Tag Archives: Post partum

Worry

Posted on March 3, 2013 | 29 comments

I was worried. About vaginas? Well, no, actually. I haven’t worried about vaginas in ages. Not since Eve Ensler’s Vagina Monologues told me in the late 90’s that they come in every shape and size and color. Participating in V-Day for years has helped me to believe that someday we will live in a world that is not so rife with violence against women and girls. So, I wasn’t really worried, not about vaginas. Not yesterday.

I had plans to see UNC’s production of The Vagina Monologues with some friends. It was Natalie’s birthday. She had sent out an email to a bunch of girls “Let’s go see The Vagina Monologues for my birthday!” I cautiously suggested we see the matinee. Groups of girls don’t go out for drinks and birthday shenanigans at 2:30. But… I have this baby, see? I know, I know, she is more than 13 months old. But… bedtime. I can’t, I won’t be out at bedtime. I just… can’t. And they said “Sure.”

I had more than a month to think about it. I was excited.

The Vagina Monologues changed me. My first year in the OBX production I wore a black pants suit and a bra, no shirt, I was the Woman Who Liked to Make Vaginas Happy, the Moaner. I drank wine after the show and laughed with my new girlfriends. I hadn’t ever been a part of a big group of women. I have been lucky in life to have always had a best friend, a sidekick, a confidante. But a tribe of women? I’d never felt that way before. And it was fabulous.

In the years to come I would have different parts, I would wear pigtails and slouchy gaucho pants to mask my newly postpartum body. I would sport electric blue hair to distract you from my sunken eyes from lack of sleep. I would skip out on the wine because I feared the things I might say. I would mumble to no one really in the middle of a rehearsal “I don’t think I want to be married anymore.”

The Vagina Monologues, these stories of women, they inspired me. They moved me. They taught me that women are all the same. I had always felt like an odd duck. I was “one of the boys.” Standing on stage with a group of women I’d only known a short while I was one of a group. I was part of a tribe.

And then I had a baby. And I got stronger every day. A little over a year after Em was born I was in a rehearsal for The Vagina Monologues when I said out loud for the first time that I would be leaving my husband because it wasn’t working. No one pitied me. No one made the “I’m so sorry” face. One woman said “Good for you. There’s happiness out there for you” and I believed her. It was ten months before I moved out but I started getting ready to go that day.

She was right. Happiness. It was out there. I am Happy. Most of the time. Unless I am trying to get dressed. Unless I am leaving the house all alone without my kids for three hours. And then those old feelings of being the odd duck creep back in. And I am in tears in my closet, surrounded by clothes that don’t fit right. I was planning to meet my girlfriends to celebrate being a woman and I was sobbing because I am thirteen months post-partum and I still feel like I live in someone else’s body. We would be heading to UNC’s campus to surround ourselves with 20-somethings spreading a positive message and I was crying because my jeans are still too tight. I could see the irony. I just didn’t find it all that amusing.

I changed my jeans. I swore. I put on make-up and then washed it all off. I picked a zit, I picked a fight. I cried some more. I said I wasn’t going. I said I had to leave right now. And then I got in the car and I went. It was important.

I would paste my Pretty Kelly smile on my face and I would say “Happy Birthday, Natalie” and it would be fine. I would introduce myself to someone I didn’t know and I would try not to talk about my kids at all. I would just be me.

I opened Nat’s front door and steeled myself. Game face. I don’t know who I was expecting to see. But I know I wasn’t expecting to only see people that I knew. I made it exactly four steps in the front door before I burst in to tears. “I was afraid one of you would ask me why I was crying and I would have to be that crazy woman in front of someone I just met and say ‘Oh, because I get mad anxiety every time I leave my THIRTEEN MONTH old baby and I can’t get dressed and…'”

There they were. Four women. A friend I have known since high school, a friend with two small children, a friend who has seen me at my lowest and a newer friend that understands more than her fair share about body image bullshit. I spilled my big, bad ugly “I have my period and everyone hates me” guts and in moments it was over. We laughed about how I was afraid to be “that crazy woman” in front of strangers, you know, strangers not on the Internet.

The longer I stay at home the harder it is for me to go out. What will I say? Where will I park? What will I wear? What if someone asks me what I do? What if I start crying? Or I have a glass and a half of wine and am plastered because that’s all it takes?

I feel like if you prick me with a pin I will explode.

Eve Ensler taught me that there are 8,000 nerve endings in the clitoris. Sadly, it isn’t any of those that are making me weep with confusion and joy and fear and excitement lately. I am not sure where exactly the nerve endings are that make you lose your shit in your closet while you get dressed. Or panic because you don’t know where you are supposed to park when you get where you are going. But I think I have at least 8,000 of those, too.

I will keep going, out of my house, away from my kids. I will go even when and especially when I don’t want to and think that I will not possibly survive the torture. Every time I leave the house there’s a good chance I will stand in front of a woman that has felt exactly like me, at least once. Because we are all the same, all of us, at least sometimes.

29 Comments

Posted in Bad Mood, Family, Nonsense, Parenting, Pregnancy

Tagged hormones, motherhood, opinion, Post partum, Pregnancy, tanturm, V-Day, Vagina Monologues, women

Wellness

Posted on February 24, 2012 | 2 comments

Everyone tells a new mother “Make sure to take time for you!” and “Take care of yourself, you can’t take care of your family if you are not taking care of you.” And unlike so much of what “everyone” tells you, it’s not bullshit. So this go round, I am doing the very best I can to do just that.

Yesterday was a damn near perfect day. I had my second post-partum trip to the chiropractor. One more and I am cleared for take off. It is hard to believe it was only a year ago I drank the Kool-Aid but I am convinced that my chiropractic care is somewhat to credit for my bouncing back so quickly after this labor and delivery.

In the same building, I had the pleasure of participating in my very first activity that starts with the words “Mommy &.” And believe it or not, after I got past the initial “I can’t fucking believe I am doing this” feeling it was wonderful.

Mommy & Me Yoga. Check that off the bucket list. I had this idea that somehow it would be guided rolling around the floor with my youngin’ which I had trouble wrapping my mind around. Around the why you’d need someone to show you how to do that and how I was going to get through it without peeing in my pants (not from lack of Kegel exercises during and post pregnancy, but from hysterics.)

Turns out Mommy & Me Yoga is regular yoga where your baby can loll around on a blanket (hopefully sleeping) and if they should wake you can pop out a boob in child’s pose or do the Mommy sway in the back of a room and no one will give you the glare. The glare that says “really, a baby? A baby? How dare you bring a BABY here!?”

There is one more thing a new mother needs to do. “Get out of your house!” the well meaning advice givers say. This is easier said than done for some, but I don’t have any trouble getting out. I was, after all, at work seven days after Lucy was born. But I was out of the house twice this week, socially. Much harder for me. I had lunch with an old friend one day this week. Not a huge accomplishment for some, but slightly more cause for celebration because I initiated this meet up. And the second time? With a new friend.

It makes me nervous to say that. A new friend. You may recall that I sought acupuncture treatment towards the very end of my pregnancy. I have since been back twice. Because I really like the practitioner. She’s neat. And cool. In that “I wonder if I am cool enough to kick it with this girl” way. Can women that have TWO kids even “kick it” at all?

I did the hard thing. The hard thing that frequently eludes me. That I had dared myself to do in November in this upcoming year. I stuck my neck out and tried to make a friend. Making friends is awkward under normal circumstances, but when you have bullshitted with a gal a handful of times and at the end you hand them your Visa card it is especially daunting to say “So, I was thinking maybe we could hang out, and maybe I’d not pay you. Whatcha think?” But I did it. And it paid off.

I had the last of my pre-paid sessions yesterday. And I am certain I will see her when she gets back from her trip to Austin. Because she likes me, too, guys. Even though I have TWO kids and am rapidly heading towards having NO job. And get this. She has ZERO kids. Like maybe we could talk about something besides breeding. Or breastfeeding or how much sleep we got. There is a place for all that. A huge place. I did just finish mentioning that I secretly LOVED Mommy & Me Yoga afterall… but music and tattoos and books and funny stories from your twenties, this is some good shit that deserves some attention, too.

Quite a few of my friends, friends that have known me since Emily was little and before, have recently sent me an email or a text message along a common theme. “How are you doing? Really?” And to each of them I have said the same thing, “I’m good, I think. I feel really good.”

I am typing this in my “running” clothes. Clothes that will really be walking with a VERY tiny bit of jogging clothes until I have had one more visit with the chiropractor and am closer to six weeks postpartum. It isn’t noteworthy that I am writing and wearing pants with a forgiving waist band. But these clothes are already sweaty. (Tell me that is not gross? I wear exercise clothes more than once unless I wear them to a Bikram Yoga class. I don’t really care if I already smell if I am heading out the door to sweat.)

Day one of a 5K training program was completed day before yesterday. And I am headed out the door to do day two as soon as I hit Publish.

So, to answer the question, how am I doing, really? Awesome. Really, really good. I am taking care of myself. And I drank a Heineken while I cleaned out the fridge after Em told me she did not have a boyfriend. Yet. I got this. It’s gonna be cool.

2 Comments

Posted in Exercise, Parenting, Pregnancy

Tagged acupuncture, kegel exercises, labor and delivery, new mother, Post partum, postpartum, wellness, Yoga

Marital Relations in Three Easy Steps

Posted on February 14, 2012 | 22 comments

Jeans come in a lot of varieties. Unfortunately for me the only pairs of mine that fit in a manner that will allow for me to both stand up and sit down were first trimester maternity jeans. Their elastic waist band and relative stretchiness are fantastic for the gal that is not interested in wearing them ten days in a row. By mid afternoon I can’t keep them up and nothing says “these pants don’t really fit me” like constantly tugging at them. I can forget all about the second day. And by day three? They are like clown pants by then.

So, I was left with two options. Squeeze in to my pre-pregnancy “fat jeans” (the jeans I wear right before I get my period, to events that require heavy eating or when I am planning on napping in my clothes) or buy a new pair in a larger size than I care to admit.

I chose option two. I’d rather wear large, unattractive jeans than feel like a sausage. The dreaded Mom jean, capable of making your perfectly round ass look completely flat or the “boyfriend jean” a fancy way to say completely unflattering on everyone that is not 85 pounds or has any hips whatsofuckingever were on sale the day that I decided I’d take the plunge. I was not, I repeat, not paying full price for jeans I only planned on wearing for a short time.

The Mom Jeans won. I thought I’d be fine. So what if they made my ass look like the broad side of a truck? Stacy London has informed me that Lee Riders will be instantly slimming, and that it will be “easy to look and feel my best.” And they’re cheap. Less than twenty bucks cheap.

Four days. My Lee Riders and their slimming tummy control. We made it for four days before I decided that when you have no abs whatsoever and you wear a nursing bra or a shelf bra tank top that smashes your girls in to pancakes, albeit gigantic pancakes that give you armpit boob and cleavage all at once it is not wise to wear jeans that come up to said armpits and completely disguise your ass. My ass is is the only place that twenty extra pounds comes in handy. What was I thinking? I needed ass-friendly cheap jeans. STAT.

Old Navy coupon – you and me. It was on. It took six pairs of jeans. One friend. One dressing room. Zero cocktails or tears. And The Diva Skinny Jeans and I have made friends. I intend to wear them every day for at least the next month. And at thirty bucks that is still only a dollar a day.

And when you have two more weeks before you get, ahem, back in the saddle (post partum six week check up and a brand new IUD on February 28th, hollaaa! Leap year will be memorable this year!) it is important to start early. Prepping yourself mentally. For the Big Event known as “resuming marital relations.”

Here’s my guide. Three easy steps.

Step 1. Get a pair of jeans that make you feel like a girl. A regular, good looking, “might some day retire the ginormous full coverage cotton panties in favor of the fancy grown up lady knickers” girl.

Step 2. Start trying to be less critical. See yourself as others see you. Not as your slightly Body Dysmorphic Disorder-ish self views you. Step 2 is easy if you have a little loverboy living across the street. This weekend Em’s buddy, Kellan, breezed through the living room and stopped dead in his tracks. “HOW DID YOU GET SO SKINNY SO FAST??” and he hugged me. He said I was cute. He’s six. But I don’t care. I told MQD if he ever comes home to a Dear John letter explaining that I need to feel beautiful, go find Kellan. I’ll be with him.

*source unknown

Step 3. Make peace with the “tiger stripes.” Last week MQD sent me this image. He had seen it on a clever how to be a good dad blog. I’ve since seen it in several places around the internetz. It would be a hell of a lot easier to make friends with my “tiger stripes” if I had abs of ummm… not even steel. What is a slightly less strong metal? Abs of brass? Shit, I’d settle for abs of cottage cheese if I could just have a visible waist. I digress.

Step 3 ain’t easy. But then neither is pimpin’. And neither is just getting the fuck over yourself I have discovered. But it seems the most direct path towards acceptance for me is to spill it. The truth. My big deep, dark secrets spilled out in front of everyone. A couple of weeks ago I posted a picture of my post-partum self. I received a lot of kind comments and emails. But it still sucked.
And it still sucks today. But I am making progress. Because if I have to be totally honest with myself I am more inclined to want to photoshop out the toothpaste on my bathroom mirror than the armpit boob or the stretch marks. Now I can’t guarantee that is forward progress. But it has to count for something.