shouldn't consume caffeine after 3pm if we want to have any hope in hell of sleeping? (The answer to that around these parts of BC is that, no, they DON'T have decaf coffee which is weird. Decaf Americanos are always offered instead, at a higher price. They are watered down decaf espresso and I personally think they taste like poo, and I'd rather lick my dog's butt. Probably).

Anyway, if I have to drink the caffeine, I want a nice dark roast. I always ask "Do you have a dark roast?" and I never get an answer, just that weird, knowing barista smile again. It almost feels like I ask about 6 questions at the register, yet leave even more confused than when I came in.

Hmph.

So, I finally figure out the puzzle, (Not really, but I order SOME type of hot beverage [I assume]) and ask for hot water in a cup to warm up Baby D's milkies.

We sit. I warm. She eats. I drink my coffee.

And I listen to the throng of people coming through. And here is where it gets even more odd.

I listen to people bark out orders like the barista is THEIR BITCH. I mean, total cool ignorance, haughty even. I've never ever heard more complex beverage orders in my life. And EXPENSIVE ones at that!

One lady ordered herself a tea (I think) that consisted of about 6 special thingies, and the two small children she was with got some soy hot chocolate specialty drinks. They were very young. And her order was over $13. SAY WHAT?! I'm pretty sure she ordered something chai, with no water, with extra foam, with possibly the tears of an angel mixed with a smattering of sugar-free methadone. Something like that.

I told the Hubs that Baby D gets no-name brand hot chocolate out of a packet when she's older, and she's gonna love it. F_ck this $6 hot chocolate bizznazz. You know the kids will have that liquid gold spilled before they even get to the car.

Another lady bought 8 vanilla bean scones. I'm pretty sure she had to take out a second mortgage on her home.

But yeah... so after this weird social observation, I came home and relayed it to the Hubs. He was equally perplexed at the complexity of some of the drinks I spoke of.

Fast forward two days, and we walked down to the Starbucks not too far from our house. I run through my gamut of confused-question asking clarifications.

"Can I please get a caramel brulee latte please?" (Already I feel pretentious, those are fancy-soundin' words, y'all).

I also say it with a lilt in my voice in case I am pronouncing it wrong.

"In the largest size, please?"

She replies "Venti?"
I shrug and nod.

"But could I please get it with soy milk instead of regular milk? I can't have dairy."
"Oh and would it be possible to just get it half decaf stuff? And half regular?"

She says some words that don't make sense.
I nod again.

"Half sweet?" She says.
What?
Who me?
Huh?

"Did you want it half sweet, too, or just half caf?"

I explain I didn't even know half-sweet was an option, but no, thanks, I want full sweet. This ass doesn't keep its commanding size with half-sweet. Word.

Then she asked if whip was "still okay?". I had to pause and think for a moment. Whip... hmm... are we talking like some kinky sexual coffee stuff? I drag my mind out of the gutter (albeit briefly) and realize she PROBABLY means whipped cream. Unless she winks at me.

I wait a moment. No wink.
Whipped cream it is.

I clarify that I can't have that either.

I FINALLY get my drink. Don't even get me started on how many cup lids I have to try and fail at before I finally find the one that fits my cup.

I go back outside and reunite with the Hubs and the dog (baby's been on my chest and embarrassed at my lack of Starbucks-lingo skills all along).

He asks me what I got. I stop myself from rambling through my entire series of questions... and then I realize I am just as bad as everyone else. I have BECOME ONE OF THEM.

Carefully, I explain that I ordered:

"A half caff, venti caramel brulee latte, no dairy, soy milk, no whip."

The Hubs smirks.

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Is There A Failing Olympics?

I know we've already discussed my efficiency and mastering of napping. Well, at least the old me.

But I have another issue on my mind. Is there a failing Olympics?

A real, true, gathering of the failing minds and bodies of all of us souls out in the world who seem to suck at all they do?

Because, I hate to say it again and rub your noses in it... but... I'd OWN that shit.

My newest (and wonderful) Mommy friends (who may or may not read this) seem to have it together. And while we talk about this and they do explain that isn't the case, I still feel like what the f_ck is wrong with me?!?

I don't make my hubby dinner.
Like... ever.

I got all nesty and tried a few recipes back in mid-pregnancy. I gave the poor bastard hope. Then dashed it all every day since then.

I don't even grocery shop any more. I am always with the kiddo. I have started to sort of accomplish laundry (two full flights of stairs while putting the baby somewhere away from my nutty dogs). You know, if carrying the hamper downstairs counts for one day. And maybe sorting it on the basement floor two days later. And then MAYBE remembering to put a load in the washing machine a day or two after that. And it's a damn miracle if I switch that sweet load over into the dryer on the same day. (hehehe "sweet load" made me giggle.)

Actually returning it upstairs and folding it is just going to cause me a panic attack, so let's just say laundry takes about a week to get done. I'm pretty sure we have lots of floor space in our bedroom for the sole purpose of clean laundry storage. Right? Uh.. yeah.

So, yeah, I'm a domestic hero/goddess. OBVIOUSLY.

But my friends... my friends bake cookies. And homemade numminess. And large family dinners. And they knit and/or sew and/or crochet and/or win at life. And they go to the store. And they shop for things. And drive places without (I assume) having a scream-filled SUV of unhappy teething baby misery.

I bought a cross-stitch starter kit geared to eight year olds to bring to our Mommy crafts day tomorrow. (Shut up, don't judge, that frog will GLOW IN THE MOTHERF_CKING DARK, YO). These ladies can sew gorgeous blankets and I have a sneaking suspicion that this frog is going to own me and I will throw it out before the afternoon is done. You know, assuming all goes well.

I know I'm too hard on myself. I just thought this life-is-crazy-there-is-no-order business was supposed to end after the insane newborn stage. But we didn't get that memo, me and Baby D (name withheld).

Other moms apply nicely done make-up. They dry their hair and their babies don't seem to want to rip it out like mine ALWAYS does. They look FANTASTIC and rock bikinis to mom and baby swimming (which they damn well should! Good for them!). They don't seem chained to their nurseries like I do. They vacuum. They might even DUST. (I heard that's a thing?)

And you know what? They don't seem to judge me. They don't say "wow, you really DO suck!". They encourage and laugh alongside and speculate that things will get easier for me and it will happen. I need to stop being so mean to myself. Ah well.


I'm just always so serious.

Ooooh oooh eeee eeeee aaaah aaaah aaaah. You going to eat that flea or shall I help myself?

Clearly.

What do the people around you do that make you doubt your fit-ness for things? What event would you win gold at in the FAIL Olympics?

_________

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Insomnia Breeds Insomnia

In the days of my youth, had there been a napping Olympics, I'd have owned that shit hands down. I mean, epic levels of Michael Phelps gold-age. A 20 minute nap was a joke; you'd best give me a minimum of three hours or I could possibly throat punch you.

Ah, the good ole days.

The days of yore.

The days I could sleep.

Now, you all know I am a new mom. But this seems to be entirely independent of that.

Kiddo is sleeping and here I sit. Awake. Staring at the ceiling.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm almost always on my side or my tummy, so it's usually staring at the wall or the goddamn mocking/glaring numbers on the alarm clock.

Deep breathing just makes me dizzy.
I can't keep my mind focused enough to count down from 500.
If I count sheep, I inevitably start thinking about farms and factory farming and vegetarianism and blah blah blah.

Progressive muscle relaxation almost always leaves me with a kink in my neck, or the need to get up and stretch.

I really, REALLY suck at putting myself to bed.

.... and "if the baby doesn't need to eat for another ____ hours"

I do a list of things I need to get done the next day, then toss in the stress of knowing that I won't remember what those tasks are, and that even if I *do* remember, I probably won't have the time/energy/fortitude to get.that.shit.done.

And on the nights when I have the luxury of a dinner out, you bet your ass I am taking in a fountain Coke or Pepsi, and making good use of a free refill policy. You know, because I heard that copious amounts of caffeinated sugar do a body good.

Amirite?

So. Here I sit at 2am. My uterus hurts. My body is tired. My mind won't shut the f_ck up.

I suppose I will take comfort in the fact that I've managed to purchase a Halloween costume, lumbar pillow, Christmas present, milk cooler bag and cell phone cover online today. That is some type of lame ass accomplishment, right? (Hubby - if you are reading this, no, I have no idea what those charges are from ebay and that deal site. Nope. No idea. Carry on as you were).

How do you fall asleep when your mind is as active as Miley Cyrus' butt?

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That Moment: Feta

That moment when you are eating pizza, you look down and see some crumbled feta that you pop into your mouth... only to quickly discover it is, in fact, a chunk of your strawberry scented Lady Speed Stick deodorant.

Clutch.


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My Baby, The Dictator

It's true.

She rules with a teeny, tiny iron fist.

There is no negotiating with her, no reasoning - her word is the final word. Er... well, rather her coos, cries and screams are the final coos, cries and screams.

Pleading is futile. Begging will get you nowhere.
Fast.

She is drunk on power. (Technically "power" means "breast milk" in this instance)

She came into her powerful role by means of excessive force and violence (via my... well, you know).

Just stare into her fierce blue eyes and dare not bow down to her adorableness.

She mocks you by sticking out her tongue.

You are welcome.

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Holy Hell

There have been so many times I would like to blog, but things like keeping this tiny little human alive, fed, comforted and safe got in the way.

Dang responsibilities.

Haha, just kidding, motherhood is awesome.

Some things I've learned in the last 12 weeks:

- Water can, and does, feel like cutting razorblades on sensitive nipples. Either that, or the Hubs installed a Ginsu showerhead one of the times I was hospitalized.
- Yea, ONE of the times. I didn't realize that labour for me would mean SO MANY INFECTIONS post partum. And multiple hospital stays.
- I hate my OB. She sucks and let me go on with a bad urinary tract infection for TWO MONTHS that is now making me incredibly sick as I start antibiotics. AGAIN.
- Caffeine does get into breastmilk. And a baby who only power naps for 10 minutes is loveable, but exhausting for Mamma.
- I've only lost about 25 lbs of my 55+ pregnancy weight gain. I am the antithesis of sexy.
- This kid's current life goal is to rip out every last hair from my scalp. EVERY.LAST.HAIR. Motherhood has been comprised of constantly wet hair up in elastics, to save that painful tug. Man it hurts.
- I have the capacity to love more intensely, fiercely and unselfishly than I EVER thought possible. I would die for my little monkey if she needed me to. After I ripped the face off of whatever the threat was.

Out in BC you have to watch out for bears. But beware the even deadlier, more insane MAMMA BEAR. I'll f*ck you up.

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My Labour Story: Part Three... Phantom of The Opera Style

So they had the anesthesiologist come upstairs to poke a huge needle into my spine for the epidural. (I KNOW, right? Labour is so effing comfortable and AWESOME!). He kind of looked like Live Schrieber as he punctured my skin.

My first tip to a labouring woman: Ankle socks are the dumbest f_cking idea EVER, if you can only limply/minimally slide your leg(s) along bunched up sheets in bed. They WILL.NOT.STAY. And it will annoy the hell out of you!

Okay, so... antibiotic drip? Check.
Oxytocin to start whacked out contractions by 10am? Check
Epidural and delicious pain medicine to maintain  recover  create  sort of keep sanity? Che-- oh... wait a second...

Now they give you info sheets telling of the risks of an epidural during labour. They tell you every possible scenario as a just-in-case thing. I read that sometimes the medication can be patchy or lopsided. For me, that meant that ONLY MY RIGHT SIDE WAS FROZEN, people.

My left side didn't want to miss out on the party, so it decided to give a middle finger to the pain managing drugs, and allow me to continue to feel, ache and Charleston kick through the labour pains.

I think my first labour nurse (who was wearing PERFUME for eff's sake) didn't believe that I could feel my left side. Like this baby was just an elaborate ploy to get increase after increase of pain medicine. I can, however, confirm that lefty was totally moveable, usesable and ALIVE with feeling.

They would run ice up me to see where I could feel to. And that would be everywhere, thanks for asking. Then I would be given a suspicious glare. *sigh*

After trying to lay on the left side, and the nurses telling me conflicting info, and no numbness coming, Dr. Leiv Schrieber had to come back. He had to adjust the hole in my back to "redirect" the needle. Like it took a left turn at Albuquerque.

This wonderful adjustment essentially included a free partial back wax, as the adhesive dressings that covered half of my back were peeled off and re-applied. I was picking gummy adhesive boogers off my back for two weeks. (You know, in addition to the regular boogers that build up there and need removing).

From here on out there were hours of awkward small talk with my not-authentic first labour nurse. The hubs left at some point to let the dogs out and gather NORMAL GODDAMN SOCKS for me. My slide-y right leg was pissing me off because I could still feel that my sock was only half on. For some reason, he returned, which worked out well for me and the baby. It was his chance to bail. Ha.

I kind of consider myself a hero, in that I had enough feeling to tell the nurse when I needed to pee, and I could do it without a catheter. However, that being said, I had to do it on a bed pan because of righty, and had to be sprayed down with water and wiped by the nurse. It was both an amusingly proud moment, as well as a nice preview to my future days in the nursing home once this baby ships me off and out of her life. (I assume).

By the time afternoon had rolled around, I was in PAIN on lefty. It hurt. Holy hell, mad props to women who labour for hours with oxytocin and don't get an epidural. MAD PROPS.

There was one stretchy elasticized band that held a monitor that tracked baby's heart rate, and another that tracked mine. I think Satan himself was the architect of those bands because they were so goddamn itchy and scratchy that I could barely take it by the 23 hour mark. No, not the 2 to 3 hour mark, the 23 hour mark. Added to the comfort was that conductive gel they use that kept drying out and getting re-applied. Oh it was so nasty. I think I wore down my fingernails from all the scratching.



I just realized it looks like I'm giving you the finger.

I was given a pain pump, where I could push a little button to get a boost of pain meds. By the early evening, it was doing NOTHING for me. If I pushed it too early (before 15 minutes) it would do nothing, and I would feel unhealthily and incredibly sad and disappointed.

The shift changed at 7pm, I think, and I got the most amazing, fantastic, wonderful labour nurse at Royal Columbian Hospital, named Alice. She was so genuine, so efficient, warm and wonderful. Her and the Hubs kept me going through it all. I feel totally and completely grateful that she was my nurse. I need to find out her last name and get her a nice card and gift. She was so so so awesome.

She encouraged me to breathe through the contractions, and I have to admit I was a f_cking rock star when it came to that. Through the tears and the spitting up, I did it, and it really does help. All those years of yoga paid off for the breathing part, anyway. Not so much for the acrobatics later when delivering. I found the "crouching mama, hidden baby" position to not feel all that serene.

I couldn't eat. Could only take small sips of water, and I had a few Jolly Rancher candies over those 23.5 hours. I was tired. And I was dilating, but baby's head was facing the wrong way. I don't know which way that was, but she was twisted a bit... when I did start to push, it would start to turn the right way, then she would shoot back up my hoo-ha, to the safety of her placenta sleeping bag, rendering my pushing useless.

So the pushing did begin around 11pm.

In the prenatal video I watched, they said the only thing NOT to do during delivery is to hold your breath and push really hard during a contraction, because it can hurt ya.

Unfortunately, that's how they roll at RCH, so with every contraction, I had to take a deep breath, put my chin to my chest, and bear down with enough force to vaginally lift an imaginary tanker truck off a puppy (the puppy was real, though. Probably). THREE TIMES for every contraction. THREE M-EFFING TIMES.

The amount of energy required to do that was incredible. They said that it usually takes a first time mom an hour or two of pushing to get baby out. And for me, the doc checked and had me keep going after the first hour.

And the second hour.

And I was tired. And her head was still turned.

And then still at 2.5 hours (because I was "soo close").

And still, more, at the 3 hour mark.

I used a labour bar, holding my legs up in the air at the thighs. I sat on the bed, on a stool, balanced on the labour bar pushing. I flipped onto all fours and pushed backwards. I pushed and pushed and pushed. As far we know, I never pooped the entire time. YAY ME! The benefits of crippling pregnancy constipation couldn't even be ruffled by three hours of puppy lifting pushing!

And, still pushing at 3.5 hours.

And then shit went wrong. And the Hubs could see and I didn't realize it.

To be continued...

_________

 

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