Confessions of a Maven


Good Monday morning from deep in the trenches of new motherhood. I'm currently typing at a snail's pace in one-handed fashion. The good news is that the fingers on my right hand are looking pretty buff lately. Not Speedo buff, but definitely presentable in some finger swimming trunks. If only the rest of my body would follow suit.

While visiting the in-laws this weekend I bravely stepped upon the evil scale and decided to make peace with wherever the needle landed at two weeks postpartum. It's not going to be pretty, right? That's an established fact for anyone but the truly metabolically blessed.

Lo and behold, I am only six pounds above my pre-Spawnling weight. There is a God and she surely is a woman who has given birth and glared at the smiley-happy chicks in the Jenny Craig commercials, too. I don't know exactly how much weight I gained in the pregnancy, but a ballpark figure would be 25lbs. Well, 15 of that left my body in the form of screaming Maven spawn, his pod and the water (acid? sacrificial virgin blood?) contained within. Another few pounds in water weight and I'm now left with the remaining donuts, er, pounds that I put on.

This would be a joyous occasion if I had been at or very near my ideal weight prior to this pregnancy. I'd be jumping up and down in celebration, climbing into my size 8 jeans and drinking some spinach juice. However, to give you an idea of how far away I am from the mythical 'ideal weight' I present you with the following visual: Paint '133 to 153' on a large bristol board and put it inside the Space Shuttle. Watch as the Shuttle blasts off into the atmosphere and heads toward the International Space Station. Have an astronaut open the board up and stick it one of the station's windows. Make sure they call me and mockingly ask when I plan on getting to my ideal weight.

I'm about that close to my idea weight right now. So these magical six cookies, uh, pounds aren't quite as impressive as they used to be.

Now that I've said all that, I should also mention that I'm far beyond caring about how big I am. I used to cry over it, hate my body, refuse to wear a swimsuit in public and all the other things that typical North American women do when they don't look like Evangeline Lilly. About three years ago, I got very tired of attempting to attain the unattainable (definition of 'unattainable': having to spend most of my day at the gym and eating nothing but twigs and leaves most of the time). I started focusing on health and started power walking, then running. I added in strength training and yoga. Before I knew it, I had dropped a fair amount of weight - although nowhere near the 'ideal' - and felt amazing. My blood pressure and heartrate went down, my energy levels went up. Suddenly the only thing that mattered was my health.

Then I got knocked up again and rekindled my love affair with Wendy's. It was worth every damn minute, let me tell you.

And here I am, six pounds heavier and a cute little baby. I think it was worth it. Once I'm fully healed I'll be jumping back on Ye Olde Treddmille and buying a sexy jogging stroller in the Spring (yes, strollers can be sexy. Anything can be seen as sexy after three kids because one's standards drop dramatically). I'm bound to lose some weight, but more importantly I'm going to get my sweet muscles back. Then Typing Hand won't feel like he's the only one putting any effort in these days.

I'm going through pictures from this weekend and will post a few after I edit them and throw them up on Flickr. Ciao.

I love it when you call me Big Poppa

Biggie Smalls, AKA Spawnling, weighed in at a presentable 10lbs 15oz at his two week appointment (his first doctor's visit since we came home from l'hopitale) . He's a healthy, sturdy little demon and requires no more visits for another six weeks. His head measures 38.5cm and he's 54cm long, I think. I can't quite remember. Chalk it up to him being a third baby, the poor thing. So he's chubby and has a big head, but tall he is not. Who says they don't take after me?

My aunt came over this morning and cleaned nearly all the first floor. I forgot she was coming up until she called and left a message yesterday evening, so I didn't even get a chance to pre-clean.

What's pre-cleaning? That's when you tidy up so people can come over and, um, tidy up. I've never had someone come clean my house professionally, but I have a strong suspicion I'd be one of those useless customers who cleans their own home so as not to be embarrassed when the cleaner comes over. Neurotic? Yes, a little.

Ok, a lot.

Tonight I am bunting bag hunting. All winter babies should be birthed with bunting bags, as far as I'm concerned. They make the average snowsuit completely obsolete. Why wrestle with getting Spawnling in and out of a bulky thing with arm and leg holes when I can just zip and unzip him right into the carseat? Simplicity is good for the slow of mind. And my oh my, am I slow of mind lately (well, all the time, but especially lately).

Later, if he behaves himself, we'll be crashing the 12 step meeting again. This is all while Geekster takes the other two gremlins to a Hallowe'en party at Intrepid's school. I'd go along, but I don't think Spawnling needs to be around 400 kids and their parents in a germ-infested gym right now. I know he's breastfed and all, but he can only get coughed on so many times before the cesspool claims another victim.

Then, we all get to crawl back into the house exhausted and pack for an overnight trip to the in-laws'! No, nobody insisted we go visit. In fact, we all figured we wouldn't make the drive until well into November. But, you see, it was my idea. I think I'm addicted to chaos and have felt a little let down in that department since Spawnling's arrival. I was hoping for so much more mayhem, you know? So I've had to make some up; there's no way to cure peace and quiet like a three hour long drive with three kids! I give myself a big pat on the back. Nobody drives me crazy like me does.

Well, I should probably help Intrepid put his zombie costume together. Yes, thats' right: we haven't actually made his costume yet. It's a zombie, damnit. How hard can it be? Take some old clothing, rip it up a bit more, throw some face paint and stuff on him. Done. Lazy, bon-bon-eating new mothers know how this works. Trust in the force, Luke.

How hospitals help with adoption rates

I don't think it's intentional, but a great way to boost the amount of available babies out there is to kill off the birth mother. How do you do that? Serve them things like this.

Yeah. That was one of my hospital dinners. I tried to cut the meat to see if it was at all edible. The butter knife acted like it was on a trampoline and nearly bounced out of the hemosphere. That's when I gently put the lid back on before the beans attacked me.

Around 10pm I was fairly hungry. I asked one of the nurses if there was anywhere I could grab a bite to eat. She eagerly held a sleeping Spawnling while my stapled self waddled slowly and painfully to the elevators and headed to the 24 hour cafeteria. There wasn't much selection, but I grabbed a muffin, a decaf coffee and a ham, cheese and lettuce wrap. At least that's what the package said - I couldn't see the inside as it was entirely covered by the pita wrap.

When I went back upstairs, I settled into a chair with my baby, some pillows, a glass of water, my food and a magazine. It was about a 5 minute or so process, as movement was still fairly painful at that point. I started reading an interesting article, unwrapped my sandwich and took a big bite.

Then I spit out what I could into a napkin and opened up the sandwich for further investigation. This is what I saw.

Note how the lettuce has started its slow absorbtion into the ham, and how the other side of the ham has taken on a lovely greenish colour as a result. There was no sign of any cheese at first; upon closer inspection, the cheese had wormed its way into the pita, turning the inside into a slimy, whitish paste. Yum.

So, after gagging a bit and wondering if I was going to die a slow and painful bad pita sandwich death, I put the thing on the table next to me and washed the horrible taste down with some coffee. Then I noticed the smell. It was god awful, bad-food-from-the-depths-of-french-hospital-cafeteria-hell type stench. I wanted to eat my muffin, but even the gentle banana-nut aroma rising from within its baked goodness couldn't mask the putrid odor coming from the wrap. I had to get up - a great deal of work and pain - and throw the thing out. Not in my room, but in the bathroom off of my room, because it was that pungent.

Naturally, I also snapped a picture. Although there was no need, as I'm permanently scarred and the image of that awful sanwich is etched in my brain for all eternity.

In the morning, I had to hold my breath when I went to the bathroom. Despite it being in a trashcan with a lid, the damn thing still stank to high heaven. Gross.

***

Want to see what Spawnling is up to? This is him today. Oh, and this is him yesterday. And that is why I've been able to blog two days in a row. Thank you, Spawnling. We won't mention the amount of crying you did while your daddy and I watched House episodes last night, though.

***

And finally, a big happy birthday to The Madre!! My mother is 50 years old today. Donations to buy her one of those lifts that goes next to the stairs are always appreciated.

You may be wondering how a 50 year old woman ends up with three grandchildren. Simple: My mom had me just before her 20th birthday. Always wanting to follow in her footsteps, I had Intrepid just after my 20th. I had Gutsy at 26 and now Spawnling at 30. Glad I could age you prematurely, mom. That's how much I love you. See you at brunch in an hour! Please don't spit in my food. Not again...

Gorgeousness runs in my family



Unfortunately, while it graced a good portion of my relatives, it only bitchslapped me on the way out the door. Model material I am not, but I do have good lookin' children and a beautiful sister. She's as sweet on the inside as she is on the outside. And sorry to the many eligible bachelors who surely read my blog (you enjoy hearing about cervix effacement and breast engorgement, don't you?), but she's taken by a guy who reminds me of a much younger, Canadian Colin Firth.

Last night was rough. By 'rough', I mean I had to be up for about an hour from 3-4am to change two mustard-coloured diapers and calm a fussy baby. I also coughed out the rest of the phlegm (yum) that I had left over from my pre-Spawnling cold. Lying on my back for a day and a half really trapped the stuff in there. I wasn't even lying on my back for a fun reason, either.

Speaking of which, did you know that prostitutes now have their own websites? Ah, the internet: the great equalizer!

...

I bet you'd like to know how I came by this information. Well, it's Geekster's fault, but not in the way that immediately comes to mind when one thinks husbands and prostitutes.

In actuality he was at a McJunkles drive-thru and was handed a complimentary morning paper. I confiscated said paper that night while taking a bath and ended up reading some of the escort advertisements (it was hard not to, as there was about half a page dedicated to their 'services'). I was surprised to find that about 1/3 of them had their own webpages. Surely this couldn't be. Who in their right mind would advertise an illegal, local service so openly? That's like having an ad that says:

Steven "Cook It" Johnson, crack dealer
Great rates, honest service for over 10 years
Corner of Brooke and Sherwood
Cash only
www.crackinottawa.com


Well, didn't I jump (read: uncomfortably climb in my then pregnant state) out of the bath and run (read: inch slowly) downstairs to check out some of these sites. I got some interesting looks from Geekster until I explained to him what I was doing. It's not every day your nine month pregnant wife checks out websites advertising ladies of the night. However, he should expect these things by now. We have been together for 13 years.

I looked at about 7 or 8 before I came to the following conclusions:

1. Hookers really do advertise themselves online. Their websites range from Hot Dog Pro, do-it-yourself, nasty websites to full-out, professionally designed ones (I'd like to know how the web designers were paid. Hrm...)

2. Some of them come right out and say things like 'Don't you want my hot body? (click here for pics)', while others are more discreet, saying they're not implying any sexual services, only their 'company and time'. Uh-huh.

3. All of them post their hourly rates, which vary widely depending on their hotness level and, erm, experience.

4. Yes, virtually all of them have a photo gallery of nude or nearly nude, full body shots. What surprised me most was that they show their face. I guess that's an important selling point, but talk about being easily identified by law enforcement and angry spouses.

5. I found out what 'I don't speak Greek' means. I guess it's pretty obvious, but I just never clued in.

Anyway, very interesting stuff. Also, who knew you could get paid $300/hr? Apparently I picked the wrong career.

***

I should probably apologize to The Sister for discussing both her and prostitutes in the same post. It just sort of turned out that way and has absolutely nothing to do with her. I could make a joke about her impending B.A., but that would mean I might have to have some kind of education other than a PhD in Late Night Poop Patrol, which sadly I do not posess. If either of us ends up selling herself on the interweb out of sheer desperation, it won't be her.

And Spawnling still sleeps! Little stinker. I'm going to go read up on other people's lives. What's Mama Chaos doing lately? What about Beth? Kate? I've fallen off the face of the earth and it bothers me not to know what my fellow Bloggerellas are doing.

Let's get this blog rollin' again!

I've slacked enough. After several days of no posts, I expect at least half my readership have checked themselves into detox to deal with the withdrawl symptoms. No matter, I'm back and you needn't be without your fix any longer (the belly is gone, but the ego remains!). I felt your pain from the couch, where I was suffering through more Live with Regis and Kelly than any new mom can handle. After half of a Montel episode, I couldn't take it anymore and I came down here to pass off Spawnling and post about the whirlwind which has been the last 12 days.

The 'whirlwind' has been more like a small gust, really. I'm so oldskool at this mom stuff now it isn't even funny. Sure, I freaked out a little over the umbilical cord stump and wondered if there was an infection beneath, but The Madre and her friend (who has 12 children and requires her own blog name once I can come up with one) assured me that it looked just perfect. Sure enough, it's sealing up with no mad dash to the doctor's required. Sometimes - just sometimes - listening to your elders is a good thing (also, referring to them as 'elders' is a really great way to take their advice and insult them at the same time - it feels as good as a double shot of espresso in one's latte).

Spawnling has made the transition to a family of five very gentle. I didn't know Geekster and I could make easy going children. Apparently we have a recessive gene that pops up in at least 1 in every 3 infants, rendering them, you know, happy a lot of the time. Non-combatant. Chillaxed. Whatever you want to call it, this boy's a dream. He regularly sleeps 6-7 hour stretches at night, which makes for a very well-rested Maven. He also nurses like a champ, which means I was able to experience no engorgement for the first time. Full boobs? Yes. Painful boobs? Nope. I am truly amazed by this child. Throw in the fact that he apparently has escaped any hearing loss and we have ourselves a very different experience this time around.

Now that I have a child who hears at normal levels, I can clearly see the difference. He's much more responsive to noise and to my voice (which some people would refer to as 'noise', and I would have a hard time arguing with them, frankly). His little eyes and head move to wherever I am when I speak to him as he tries to search me out. I just love it!

Ok, rant time. I've been enjoying a babymoon and have been far too happy to bitch about anything until now. But really, what's blogging without some complaining? I spend a good deal of my very limited computer time on natural family living sites and the like, so it stands to reason that I read a lot of articles and posts from crunchy people, whom I usually relate to. But I have to ask: what's up with the sweeping cesarean generalizations? You know, the people who think that cesareans are the easy way out when it comes to birth. Or even better yet, the ones who believe we (the cesareaned mothers) are uninformed, ignorant and/or scared into the proceedure. I tell you, I've heard some really crazy stuff. I also believed a lot of it until I had Gutsy by way of the tummy.

The only 'easy' part about a cesarean is that you don't have to push the baby out. The less 'easy' parts involve being strapped down to a table, having a sheet separating you and what's going on with your lower half and baby, being stitched and stapled up in a cold operating room and recovering from a large wound in the stomach with pain that can take your breath away. So yeah, NOT easy.

That being said, there are many good reasons to opt for a cesarean. I'm fairly educated in all things birth-related and yet I opted for one on two separate occasions. My decisions were very well thought out and I have no regrets. There was nothing ignorant about my choices, nor was I coerced into something by fear-mongering health professionals. It makes for good discussion to believe that everyone who doesn't birth naturally is being bombarded with scare tactics or hangs on the every word of the badbadevil doctors, but that just isn't always the case.

Of course there are always exceptions: the 'you're going to have a baby that's too big for you to birth vaginally' tactic, the 'you're not progressing fast enough and I want you to have a c-section to fit my schedule' pressure and the 'once a cesarean, always a cesarean' doctors who frown upon a VBAC-wanting mother as if she were doing crack, but none of those apply to a good amount of the women I've talked to. Many of us are happy with how things turned out, don't feel violated, mistreated or misinformed. And in the end, we all have beautiful babies, many who are breastfed and co-sleep happily, as all of mine have regardless of how they came into the world.

Interestingly enough, I should note that my worst birth was Intrepid's vaginal delivery. His apgars were poor, I lost a lot of blood, we were separated for hours, his first meal was a bottle of formula, we had a hard time getting the hang of breastfeeding, my recovery was long and painful and I developed postpartum depression. Ironic, but true. Still, I would say that vaginal deliveries are best in the vast majority of cases. That's why I wanted to have a VBAC with Spawnling, after all. I proudly stick by my attempt to do so. I feel like a bonafide hero of a woman.

Rant over. Part of my job is to educate the masses, and since there are thousands - possibly millions - of people who read my blog *cough*, I feel as though I've done my part for society.

Spawnling is lying in a very awkward position. I should probably stop typing before I permanently bend his spine. I'm a nice mother like that.

The Maven, who made the incision decision using mother's intuition. Werd, G.
(I should have been a rap artist. I don't have a grill, but I do have an awesome bridge I could stick some gold and diamonds into...)

Birth Story: The Reader's Digest Edition




While Spawnling enjoys copious amounts of milk at breasts that are far larger than I remember them ever getting (I think they've made B horror movies about things this nightmarishly large) I'm going to get down to bidnis in one-handed, new-mom fashion and type out a birth story of sorts.

4:30am, Thursday, Oct. 12th

I wake up for the day. I can't decide if the painful contractions or the preschooler who wound up next to me in bed (along with his big brother) and is kicking the covers off me contantly is the main culprit, but I'm up and too excited to sleep. I shower and compose a letter to my baby, getting all mushy-like.

7:00am

Geekster and Intrepid are awake. My brother, Chux0r, makes his way over to watch Gutsy for the day. Intrepid tells the Fetus Formally Known as InUtero Boy that he can't wait to meet him and heads off to school. I eat some cereal, a banana and drink some coffee.

8:30am

Geekster and I get to the hospital and, naturally, I have to pee in a cup, replace my fitting clothes with a gown that generously reveals my enormous pregnant ass (it got a lot of use in the last couple of months) and am hooked up to a monitor. I get to press a button every time I feel baby move (which means I'm always pressing the damn button). I get to breathe through contractions that we realize, surprisingly, are coming every 8 minutes on the dot. It looks like I'm already in early labour.

9:00am

My doctor comes in and examines me. I'm dilated 2 1/2cm. The baby is engaged, but he's not down as far as he could be. Still, we decide to assault my privates with a crochet hook and get the party started. My water breaks easily and the contractions begin to pick up in no time. I move to a private room and get to wear huge pads in my undies to attempt to control the oh-so-appetizing gush of warm liquids. Birth may be a beautiful, natural occurance, but it's also a little gross to feel like you're peeing yourself x 10 every few minutes, ok?

11:00am

Slight problem. The contractions really hurt now. I've done early labour with no drugs twice before and it was a piece of cake in comparison. Geekster and I are walking around the maternity ward and the contractions are coming strong and hard. I fall into him every time one hits (which is about every three minutes). My breathing turns to wimpering. I can't focus anymore. Surely I must be making some progress, right? I've already refused the epidural because I want things to happen quickly and like the ability to move around. It's getting a lot harder to keep to the original plan, though. Hopefully this will be fast.

2:00pm

I'm 3 1/2 cm and 60% effaced. I'm also starving and in a great deal of pain, but I'm not allowed to eat anything in case I need an emergency cesarean. Boo. I understand, but I don't have to like it. I'm having a very hard time dealing with the contractions and the relatively slow labour progression in this condition. Geekster slips me a bite of a chocolate bar with peanuts which helps, but only temporarily.

2:30pm

I can no longer walk and I'm sobbing in pain. I'm still 3 1/2cm but 80% effaced. I get the epidural so I can try and rest a bit.

4:00pm

My contractions are still regular, but now only 5 minutes apart. I'm 4 1/2cm and still need to breathe through them because the pain is over my right hip and right side of my back. I believe this is karma for flipping off the taxi driver the previous week. I should have just let him run me over and been nice and passive about it. I refuse to have the epidural turned up because I'm trying to be a hero.

Ok, not really. If I were a hero I'd still be crying through the contractions. I just don't want to slow down the contractions further, so the epidural stays put.

8:00pm

Still 4 1/2. Still 80% effaced. Exhausted. Hungry. Frustrated. I tell my doctor I think a c-section is in order.

I looked at it thisway: I'm going to get to 10cm eventually. I don't know when, but it will happen. The problem is that I won't have the energy to go through the pushing phase at this point. I really, really didn't want a cesarean, but it seems like the best thing right now. I cry as I make my decision. My doctor is very understanding and supportive of whatever way I want to do this. I love that I wasn't pressured in any way to make the choice, but it's still a really hard decision. I know how much cesarean recoveries suck, and I've worked so very hard to get this VBAC.

Geekster, of course, is amazing through all of this. Those of you who know him wouldn't expect any less, I'm sure. He's the hero in all of this, as far as I'm concerned. I couldn't ask for a better man in my life.

I ask for the epidural to be turned up a bit now. I can no longer feel the contractions, even though I'm still having them. I'm able to get a bit of rest before the surgery.

10:00pm

I'm wheeled downstairs into the OR. A feeling of peace overcomes me. I will be meeting my baby soon. I don't have to work at it anymore. It's ok to let go and enjoy his birth, now.

10:31pm

The most beautiful sound: my baby's cries, followed by a flood of my own tears. He's beautiful. The anesthesiologist grabs our camera and starts shooting over the curtain for us (we have some amazing pictures thanks to him).

I can't see my son on the warmer very well through my tears. I'm so grateful that he's here and that we're both doing well. I start to feel very warm and tingly.

Oh, wait. That would the the Demerol and Gravol they just gave me. The room is a little... spinny.

10:45pm

I say goodbye to Geekster and Spawnling as they head off to the neonatal ward while I get stitched up. The nurses and doctors are smiling at me and laughing to each other. It takes me a few minutes to realize that I'm laughing every time I look at them. Or bright lights. Or shiny metal instruments. Or the clock. I'm a very, very happy Maven.

11:15pm

I'm wheeled into recovery for an hour. I don't remember much of that time, except that I had a very polite nurse who let me ramble about a lot of things. I woudn't be surprised if I told her I had murdered a few nuns back in '78 or gave her my offshore bank account passwords.

I kept passing in and out of consciousness. Weeee, drugs!

12:15am, October 13th

I'm wheeled upstairs by an orderly and the nurse (who's eyeing me suspiciously at this point). I'm greeted by my baby daddy and my baby, who is absolutely gorgeous.

While nursing him and flying high, I make a couple of phone calls to The Madre at her house and The Sister at our house. I now know that I sounded hilarious, although I just thought I might appear 'tired'. Apparently tired people don't speak two octaves above their regular voice. That's reserved for those pumped full of narcotics. Good to know.

Spawnling spends the night in my arms, nursing contentedly. Life is beautiful.

Not quite as beautiful when the drugs wear off, mind you.

***

That's it. That's the whole story, really. I've been doing some inner exploration the last few days to find out how I feel about my decision to have a cesarean. I had regrets the last time, but they were unfounded. This time, I probably have more reason to feel regretful (because I probably would have progressed - albeit slowly - to full dilation and had the chance to push). I can't say I feel like I made a bad choice, though. Even though staples in the stomach SUCK and I'm still on Tylenol (regulars, now) to keep the pain at bay. But I'm doing ok, we're both healthy and he's here. I can't regret that.

Well, I should proofread and bolt. I have people coming over today to greet the sweet, little monster.

Hello World




Everyone, meet Jackson, AKA Spawnling (although he's so darn cute and really chill so far, so I'm having a hard time calling him anything remotely degrading, even in a loveable way. I think over time that will change though. Like, when he can talk and throw things at me...)

There is so very much to tell. I have a feeling there will be several posts about his arrival. Everything from good drugs to evil food and just how painful staples in the stomach really are. But we're home, we're well and nobody has killed each other yet.

Oh, and did I mention that he can HEAR? Perfectly? :) :) :)

Will post some more tomorrow. Babies in slings at computers works very well.

Baby Jack is Born!


JACKSON CHARLES
Born at 10:31 pm, October 12th, 2006
Via C-Section
10 pounds 2 ounces (smaller than the other two!)
21 inches long
Dark, Dark Hair
Looks "amazingly" like Dad (i.e., looks more like Intrepid did as a baby than Gutsy)

More to come,
~ The Maven's Sister