Just Feed the Baby, Dammit

The lowest low of mom-ing for me came when Grant was only a few weeks old, and I found myself telling Matt I was dreading him waking up, because I didn’t want to feed him. It was 1:30 in the morning when he next opened his eyes. We were all on the couch; I was trying to get my hungry, screaming, flailing, tiny baby to latch, and we were both just unable to make it happen. I was sobbing, and as Matt brought me a bottle of pumped milk from the fridge, he asked me why I thought I had to keep doing something Grant and I both hated so much.

That was the end of my breastfeeding journey.

Technically, I pumped for a couple more weeks, but soon my baby was chugging bottles so fast, I just didn’t care to try and keep up. I wanted to snuggle him, lay on the floor and play with him, take him out to the park...all things I wasn’t able to do with my boobs literally plugged into the wall.

Moms can't get it right when it comes to feeding their babies, though.

If you breastfeed in public, you're shamed for exposing yourself.

If you breastfeed covered in public, you're shamed for covering up "for societal pressure."

If you bottle feed in public, nursing moms look at you with sad puppy eyes because you should be nursing.

If you exclusively pump, you're shamed for taking too many breaks at work to keep your boobs from exploding all over a room.

If you nurse in front of someone, you're inappropriate...never mind they're at your house.

If you leave the room to nurse, you're antisocial and rude to your visitors.

If you ask a visitor to leave so you can pump, you're rude.

If you pack formula and ask wait staff for cold water to mix it with, you're FEEDING THE BABY COLD WATER??!!? (this one happened to me...often...yes, my fucking baby prefers cold milk, fill up the mother fucking cup please!)

There is literally no way to feed an infant without someone being mad about it.

At my six week visit with my OB, I told him I felt like I had failed, and that I was doing Grant a disservice, because basically everyone on the planet expects you to breastfeed your infant until they turn 25 and graduate college. He looked at me and assured me that Grant was doing just fine; he told me that formula is no longer evaporated milk like it used to be. "It is literally, practically breast milk, and he's fine" was exactly what he told me. I was so grateful in that moment, to hear someone (other than my partner, who was a constant reassurance) tell me I was not a failure. I cried. He told me that it is actually quite normal for moms who deliver via csection before going into labor - and thus actually never going into labor - to not release enough of the hormone needed to produce enough milk for their baby, and that it also makes it harder for the baby to know how to root around, latch, and nurse successfully.

^^ Information that Nurse Eyeliner must have missed in nursing school, by the way. ^^

I went home, armed with the support of my OB, ready to tell anyone who questioned me to fuck off. I could feed my baby formula if I wanted, and he could drink it cold if he wanted, and he would not die from lack of breast milk. Not nursing would have no effect on the bond Grant and I should have, nor would breast milk turn him into a serial killer. I could spend $20 a week on formula for the next 50 weeks, and everyone could just shut up about it.

I am lucky in that I didn't run into a lot of shame around feeding Grant. My circle of support was still a circle of support around formula feeding - even my friends who breastfed for what seemed like years, were encouraging and supportive, and I wasn't as bothered by sad puppy stares by crunchy moms at restaurants who were clearly worried I was poisoning the baby. However, that is not the case for everyone. There is a huge pressure to breastfeed in society, in mom groups, online, and even in the freaking hospital. When Grant was losing weight from not nursing because I had a csection and my body was blissfully unaware that we weren't pregnant anymore, Nurse Eyeliner and Crew used donor milk as a threat.

Night One: "If you can't do it, we'll have to supplement with donor milk."

Okay. Do that then, you fucking ass hole. I don't give a shit. Just don't give him a beer.

Night Two: "If he loses 4 more ounces tonight, we'll have to supplement with formula."

Bitch. Give him whatever you want...just don't come in here and wake me up about it. In fact, give him the beer if you want.

Before letting me go home, they made me make an appointment for the following day with this Lactation Quack, who basically felt me up for an hour while watching Grant struggle to breath as she shoved his nose into my boobs, which were bigger than his head. She wanted to see me every 3 days or something insane, and had a whole plan about nursing and pumping and stimulating and boob grabbing. I never saw her again. Again, someone in the medical profession who missed the class on csections and hormones, who just wanted me to do it The Right Way.

So, as it turns out The Right Way for us was formula. And what do you know, it was fine. Grant didn't die. In fact, at two years old he outweighs most three year olds we know, drinks 2% milk from a cup, and - like his mama - has a bowl of dry Cheerios with chocolate chips for breakfast in the morning. Because we share a bond just by existing, that we didn't need to nurse to form.

#endmomshaming

Birthing Your Baby is Beautiful

As I type this, my son is 7 days from turning two years old; for the past 723 days since I gave birth to him, I’ve had lower back and hip pain. While I was pregnant, I suffered some seriously killer sciatica, so you could say I’ve been in some sort of dull pain for the past 1,000 or so days. It isn’t debilitating, I don’t have to medicate (though I do see a chiropractor and sometimes wear an abdominal splint), and there are days where I barely feel it. But it’s always there, a dull ache in the lower part of my back; it flares up on the days I spend deep cleaning, swinging my son around like a monkey, or playing on the floor for too many hours. There is a consistent “tug” feeling deep in my pelvis, reminding me that my spine is carrying all of the load, because my abdomen was sliced open to remove a human, and that takes more than two years to piece back together.

 

This dull ache, is the reason I want to punch people in the face who refer to vaginal deliveries as “traditional” and cesarean section deliveries as “the easy way out.”

 

Let me preface this story with, Grant is my only kid, and thus my only birth experience. His elective, planned-in-advance c-section is my only delivery. My pregnancy with him, which was already 16 weeks along before I found out about it, has been the only pregnancy. I have waited hours in a hospital for babies to be born to other people, and have stood at the head of the bead to witness the vaginal birth of one other.

 

I am, by no means, an expert.

 

However, expert or not, I am smart enough to know that a human being exiting the body cavity of another human being, does not have an “easy way out.”

 

I chose to have a cesarean for several reasons; the most important being that I have endometriosis, which can increase the risk of complications during labor and vaginal delivery. I did a lot of research and weighed the pros and cons, but ultimately, I wanted to be able to have more control over my risk, and an elective c-section seemed like my best option for that. I was fortunate in that I had an OBGYN who was supportive and encouraging of whatever choice I arrived at; he didn’t pressure me or even really ever give me his opinion aside from confirming that endometriosis can lead to risks in delivery, but also that vaginal deliveries can lead to your body expelling any existing endometriosis. Ultimately the decision was mine, and I didn’t feel he or his team tried to sway me in any way other than my own.

 

(Side note, he also allowed Matt and I to choose Grant’s birthday, as opposed to just slapping my surgery on his schedule, which I loved and am still grateful for.)

 

Grant was born at 12:18pm on June 19, 2018; my surgery was scheduled for 12:00pm, and I believe we had to be at the hospital for check in around 8:00 in the morning. The hardest parts of the actual surgery, to be completely transparent, were fasting the 12 hours prior, and the nurse having trouble locating a vein for my IV. I’d be lying if I said the surgery itself was physically hard – and I have seen women in labor, so I do understand the initial reasoning for referring to a c-section as “easy.” But the “easy way out” ends there. 

For one, a cesarean is major surgery. That means, surgery prep; I had to fast, get IVs, be on all sorts of monitors, get poked and prodded by nurses, and try to regulate my blood pressure while suffering the nerves of both bringing a baby into the world and having to be cut open to do so. Additionally, there is that enormous needle to the back that you hear urban legends about, that they don’t even let you look at ahead of time because that’s how big and scary it really is.

 

After waiting in pre-op with Matt and my mom for a few hours, a nurse excused my mom to the waiting room and it was time for Matt and I to head into the operating room. While he waited in the hallway, I got the joy of having an anesthesiologist and a few nurses massage my back and shoulders, rub my temples, and slide an enormous needle into my back (easy??) while I tried to not cry or admit how scared I was…though I’m certain my heart rate monitor was giving away my secret.

 

As I mentioned, this was at noon and Grant was born at 12:18, so the rest was obviously pretty quick; they brought Matt in and sat him next to my head, made sure we couldn’t see over the drape (our request), and got to work cutting my guts open and rearranging my organs to remove our 7 pound 11 ounce bundle – who peed all over the surgeon on exit, making everyone laugh as I burst into tears from fear, excitement, and relief.

 

Again, I’ve seen one baby exit vaginally in my time, and I’ve no doubt that I suffered less immediate pain than someone in active labor. But I also know my friend whose delivery I watched, does not still see a chiropractor for back and hip pain 2 years later, and does not feel a pull on her insides every time she exercises. Every “c-section mama” I’ve asked, does. 

There is no easy way to evacuate a human from your insides. If you refer to a vaginal delivery as easy, fuck off. Similarly if you refer to a Cesarean delivery - planned or emergency - as easy, fuck off. If you refer to existing a human from the inside of another human, swallow a watermelon and then try to birth it, you ass hole. More so, if you are a female, and especially if you are a mother, and you’ve deemed one or the other as The Easy Way Out, you’re truly a disgrace to our gender.

No matter how you decide to give birth to your baby, the process and experience are immensely rewarding and beautiful and amazing, and no one should ever make you feel bad about the way you brought life to the world (especially not other mothers). We all go through pregnancy thinking about delivery - there is fear, anxiety, nervousness, excitement, thrill...you name it, we feel it. And we also have a vision of what our delivery looks like; we have a plan and a goal, and whatever that is, IT'S FINE!! I knew from about week 20 that my son was coming via c-section...not because my OB said he "should," but because I felt, in my soul, that it was what was in the plan for us. My OB never made me feel bad for leaning that way. My partner never made me feel bad; my mom, my closest circle of friends, never made me feel bad. But the internet made me feel bad; mom blogs made me feel bad. Magazines and pamphlets and websites and conversations with other women in my outer circle, all made me feel bad. And for what? Because I didn't plan for the same birth story as them? GTFOH with that judgmental bull shit.

Bringing a human into the world is a beautiful, awesome, terrifying, painful experience - no matter how you slice it (ya see what I did there).

And there is no shame in any birth experience.

#endmomshaming

Nurse Eyeliner, At Your Service

If you came to meet Grant at the hospital, I have almost no memory of your visit. I know that Blake watched my catheter bag fill up with pee, and I remember Kattie brought me the best Jamba Juice I’d ever tasted. That’s about it. 

Sweet, sweet postpartum medications.

Grant was born at 12:18pm on June 19th, and we were back in our room by about 1:30; I know I had visitors that afternoon and evening, and the next day as well - my mom and dad, my brother, Karen, Stacey & Blake, my MIL and FIL, and my BIL and SIL - but I don’t really remember anyone being there. I was so uncomfortable, so scared, so excited, so in love, and in so much pain. I had a catheter and was trying to get my baby to latch and wanted to get up and was terrified of accidentally seeing my own incision. I was starving and numb and my arms hurt; I was swollen and cold and shaky and sweaty. 

I had a new baby! I had to take care of him and keep him alive on the exterior of my body now...holy shit!

To say I had a few things on my mind, is an understatement. 

My overnight nurse was a real bitch; the epitome of mom shame. She was a nurse who should have never become a nurse; she lacked empathy, had terrible bedside manner, and wore far too much winged eyeliner for 3:00 in the morning. I hated her so much that I begged to go home a day early, just to avoid having to experience her being a crappy nurse through one more night. Look, I appreciate nurses as much as the next person, but if you are unable to look at a woman whose body just endured serious trauma and avoid yelling at her, you should drop out of nursing school, immediately. 

She was extremely judgmental about my lack of milk production, among other things. Did you know that it’s your fault if your tits don’t immediately turn into udders after you never even go into labor because you chose to have a c-section? It’s not that your body still thinks it’s pregnant because you haven’t released any labor hormones, no; it’s because you’re a bad mom.

Just ask that nurse and her eyeliner.

Anyway. I’ll get into the shame surrounding breastfeeding versus bottle feeding in another post, I promise. Today, I’m talking about the judgment you can expect when creating your birth plan and arranging hospital visitors. Because remember, while you’re bringing new life into the world, it’s not about you or your comfort...it’s about the people who want to be able to say they met your baby first.

If I were to have another baby (and we won’t), I’d do the hospital thing much differently. Just us. Well, us and my mom - my mom was very helpful getting us prepped and scrubbed up for surgery, took some great photos, and quite frankly, adult or not I wanted my mommy as I was prepping for surgery. But as far as visitors, I think I’d just say no, and use the time to sleep and stare at my baby. Hospital visits are awkward in the first place; everything is one paper gown away from being exposed, no one is sleeping or showering, a nurse is coming in every three seconds to touch something or check something or look at something; they want you to try and feed the baby while your in-laws are sitting there. 

Add to it that you’re already being actively judged, and it’s a recipe for disaster.

I somehow talked the hospital staff into releasing me a day early, and managed to escape a third night with Nurse Eyeliner. We packed our bags as got a ride home, and on the way, I found myself suddenly terrified. I could barely stand up by myself, needed help buckling my seatbelt, and was being allowed to take another human home with me. My BIL drove us home, and I was nervous and jumpy every time he changed lanes, accelerated, decelerated, stepped on the gas or the brake. We made it home, and moments after I settled in on the couch to hold (and admire) my perfect little nugget, Grant choked on what we later determined to be amniotic fluid. He flailed his arms, made that awful choking baby gasping noise, and I swear my life flashed before my eyes as Karen flipped him over and swatted him til he literally slimed all over her. The contents of his tiny belly covered her shirt and arms, and she just kept patting his back and cooing at him. Clearly not her first day.

He took a deep breath and started to cry. As I exhaled for the first time in minutes, I also started to cry. I didn’t know what I needed to do, and asked if I needed to call a doctor, or 911 or something...I was clearly terrified. For the record, this is the only time I’ve suggested calling 911 in the past two years.

Karen, still holding my baby, still covered in his slimy vomit, leaned into me and assured me he was okay; that I was okay.

My SIL laughed at me for “overreacting.”

Instantly, I learned that mom shame comes even from those closest to you; from those who know you’re unsure of yourself, those who are supposed to support you, those who should be the most helpful. It was this day - Grant’s third day on the planet - that I started a mental list of the people I knew I’d never be able to count on to help me grow as a confident mother, versus those who would lift me up, offer sound advice, and help me raise my awesome kid.

There is nothing wrong with your birth plan, nor with your plans for visitors. It’s okay for you to welcome guests right away, just as it’s okay for you to want them to wait. If you want your mom to hold your hand before you deliver, that’s okay. It’s also okay for you to ask a friend to bring you a smoothie, if only so you can muster the energy to demand your nurses treat you like a human as opposed to a milking machine. It’s also okay to find your voice and demand a new nurse - you don’t have to convince yourself to go home before you’re really ready, just because you hate the one you have. 

It’s also totally okay to send a letter to the hospital admin staff once you’re home and recovering, letting them know what a nasty bitch they have ruining the nights of new moms in the maternity wing. 

That’s what I did. 

#endmomshaming 

Many Happy Returns (to Target)

Let it be known that I hate baby showers.

I also hate gender reveal parties.

While we’re in this super negative head space, I also hate bridal showers. 

(That’s neither here nor there, though.)

There is something incredibly awkward about opening gifts in front of a bazillion people, especially when you’re huge pregnant and uncomfortable, feeling unlike yourself, worried about every photo being taken…

Oh god please don’t post that on the internet, I’m as big as a house. I’m also hot and sweaty, and also I’m drinking a mimosa, so lord knows I’ll get dragged through the mud for drinking while I’m pregnant. 

Side note: if you want to have a fucking mimosa at your baby shower, DO IT. Anyone who is potentially judging you for that, you literally shouldn’t even be friends with anymore. Uninvite them immediately.

When it was time to plan my baby shower, I had one request: no opening presents. I didn’t want to sit in front of 50+ women and unwrap 50+ gifts for 50+ hours. It’s weird and antiquated, and I’d just as soon play another silly game. More than one person gave me shit about that decision. The more I looked into it though, the more commonplace I found it was becoming with moms in 2018. And so, I demanded it. I asked that people not wrap their gifts; instead, add a card and bring it unwrapped to the shower, and add it to the table at the front of the house - this way everyone can see the cute baby stuff, without my having to awkwardly open any of it.

As a reminder, mom shame is everywhere. You can’t escape it, you guys. I didn’t do my baby shower right, if you can believe that (I didn’t even host my own shower, but I still managed to be wrong). In addition to not opening gifts, I had a mimosa and played Pictionary instead of Smell the Melted Chocolate in a Diaper. I also had a food truck, because my cousin hosted and her neighbor owns a food truck...HOW COULD ANYONE BITCH ABOUT A BABY SHOWER WITH A FOOD TRUCK?!?!!! 

As new parents do, I created a baby registry based on what my then-boyfriend and I wanted for our son. 

I also did that wrong, apparently. 

I wanted to wear my baby, so I registered for an expensive baby carrier. 

I also didn’t want to lug around a 20 pound infant car seat, so I registered for a convertible seat that was good for a baby weighing 5-65 pounds. It was expensive, but it was the only seat we’d need.

I took a lot of backlash for these two items. I literally had no idea you could be shamed over a fucking gift registry, but you sure can!

When I got home from my shower and started to unpack gifts and put things away, I found that one person in particular had given me a ton of gifts, but none from my registry. Only later did someone else tell me that this person had said my registry was “ridiculous,” so she bought what she believed I needed.

To be clear, all this did was create extra work for me, as I returned ALL. OF. IT. I took a cart full of stuff I didn’t ask for, back to Target the day after my shower, and exchanged it for the rest of the items I had registered for...since that’s what I actually wanted. I don’t feel bad about it; especially after learning she did it on purpose. Like, why?? 

Tearing apart a new mom’s baby registry means one of three things. One, you’re an insensitive ass hole. Two, you’re an absolute moron. Three, you think you just know better than she does, how to be a mom, how to raise a human, how to be prepared for a baby. Likely it’s a combination of at least two of these three things, but for sure it’s shamey and mean. A mom-to-be puts effort into a registry beyond just clicking ‘add item to list’ - she has done her new-mom research. Which car seat is safest? Which carrier is best for a postpartum back recovery? Which monitor can I travel with easily? Which crib sheets match the nursery I’m creating on Pinterest, and how do I plan to balance nursing, pumping, and bottle feeding? What is the best binky, which stroller will take us on the greatest adventures? A mom’s registry is well thought-out; it’s a packet of things she’s thought a lot about and read a lot of information on, and likely she’s had a lot of conversations with other mom friends to make her decisions. Your choosing to “know better” and making a purchase contradictory to her registry, is a clear message that you know better than her, and that her instincts are wrong.

Everyone has favorite baby items. And experienced moms are a great resource for new moms as to items that are amazing, items that are useless, items they love and hate. It’s all in the way experienced moms present information: just be nice! 

And when a new mom doesn’t immediately drop her own thoughts to follow your exact path, don’t decide she’s a fucking idiot - trust her to trust herself, and then buy her a present she actually asked for. You can always tell her “I told you so” in a year, when she still hasn’t even opened the baby spa tub she wanted because the baby likes the kitchen sink just fine.

(Mom) Shame on You!

Recently, I found myself in a Facebook argument over an incident of public mom shaming. The argument started when I vocalized my frustration over yet another outside observer, blasting a mom on social media for not disciplining her “bratty” kid The Right Way. 

Everyone is such an armchair expert these days. Everyone knows how to do parenting right; how to make a child behave, how to limit screen time, how to discipline in public, how to make a kid eat vegetables. Everyone knows better than you do.

The people who know the actual best, for the record, are perhaps not the Baby Boomers, who raised a generation of people now trying to do it entirely different and in our collective opinion better than the Baby Boomers. Just saying. 

Anyway. So I got myself into this argument, and I felt so wildly defensive of this other mom - a perfect stranger to me - that it got me thinking. Why am I so mad? Why am I so protective of this mom I don’t even know? Why can I literally not remove myself from this argument? 

I was mad because it could just as easily have been ME that this Boomer was dragging through the mud; it could have been ME he reprimanded in public, shaming me in front of an entire audience. It could have been me, as easily as it was her; because everyone knows how to mom better than moms do.

Except for you don’t. 

You especially don’t if you’re a man, because being a mom is not in your wheelhouse. So please, just sit down and shut up.

Mom shaming is certainly not a new phenomenon; mothers in law have been shaming the mothers of their grandbabies for generations, shitting on them behind their backs for every misstep. Moms have told their daughters “that’s not the right way to do that” for years, I’m sure. But social media has allowed for an entire new audience - you can now be mom shamed by complete strangers, for posting the wrong photo. You can have a friend of a friend criticize you for choosing formula or using disposable diapers. Strangers can rip you to shreds for not perfectly aligning the car seat chest clip, or for taking too long to pull away from the school drop off. You can (and will) be dubbed the worst mom in the universe, at any time, by anyone, for anything.

Congrats, New Mom, and good fucking luck!

Mom shame doesn’t even wait to kick off until you have given birth, by the way; it starts long before that. Again, thanks to social media, mommy blogs, and online mom groups, you can be shamed all throughout your pregnancy for eating the wrong thing, not giving into your cravings, drinking caffeine, working out too much, working out too little, dressing too casually, wearing heels, going on maternity leave before baby’s arrival, working too close to your due date...

You name it, someone will give you a fucking hard time about it.

And it isn’t just your frenemies or overreaching aunties either; you’ll likely run into at least one nurse, OBGYN, lactation consultant, or pediatrician in your 40 week pregnancy, who thinks you are the World’s Shittiest Mom-to-Be...and they’ll be sure to convey that memo to you as professionally as they can muster! You’ll be pressured  into breastfeeding, questioned about your birth plan, yelled at when your baby doesn’t latch or if you don’t wake up the second he cries; you’ll be cringed at for packing a binky in your hospital bag, you MONSTER. 

As my son approaches two years old - still somehow in one piece despite having never been spanked and refusing to drink enough water while watching YouTube and napping with the cat - I find myself eager to speak my piece on the perils of mom-ing in the age of social media and public mom shaming. Being a mom is really hard; really rewarding and amazing and special, but really fucking hard. And as I count down the final ten days with my one year old before celebrating his leap into year three, I wanted to share some of this journey with the world.

So with this I give you, Grownup Tantrums: New Mom Edition. For the next ten days, I’ll walk you through a new mom milestone (a new one each day) - how I celebrated it, how I was judged for it, and how I came out of it still knowing I’m a damn good mom. 

#endmomshaming

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

I am a reader; I always have been a reader. I was reading books all on my own by the time I was three years old, and I've never stopped reading.

Except for that I haven't really read any books not intended for babies, since June.

Day three of thirty: A Favorite Book

One of the best things about being a new mom, is experiencing all of the nostalgia. I find myself wrapped up in Sesame Street and Mister Rogers, and reading the books I loved as a little kid. I buy vintage Fisher Price toys instead of newfangled plastic crap. I asked for used books at my baby shower and have read old Care Bear stories all summer long. I love that my baby's toys are in my grandma's toy box, and that I can cuddle Grant on the couch and watch Jungle Book to my heart's content.

From almost the first day home with Grant, I've made sure to take a few minutes during bedtime to read him a story. And it has been my absolute favorite. I love to pick out a book among my favorite oldie but goodies, snuggle up on the couch, and read out loud - Grant likes to look at the pictures and turn the pages, and I like to make silly voices and attempt not to stumble over crazy Dr. Seuss rhymes.

I love books, and I love that Grant already loves books. I love that I can take him to Powell's, sit on the floor with him, and thumb through a Curious George adventure before picking out some of my old favorites to buy and take home to add to his bookshelf. I love that I'm the one who reads to him - whether I have to get up early or go to work or take him somewhere or leave him home, at the end of the day, I get to put him in his jammies, snuggle him up, and read our bedtime story.

And I am fairly confident that a time will come that after he falls asleep, I will be awake enough to curl back up and read my own book.
An adult sized one.
One with chapters.
And big words.
And no pictures.

I'm pretty sure someday that will come again. 

Until then, though, for today my heart is thankful for my favorite time of the day, snuggling up to read a story to my baby.

#adventureswithmynugget

I don't know if it qualifies as a freedom if you don't earn any income the whole time and so technically you're too broke to do anything, but I am really, really grateful that I was able to take 18 full weeks off of work for maternity leave...

Day two of thirty: A Freedom You Have

Not everyone is able to take 18 weeks off work without pay.

In fact, most people are not able to take 18 weeks off work without pay.

And in all reality, I should probably not have taken 18 weeks off work without pay.

But I did.
Because I could.
And because I wanted to.
And because my parents were able to help me do so.

I think what it boiled down to, was that I was able to pay my rent and car payment in advance and save up some money in the months leading up to my maternity leave, so that Matt only had to earn enough with his summer gig to pay for our more minor expenses - groceries, cell phones, etc. And I knew ahead of time that as long as I could save that extra, pay ahead on rent, and be smart with saving what I could ahead of time, that I would be free to take an extended maternity leave and not have to go back to work the very moment I could roll my mangled body out of bed.

My maternity leave was not free.
It wasn't paid.
In fact, we just did the math - before insurance, if we include the absence of income, it cost well over $50,000 to carry and deliver Grant, and then for me to stay home until October.

Was it difficult? Oh yes, very.
Was it worth it? Oh yes, very.

We will take two years to fiscally recover from my four-month "vacation" as someone called it today. Two years. To recover our savings, pay back my parents, and see my gross income and taxes back to "normal."

And yet, it was worth every hardship to come, to spend those 18 weeks at home with my new baby.

I have watched far too many of my friends go back to work only six weeks postpartum. Six weeks?! At six weeks, I could literally barely walk to the mailbox, let alone come back to work. At six weeks, Grant was still snuggling through every nap, eating every five seconds, peeing through diapers in between each of those five seconds. More importantly, he was still making a new sound, a new movement, a new face, every time I looked at him. And my hormones were OUT. OF. CONTROL. I could never have just missed one of his new noises; I'd have likely died.

Six weeks is not even remotely enough time to heal - physically or hormone-wise - and go back to an office 40-50 hours a week. I can't even imagine. I had a hard time coming back at 18 weeks.

But six weeks is the sad reality in America, because our employers don't pay for our time off to bond with our babies. The second your vagina is sort of back in place, they want you back at a desk. It took a lot of planning, scrimping, and compulsive list-making for Matt and I to get a plan in place so I could take the time off. It was certainly not "free" by any stretch. But today, my heart is definitely thankful for the freedom to take an extended leave, so I could be home to adventure with my nugget.

And Then I Puked on the Floor at Chevron

I located this graphic online while searching for just the right 30 day Instagram photo challenge, and felt it would make for a great 30 day BLOG challenge - and since I am clearly a blog failure these days, a bit of competitive motivation may just be the ticket to get my wheels turning again.

So with that, here we go...

Day one of thirty: Someone You Love 

It is hard to narrow this down to just one person I love for whom I am grateful...which is of course, not a bad problem to have. At this point in my life, I am simply surrounded by love - one decision I feel that came instinctively the moment Grant was born, was the decision to only surround him with love. The fact that this means I too am only surrounded with love, is a happy result of the decision I made on Grant's behalf.

I am, of course, especially grateful for Matt, with whom I now share my home, my life, my before-bed ice cream, and my baby boy. He has definitely demonstrated to me that at the moment in your life that you are ready for someone or something, life has a way of delivering. I wasn't looking for Matt. I wasn't looking for anything or anyone; I was existing happily in my world, working my ass off, starting fresh with a new job and a new apartment, in a new city...technically even a new state. And what was intended to be a casual, friendly plus one to a wedding, has turned into 14 months of complete transformation, and what I can literally only describe as bliss.

I think that part of the experience of real love is someone providing for you what you didn't know you needed. I have always been fiercely independent, and I would never have been consciously aware that I would be in need of something that I couldn't get for myself. I never would have thought that by escorting me to a wedding as a family friend, Matt would change everything about my life, and all for the better.

I am still the same fiercely independent person, with a pretty strong desire to do what I want, how I want, where I want - but the past year has taught me that being with someone who loves you, doesn't actually take away from that. Matt helps me make decisions, but he never tells me what to do. He weighs in, but supports my choices. He is considerate, thoughtful, engaging, and ultimately helps calm my brain as it spins off its top.

Most importantly, though, Matt is right by my side - always - as we successfully raise our tiny human. And so today because it is my blog topic (but every other day because he's awesome), my heart is thankful for Matt.

Why I'm the Reason Doctors Can't Say "One Hundred Percent Sure"

Five years ago today, I had an endometrial surgery, after which I was told I would not likely be able to conceive a baby on my own (yes, I know no one can conceive a baby alone - that isn't what I meant). I had the surgery thinking that I had a cyst on my ovaries, which is actually a pretty simple procedure. But mid-surgery, my mom was notified that I actually had a large amount of endometriosis that needed removed. Also, what they believed from my ultrasound to be a cyst on my ovary, was actually a leftover part of what would have developed into my male reproductive organs, had I been a boy, and it was wrapped fully around my fallopian tube.

WHAT??! Yes, I am dead serious, and here's a science lesson: When a fetus is still developing, they have what is necessary to be either male or female, depending on the surge of testosterone that either does (makes baby a boy) or does not (makes baby a girl) enter the system sometime late in the first trimester. Prior to that, basically the fetus has all that's needed to be either male or female, and once the testosterone makes that decision for the fetus, the cells become either male or female, and the baby's sex is determined.

Aaaaand here I was, 29 years old, undergoing surgery to remove what actually ended up being cells that would have formed part of my penis, had my body flooded with testosterone while I was still an embryo. Instead, my body was not flooded with testosterone, so I became a girl...and then my body held on to some of the boy parts, and in turn, was essentially making me sterile.

Yea, I know. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Anyway, so they were somehow able to remove all this gross crap and in turn salvage my fallopian tube, because science is amazing. However at this point I was told I would likely need the intervention of science and technology, should I happen to change my NEVER, NO WAY, NOT ME stance on becoming a mother. And because I didn't want to be a mother, I was mostly okay with that. I had a bit of trouble accepting that the decision was now being made for me by my put-together-wrong body, instead of made by me mentally, but in the end I was glad it was me and not a woman who was desperate to bear children. Better me than someone else, ended up pacifying me, and I moved on with a few short chats with my therapist.

I then spent the next five years convinced that - as I was told by my doctors - I wasn't going to be able to get pregnant. I was relatively routine with my birth control, but not as careful as a single woman should be. The more time that passed that I didn't have a pregnancy scare, the more solidified I becae in the fact that it wasn't going to happen - after all, if I could get pregnant, certainly at some point of forgetting my pill for days at a time, I would get pregnant. And I never, ever did. So the not being able to have a baby thing, just firmed up in my mind as I moved through my single adulthood.

Which of course I now understand is not super responsible.

Anyway, so with that bit of back story, let's fast forward to September, 2017, shall we?

My BFF Kattie was getting married, and my other BFF Rachel and I were both in the wedding. Since we knew we would have lots of bridesmaid duties to attend to throughout the day, and since I was as single as ever at this point, we decided I should take Rachel's brother in law as my date, so that her husband had company to hang out with at the wedding. It was basically a brilliant plan devised by Rachel and I, adhered to by Josh and his brother Matt, because they tend to just go with the flow of what's asked of them.

Matt was the best wedding date ever.

Clearly.

Because as I type this - six months after the wedding - I am five-and-some-change months pregnant with our baby boy.

Now may be a good time to include the fact that Matt, too, was told by qualified medical personnel that he would not be able to conceive children. And in case you were thinking that we decided to try to have a baby anyway, let me just stop you right there. There was no efforts made, no plan in place, no hopes, no discussions, not even any fleeting thought. There were, however, several consecutive days and nights of two consensual single adults enjoying each other's company.

And at least one of them developing quite a crush on the other one of them (fortunately this crush has both been mutual and continued to develop over the last five months).

As time went on and we continued hanging out more, I was finding myself sick at all hours of the day. Really sick. Puke sick. Miserable. But for me, this is also a quite normal side effect of stress, and working at the building I was working at, was causing some stress. I thought literally nothing of this constant nausea. It mimicked a similar episode from a couple of years prior, where I was eventually regurgitating everything I ingested; at that time I had spent a lot of time and a lot of money for a diagnosis of "carries stress in the tummy, try to chill out." I had no intention of repeating the same expensive routine I had already, and wrote my symptoms off as stress.

So did my mom, for the record.

Every day, she was sending me Yoga apps and calming articles, reminding me to shut off my phone at night and to get more sleep.

Anyway, so Matt and I continued to hang out, I continued to throw up constantly, and I continued to think it was really weird. I failed to take into account other symptoms, like the fact that I was gaining weight even though I wasn't holding any food down, or the fact that I was exhausted. I didn't notice the increased chin acne or the fact that my boobs were bigger, nor did it ever cross my mind that I had not had a period in several months. Literally you guys, I am not exaggerating even remotely - my body was physically screaming that I was pregnant, and I was as oblivious as any human could ever be.

Finally, on Christmas morning, I sent a Snap to Rachel letting her know I was on my way to her house after Christmas breakfast. I was annoyed because I had just thrown up my breakfast. I had scheduled a doctor's appointment for like, March 12th and was frustrated about waiting such a long time when I was literally barfing non stop. She snapped back that maaaaaybe just to be safe, I should pick up a pregnancy test.

"To rule it out," we said.

I texted Matt and let him know I was taking one, and we literally both thought nothing of it. I was 1,000% certain the result would be negative, and that I was wasting six dollars on a two pack of Clear Blue tests on Christmas morning...where surely the cashier had judged the fuck out of me.

I get to Rachel's, and no one is home - Matt had tagged along with Josh to pick up Rachel's mom and brother for Christmas dinner. Rachel is in the kitchen, so I run up to the upstairs bathroom to pee on the waste-of-money stick. I go to set it down on the counter - because you know, they take two minutes to process or whatever - and the damn thing is already blue.

Not a little bit blue you guys. SOLID. FUCKING. BLUE.

Like, holy shit you are reeeeeeally pregnant, blue.
No Doubt About it Blue, as I will now refer to the shade of that solid bold blue line.

And all I can do in this moment is yell down the stairs for Rachel, while still having the wits about me to wash my hands. As she comes up the stairs, she's sighing and telling me that it hasn't been two minutes, and what do I possibly need from her. I hand her the stick (because apparently if it's a pregnancy test, no one cares that it's still your pee) and we have a shared heart attack before she gets the words out that we're both thinking: well, you are pregnant as fuck!

And that I was!

And that I am!

I called the doctor immediately on the 26th, and scheduled an ultrasound for as soon as humanly possible - which for them was January 3rd. Matt and I waited the eight day eternity for the appointment, where an ultrasound tech confirmed that I was, in fact, 16 weeks pregnant. The ultrasound image was not that of a kidney bean like most first ultrasounds, but rather of a human body, waving at us on the screen. He seemed to be saying, "it's about time, you morons," but in a cute baby way. We left the doctor, got back to my apartment, and shared the news to Facebook (news we had already divulged to parents and immediate family members): miracle baby on the way - don't listen to doctors who tell you that you cannot make a baby.

Because as it turns out, you maybe can.

Just don't think about it, ponder it, wonder about it, be curious over it. Don't worry or stress about it. Accept it as not happening, ever. Move past it and then don't be careful with your birth control, because why would you be? It's not like you can get pregnant. Oh and also choose a partner who can't get you pregnant; don't waste time with some Fertile Mertile.

Fully embrace that getting pregnant is impossible. Apparently that is the secret.

And of course, it makes total sense that I am having a boy...since my story started with my fallopian tube being essentially crushed and almost destroyed by my own leftover embryonic boy parts!