The Truth About Having A Baby

I read so many of blogs and Facebook posts about pregnancies, birth stories, and the early days with babies. Everyone seems to have had such lovely experiences. I think that's why I never wrote anything of substance about mine: other than the outcome -- my delightful daughter -- my experiences were not pleasant (understatement of the century). I had a challenging pregnancy; I had a long, painful, and traumatic childbirth experience, the high point of which was the surgical intervention; my first few weeks with my daughter were painful because of complications from surgery and panicked because of breastfeeding difficulties. None of it was pretty, and almost a year after the baby's birth, I am still traumatized.

Don't read any further if you're squeamish.

Almost-Mother's Day

It's been a long time since I really celebrated Mother's Day. For the past four years without my mom it's been hard -- a reminder of what I've lost.

But this year was the start of something new for me, my identity as a mother and not just as a daughter and granddaughter. Even though the baby is not-quite-here yet, I am already her mommy, and she is already my child, my daughter. There's just so much to look forward to in that.

L sent me lovely flowers, and informed me via text message that the baby helped pick them out. I'm not quite sure how that works, since I'm fairly certain that the only one she communicates with is me, and it's through kicks and punches.


Over the past few months, with the pregnancy, my mother has been back in my dreams, a lot. I mostly just remember bits and pieces of them, but I have a vivid recollection of one dream from a few nights ago. Mom and I were arguing about the baby's name, and who to name the baby after, and the argument escalated until it ended with me telling her that she couldn't tell me what to name the baby, because she was dead and I had to name the baby after her.

Sometimes I wish I just had sex dreams like everyone else.

35 Days of Solitude

And so, with the chicken pox mostly behind us, on Sunday, L left for a five-week work training program in Little Rock, Arkansas.  When we first found out that this class was possible, it freaked me out a bit.  I mean, he was going to leave me alone for the end of the seventh month and most of the eighth.  But the alternatives were worse -- I don't think I could handle being left alone with a newborn.

And so, here we are.  I'm hoping to use the alone time to get stuff done in the house, but let's face it -- I don't have the energy to do a lot right now, and I'm slow as molasses.

In sickness and . . .

L and I have both been sick. I had originally caught a cold right around Thanksgiving, then got really sick when we were heading back from St. Thomas. I fought to get rid of the cold over Christmas and New Year's -- but, of course, then L got sick. Then I got sick again. Vicious cycle.

Finally, by last week, we were all but certain that we had sinus infections, so I broke down and made us both doctors appointments. Last Wednesday evening, we finally got our hands on some good, old fashioned antibiotics, and climbed into bed after taking our pills -- L took his with some Sudafed, I took mine with some cough syrup since the Sudafed keeps me awake at night. I then proceeded to cough so hard that I threw up all over myself.

Once I cleaned up, brushed my teeth, and changed my pajamas, I sat in bed crying for a few minutes. This, of course, was very distressing to my husband, who, I'm fairly certain, had not really seen me cry. In defense, though, I'm not much of a cryer, and when I do it, it's mostly in secret.

Still, he was awesome. He held my hand and told me that he loved me. Which is pretty amazing if you think about it: to still love someone after they've just thrown up all over themselves and are a weeping, emotional mess.