Nipples

I've been thinking a lot about what I want to write about. I'm a new mom, and there is a ton of material right there. My little one is almost 12 weeks old, I have to go back to work next week, I'm really struggling with my post-baby body, I obsess about food and cooking. These are all blog-fodder.
Do I want to become a Mommy-blogger?
Should I talk about food, recipes, etc.?

Let's talk about nipples.

I have to admit, prior to breastfeeding I didn't give my nipples much thought. Well, sometime in my early twenties, I had one of them pierced. I thought a lot about that one for a while... ouch.
Other than that, not a lot of attention was paid to this part of my anatomy. At least not by me.
Now they have taken center stage! My nipples finally revolted, screaming for the attention that they have obviously been denied for too long.

My nipples are now infected.

Who knew? I sure didn't. I've been breastfeeding my little one since about 10 minutes after she was born. I have never considered not breastfeeding, even during the most painful of circumstances. My right nipple cracked pretty early on, and I've had pain during and between nursing sessions pretty much this whole time. I've seen nurses, lactation consultants, and a midwife. I was told it would get better, that I had a rare condition called Reynaud's, that my baby wasn't latching correctly. Nope. I had an infection. Possibly a kind of staph infection.

Thankfully, this doesn't hurt the baby at all. I am being treated with antibiotics that I may need to be on for 6 weeks or more. The idea that my breasts and nipples may stop hurting has brightened my mood and outlook considerably.... but I'm still pissed. I feel robbed. I really wanted to love breastfeeding, bonding with my infant, providing her with everything she needs...and I do love most of it. There are times when she looks up at me while eating that the look on her face breaks my heart in the best possible way. It's great being the "boob lady" as my husband calls me, because the boobs always work for my baby. I have the exclusive full-proof solution. But our first few months together have been flavored, tainted, by my pain. By this added struggle. And I'm pissed.

I'm going to blame everything on this stupid infection. My failure to lose any weight, my mood swings, my inability to stop eating, mood swings, memory loss, this bum knee, my messy house.










Completely and totally worth it.

In order of importance

Damn. Good. Week.

The Way-ya-ting is the Hardest Part (Tom Petty)

I was so cocky. I told everyone that I was going to work right up until I went into labor. My big fear about that was that my water would break in my office. My carpeted office that I share with about 10 other people. People told me that I wouldn't want to, that I'd be too tired or uncomfortable. HA! I live with discomfort, I can do this. At least I thought I could.

Then, almost 2 weeks ago, I was resting on the sofa at the recommendation of my chiropractor who has been amazingly keeping me fairly mobile and active. I got up to go to the kitchen, and WHAM! My entire lower back seized, spasmed, sputtered and died. Breath-taking pain. I couldn't take any good meds, I couldn't even take ibuprofen. I could barely move.

So, my medical providers agreed with each other... I shouldn't go back to work. The late stage of pregnancy is aggravating my pre-existing condition... a genetic connective tissue disorder (another post, another time). It won't get better and activity will only make it worse.

Now, I'm a first-time parent. My goal/plan is to have a natural and unmedicated birth. I'm very committed to this, and I feel confident and resolved. BUT... the idea of going into labor ALREADY in pain scares the crap out of me. I feel like I am as prepared as I can be to use a variety of techniques to manage the normal, purposeful pain of childbirth. But the pain of injury is a very different thing, and the two together is daunting.

Two weeks later, I'm lying on the sofa. I haven't been to work, and I'm just waiting to go into labor. I'm cursing my fragile body while trying to take the best care of it that I can. It has a task to do.
An incredible, amazing, awesome task.
Sooner than later would be nice.

My Wedding Day

I worked at my part-time job as a video store clerk during the day. I came home and took a nap on the couch.
I got up about an hour before the baby party was supposed to start and jumped in the shower. I threw on my black second-hand maternity dress and the nifty maternity footless tights (red) that I got on clearance. I put on my new jewelery, newly acquired from the Caribbean from a trip that I couldn't go on because I was too pregnant.
We were running late, so out the door we went. My girlfriends were throwing the party, and it was NOT a baby shower. There were no decorations, no games, no cutesy cake. Dave went to work setting up the bar, and I helped with food prep.
By 7:30 or so, we figured most people that were coming were there so it was time for the toast.
We gathered everyone together, I gave my sister my camera with the instruction "you might want to get this".... and then:




It was perfect.

watermelon woman

A lot has changed.

My belly has grown to the size of a small watermelon, the organic seedless kind, and it's moving around most of the time, reminding me constantly that I have absolutely no control over what's happening to me.

I'm married.

My husband (weird to type) loves me, takes care of me, accepts me.

I'm so very blessed. I have a house, a job, a loving husband and a baby on the way.
I'm not sure I ever really believed that I could have this life.

Just wanted to put that out there.

Cliff Jumping

When I was in my early twenties, I went on a trip to the Catskills with some friends. An adventurous group of folks that I had known since high school had taken their show on the road, and ended up living in a band-house in upstate New York. I'm not sure how these things happen to people, but I can attest to the fact that they do.
So up to the Catskills I go, to stay in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with a rock band.
Yep.. that was my twenties all right.
Feeling particularly motivated one morning, a group of us set off for a hike, with the promise of a waterfall somewhere deep in the hills. After a near-death experience with a fallen-log bridge and a bee-hive (another story for another day) we reached our destination.
A postcard worthy waterfall in the Catskill Mountains. It was beautiful and it reminded me that I do believe in some sort of God, because these natural wonders are too perfect to happen accidentally.
What my brave, and probably stoned, companions had failed to mention is that the plan was to jump off. People were stripping down all around me and running up to the top. Looking closer, I saw that this seemed to be the thing to do. There are other people there, jumping off gleefully with happy if terrified shrieks. So up I go. Because everybody else is doing it and I don't want to seem like I'm scared. By the time I get there I realize that what looked like maybe a 20 foot drop from below is definitely more like 50 or 100. Well, it seemed like it anyway.
I stood up there for what felt like hours. Debating. Talking myself in and out of jumping. Some of my friends jumped 3 or 4 times, and I stood. I realized two things.

One: Some of the other people jumping looked like they were 10 years old. My inner voice let me know that I was way tougher than some kid.
Two: I would never ever be here again. This was my chance. If I didn't jump, right now, I would regret it. I would always wish that I had conquered my fear. That I had been a little braver, a little crazier, a little more like my rock-band friends.
So I jumped.
It was great.

Now I'm well into my thirties. My life is very different than it was then. I am having a baby. I have a house and a fiance and a graduate degree. I have bills and a 401K.
But I am going to jump again, and it feels exactly the same.

I am starting my own business. I am going to market myself as an expert. I am going to tell people that I know what I am talking about, and they should pay me to help them. I want to help people that want my help. I want to do it on my terms. If I don't, I'll always wish that I had.

Check me out
www.parentingsolutionsllc.com

ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I'm waiting to wake up as a completely different person. Well, maybe not completely different, but at least noticeably different. I'm now 20 weeks pregnant. Half-way there. Definitely a mother now, but I still don't pick up my dirty clothes, or put away my shoes every day in a neatly organized closet. My garden is a mess, I'm sure the neighbors hate me. I don't weed or sew. I have baby stuff in storage bins, and no "nursery" to speak of.

So, when does this magically change? Shouldn't I be my mother by now? I want to calmly and peacefully manage every day. I want to clean up after myself, find a hobby, talk to friends and relatives, feed myself and my family a healthy home-cooked meal, and retire to a neatly made bed with a Jane Austen book. I want an effortless-looking, but actually meticulously cared for, front garden. I want the t shirts that I fold to stay wrinkle free.

Instead.. I haven't made it off the sofa much today except to pee every 10 minutes. The egg pan is still sitting on the stove, and I can see the weeds in my front garden from here. I could put together another dog with all the dog hair that's drifting across the un-mopped hardwoods. The bags from yesterday's garage sales are still full and sitting in the kitchen, exactly where I set them upon walking into the house.. on the way to the couch.

I can't believe "they" are going to let me bring a child home. In about 20 weeks.