Thursday, August 2, 2012

First Day On the New Job

Today is the first day of me officially being a stay-at-home mum. I resigned a nursing position in labor and delivery yesterday. 

I've worked since I was 15 years old.

I am thrilled and scared to death. 

So yes, we did get pregnant again, which was at first a nerve wracking experience as it came right on the heels (3 months) of the ectopic. Our little daughter "V" was born February 16, 2012. We delivered naturally in the hospital where I worked (!), surrounded by my sweet colleagues who were both intrigued and adamant that I have the "granola" delivery I was so set on. We used "Hypnobabies," (at least I think we did...I fell asleep after every contraction. I also fell asleep while I was pregnant, listening to the hypnosis tracks.), my husband caught and we used LeBoyer's "Birth Without Violence." It was an amazing experience, and little V came into the world quietly, staring around her like the little old soul that she is.

And she's six months old today.

My bright, sweet, blue-eyed girl with the lightning quick smile and the curiosity of ten babies...

I've never been in love like this before.
So this is me, attempting to catch up. I haven't written in what we call in the South, "a month a Sundays."

Our first pregnancy (Dec. 2010) turned out to be an ectopic. I made it to 10 weeks "pregnant," marveling at how great I felt, reveling in the excitement of "carrying life." While I was at work, helping a sweet couple labor with their first child, I began, very quietly, to bleed.
The smooth even of my world shattered in an instant. My husband collected me from work, and the midwife's voice on the phone confirmed it after the emergency blood work: no baby for us. The next morning in her office, as I sat weeping, she patted my shoulder and informed me that, "this, too, is a side of being a midwife."

From there, it's a fog of endless glasses of water, repeated violations with the vaginal ultrasound probe, empathetic faces averting their eyes from mine, and explaining it a million times over to everyone: "Yes, Gran. My body thought it was pregnant. No, there never was any baby. Yes, I'm fine." Whatever that meant.

A shot of methotrexate and a few weeks later and I was back to work, ready to get about the human business of moving on.

Not long after that, I woke around five a.m., cramping. Thinking I was having gas pains, I decided to get up and walk around a bit. 10 minutes after getting out of bed, I was dry-heaving on the floor, sweat dripping into my eyes and down my neck. In between heaves, I screamed for my husband. My appendix was apparently rupturing. My dumb luck.

About half an hour later, the E.R. doctor was asking me about my ectopic a few weeks previous. Through a haze of pain, I snappishly asked what the ectopic had to do with the price of tea in China. He calmly responded that my severe pain was likely due to a complication from that, not the appendix as I'd thought.
We found out a day later that my ovary (presumably the site of implantation for the ectopic) had been very kindly leaking blood into my pelvis, which eventually caused my sudden and severe pain. Excellent. My utter dumb luck.

But, like all tragedies, it's begun to fade. Somewhere in there I withdrew from grad school. Angry at the process of childbearing (and sometimes, as in my case, losing) I took my revenge by vowing to have no part in it.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Some of the language is objectionable, but I give you:

Tina Fey’s Prayer For Her Daughter

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.