Cape Lookout

It's a vacation within a vacation. My absolute favorite place in the world.

And hopefully, it's still there Sunday...

Long Time Coming

I've needed a change. For a while, now. I mean, in most every area of my life. So, let me fill you in on what's been going on with me.

I'm fat. That's been established. I tried to start a "lifestyle change" in January, lost about 8 lbs, then gained 15. Three weeks ago, I was at my heaviest weight ever (not including pregnancy): 248lbs. So I joined myfitnesspal.com and hooked up with some amazingly motivating ladies from a message board I am on, and have lost 9 pounds in 3 weeks. My food diary is public, so the real motivating factor has been me knowing that other people can see what I'm eating. I do not like being judged on weight, especially not when I know it's utterly my fault for looking like this.

What I am even MORE proud of than the weight loss, though, is the fact that I have had fast food only once in the last three weeks, and had a Coke only twice. It's getting a craving, and still making the choice to eat something different when my mind is saying "Godiva chocolate cheesecake" that impresses me. I hate those diet articles in magazines that say crap like "when you want salty chips, eat veggies and hummus instead" or "choose a piece of fruit instead of a chocolate chip cookie". WTF? I don't want a freaking apple, and my body is smarter than that. If I give it nuts and an apple, it's going to cross it's arms and roll it's collective eyes and be all "this bitch HATES me". And then it will rebel.

But it hasn't. I feel more confident than ever that I can make the right choice 85% of the time, and forgive myself and let it go the other 15.

Also, in other news, I'm raising a toddler. And coming off the heels of the 18 months that I was most terrified of, I thought, this parenting thing is going to be so much easier than I expected. Pre-schoolers have always loved me, listened to me, and done whatever I asked them to. Um, yeah right. Schooled me. The last 6 months have been incredibly difficult as I have dealt with feelings of intense mommy guilt, not feeling like a good parent, not being patient enough, not giving my son enough credit for the great things he does, dwelling on the negative, and basically thinking that he would be better off with anyone besides me for a mom.

It's almost been like I caught post-partum depression, 18 months late.

So I started seeing a counselor. And while I won't go into detail, it has so far been so wonderfully freeing to listen to someone tell me that I'm normal, that I don't need to be embarrassed that I have more internet friends than real life friends, and that I should work on not worrying as much about what other people have going on and how it compares to me.

The only thing that has helped me get through this rough patch more than these appointments (other than a supportive husband who has definitely pulled more parenting duty lately to release some of my burden) are 22 of the most amazing women I have ever known. Every day they confirm for me that my child is not a hellion (or at least not the only 22-month old hellion out there) and that we will all get through this. So far it's been 3 years, give or take, that we've "known" each other, and I hope that it lasts a lifetime, whether we ever get to meet in person or not. And even though I tell them this on our page on occasion, I wanted some PUBLIC way to let them know how much they mean to me. You all know who you are, and I thank God every day for that fateful day when a handful of assorted women climbed into a "tub" together and let their guards down.

Our First Toddler Tantrum!

First things first, enter my giveaway! And don't forget, you can get an extra entry every time you vote for me on Picket Fence and leave a comment!


Ah, the bliss of parenthood before you reach certain "stages". I love how I should now be able to fit not only my foot, but my entire right leg in mouth with all the times I've said "when Jacob does ________, I will respond by doing _______". And then he does that thing that you weren't expecting to have to react to for at least another few months (biting, throwing food, hitting the dog, not listening the fifteenth time I've taken his hand out of the water bowl) and it just kind of takes you completely by surprise.

Last night, he had his first meltdown. And while my husband and I always said we were going to be Perfect McPerfectsons who handled the situation exactly as we should (ignore it until he was finished), instead we bursted into completely unexpected laughter. And then spent the next 120 seconds or so trying to hide our laughter from our poor son, who was just all out of sorts.

The reason? Because Da-da wanted to give him his medicine, instead of Ma-ma. Bad move, parents! I have never seen a more asinine request be met with a more ridiculous emotional response, but hey, we're dealing with a 13 month old here. Daddy and I were sitting side by side on the recliner (I, the rule breaker, was sitting on the arm of the recliner) and Jacob was standing beside us in the floor, being a crankypants and wanting me to pick him up. He loves medicine, so this should have been uncomplicated, but when I said "go sit in Daddy's lap" he threw his little fists in the air, turned in the opposite direction of us, and threw himself on the floor, complete with banging fists and crying.

Oh, we tried so hard to hold it in, but it was seriously the funniest thing I have ever seen. Imagine a tiny toddler (barely 18 pounds and all of 28 1/2 inches tall to put it in perspective) in his cutesy pajamas throwing a full blown temper tantrum, red faced, blonde hair standing up on end, runny nose. He did it three more times: get up, reach for me, I told him calmly to sit in daddy's lap, turn, fall, tantrum, rinse, repeat. HILARIOUSNESS! I thought I was going to feel upset, frustrated, anxious, angry, guilty, whatever: I felt NONE OF THAT! I just felt sheer joy at the fact that A) this was seriously funny and B) that I could recognize this is normal behaviour for his age and that the best thing to do was just remain calm and firm.

What's the point of this story? I don't know, I'll be honest. I just wanted to share that maybe things you are dreading won't be as bad as you are expecting. After 4 or 5 times of the tantrum cycle, it ended just as quickly as it began, and he walked right over to my husband, reached up, and happily sat in Daddy's lap as I gave him his antibiotics.

I'm not even going to say what I will do next time, but I can tell you that I do not yet know if I would have the same reaction if my kid was face-to-face with a dirty grocery store floor. I may just end up being one of those moms that do the kid-snatch and leave a half-full grocery cart right in the aisle. Just goes to show...the best made plans are often laid to waste!

...A Year Ago Today.

When I started this I was really excited to recount my birth story, but now it's my baby's birthday and what I really want is to write a big, fat letter about how much I love him and post it. Since I've baited you this far, I suppose I should finish the task at hand!

Waking up in the hospital was like not really waking up. I had spent the night strapped to so many monitors and contraptions that every time I had to go potty (which was like 847 because I was almost 10 months pregnant at this point) I had to wrap all these cords around my shoulders and hobble into the bathroom. I probably slept an hour and a half total. My Pitocin drip started between 8 and 9 AM, and despite the horror-story warnings I had received, my body worked surprisingly well with the drug. I began having contractions almost immediately, but they were soft, gentle, well-spaced, and generally just a minor interruption to my day.

This is the part where I wish I could change things. Doctors and nurses preach "protocol" in the hospital setting a lot, but going into it I knew that I didn't HAVE to be monitored the whole time if I felt like it wasn't necessary. Knowing the kind of birth experience I wanted, I should have been much more proactive and voiced my opinions instead of drifting blissfully along, eating jello and talking to DH while doing nothing but lying in bed all day. If I could go back, I would insist on 15 minutes an hour off the monitors as long as baby's heart rate was fine (it was) and my blood pressure was manageable (it was, barely). I would have showered, stretched myself across the birthing ball, walked the hallway, gotten on all fours, anything I could do to progress my own labor. But when you're strapped to an ever-increasing drip of Pitocin, the hospital staff start thinking lawsuit and get antsy.

Around 11AM things were looking promising...my contractions were steady, and I had dilated about 1/2cm, enough that my OB (our second favorite, and coincidentally the doc who delivered my 2 1/2 year old niece) could break my water. This was honestly the MOST painful part of my entire pregnancy, labor, delivery, and recovery. Probably because they usually wait until you are a little more open to do it, but that couldn't be helped in my situation. It took somewhere between 3-4 tries, but I was practically blind with vaginal pain at that point so I stopped counting.

The next 3 hours were awesome...and I mean awesome only by the fact that I felt something was HAPPENING. I was finally in LABOR! Despite our plea that we only wanted my mother and mother in law to visit, and only while I was in labor (not when time to push) we had several visits from other family throughout the day, and I didn't even mind. My contractions were getting stronger, so much that I needed to practice breathing techniques, and steady and closer together. When my OB can back to check around 2:30, I was sure she would tell me I was at a 4.

Not so much. My cervix HAD NOT BUDGED. At this point, everyone was still hopeful for a natural delivery, except me. I was too busy worrying and being a pessimist and having that Big C hanging over my head. Since baby was doing fine, she wanted to use an internal monitor to make sure my contractions were strong enough because I was already on a high dose of Pit. At this point, getting out of bed was no longer an option. She also suggested Stadol for the first time, and I surprised myself by accepting. Her argument convinced me: at the rate we were going, this could be a 24 hour labor and I needed to rest. My pain level was not as high as I had expected, but the contractions were definitely make sleep impossible.

The next 3 hours were a blur, mostly because of the two doses of Stadol (and two subsequent 1 hour naps) and the breathing and concentration through the heaviest contractions yet. They were painful and getting worse, but nowhere near the level of pain I thought I would be in. Even so, hubby and I had a plan for the next OB check. The guidelines were this: if I was dilated at a 6 or higher, no more drugs because I knew I could handle it, 4-6 would be epidural time, 2-4 was iffy maybe just more Stadol, and if I still wasn't past a 2, then surgery time it was. Maybe I gave in too soon, but after Cervadil, Pitocin, and no more than a 1/2cm progression in 20 hours, it was time to let this kid see the world.

The doctor gave me the choice, which I will be forever grateful for, but it was time. Once we said the word, I have never seen people move so fast. Apparently, there was an operating room opening up right away, and within 10 minutes I was naked from the waist down, being shaved by two nurses, and talking to an anesthesiologist while hubby and the moms were packing up our room. Within 20 minutes, I was being wheeled into an operating room, stuck in the spine, and strapped to a cold steel table, naked and exposed from the waist down. The 10 or so people in ther emoved like clockwork, and I think I had the best nurse anesthecist ever. My husband joined me, I felt nothing, we just looked at each other with love in our eyes and waited.

And at 6:36PM, our tiny baby boy was out and crying for the first time. I cried, of course, and when they whisked him into the next room with John by his side, I could hear him crying. It made me so happy first, because I knew he was alive and well, but the longer I went without him the more I felt the pull of "he's crying because he needs mommy".

The worst part of the c-section? Not being able to hold Jacob for more than an hour after his birth. The best part? Seeing my husband holding him first, and the absolute joy and pride coming from his face as he brought our son over to me.

And a year later, I cannot even explain all the ways my life has changed for the better. No matter what the sacrifice I've made, which hasn't felt like much this year, there is nothing I would change. My baby is happy, healthy, and even sometimes cuddly. He's intelligent and loves to point at things and say "be-gock?" which I guess is his way of saying "what's that?" He gives the best hugs and open-mouthed kisses a mama could ask for, loves people, loves his family, and brings so much love and laughter into our home. I cannot wait to see what the next year holds.

...A Year Ago Today...

Was probably the most emotionally demanding day of my life.

My doctor's appointment (41w1d) was a rollercoaster of emotions. First of all, I was thrilled because it was with my favorite doc out of the 5 rotating OB's at my practice. He was supportive of my hopes for low-intervention and was very laid back. When he checked, baby was head down, everything seemed good, but I had nothing going on "down there". Since we were at 41 weeks and he knew induction was a last resort for me, we did the "NST" which is where they monitor the baby's heart and movement and their response to any contractions (not that I had any). Sometimes they give you a low dose of Pitocin before they do this just to try to manufacture some uterine movement, but my doc didn't. No biggie, JTD passed with flying colors and the only hurdle left was the ultrasound. We were fully prepared to go back home and wait another week if needed.

Plus, the prospect of an ultrasound was really exciting...as someone with a normal pregnancy, I had not seen my little boy in pictures since my 18 week appointment! My excitement, however, faded as the ultrasound tech took measurement after measurement and commented more than once about my fluid level, saying it was harder to get a clear picture with so much less amniotic fluid in there. Also, my little guys' parts were measuring much smaller than they should have been. For a 41 week baby, the doc was probably expecting to see an 8 pounder, but what we saw was more like a 6 pounder with thighs measuring at 36 weeks. Had my baby stopped growing?

That, and the low amniotic fluid, made the decision for Doc. He called us into his office and said, "it looks like a great day to have a baby". My husband beamed like a proud new dad while I tried to hold back my tears. I knew what was coming. I was only dilated 1cm, having no contractions whatsoever, and the baby hadn't even really dropped. At this point, we had our bag packed and ready, but we still asked if we could go home and come back. Mainly because I was kind of in shock, and my husband really needed to mow the lawn. No, really...it had been more than a week and we knew it would be another week before he could get to it.

We left with plans to come back to the hospital that evening, and I cried almost the whole way home. Hubby decided it was a good plan to stop by work and let them know that he was taking his 2 week "paternity leave" starting then, and one of his co-workers felt the need to come out and congratulate me. So there I was, sobbing in the car, feeling even more guilty because I should be elated at the fact that I would be a mom the next day, and all I could think about was how it wasn't supposed to happen this way. While hubby mowed the grass I furiously signed online and read every birth story I could find while researching Bishop's Score. My Bishop's Score gave me a 45% chance of a c-section. Somehow, I knew as soon as I saw that, that I would be having one. So I did more research on c-sections and calmed myself down a little with the birth stories I saw posted that ended that way. I didn't want it to end that way, but at least I felt more prepared. (Thank GAWD that episode of Gray's Anatomy where that baby's arm gets severed during a c-s hadn't aired yet.)

I think I was finally feeling more myself when we got to the hospital. I was reading my gossip mags, hanging in bed, excited that I would finally get to feel labor pains. No, I'm not kidding, I really couldn't wait to feel a contraction. At this point, I was READY. For anything. I knew I could handle it.

Oh, how God takes our plans and throws them out the window sometimes.

A Year Ago Today...

I was 41 weeks pregnant, and finally starting to wonder if things were ever going to go as planned.

(*I made you look, right...you thought this would be a birthday letter? Oh, no, ladies...this is Part 1 of a 3 day birth story. Pull up a chair and a cup of coffee and enjoy.*)

My nature is typically like that of a non-planner. My family's vacation agenda is actually classified as "No Agenda". In fact, that's the name of my dad's boat because when my sister and I were around 12 and 16, he got tired of us saying "what's on the agenda today?" So I didn't write a birth PLAN, I wrote some birth "preferences" (no, really, the sheet I took to the hospital said "birth preferences for Baby ____"). I had hoped to have a natural and minimally medicated labor and delivery. I was more comfortable with the idea of narcotic pain relief than the dreaded epidural, but since I had only prepared with the simple "here are all of your options" birth class and not invested time in Bradley, water birth, or Hypno-Babies, I knew that the chances of me not giving in to the pressure were about 50-50.

Mainly, I just wanted to go with the flow. (Word of advice: in retrospect, this was not a good plan, more on that tomorrow.)

So, on Sunday, at 41 weeks pregnant (and still wearing a non-maternity top, so what if it was stretched to the limit) I took a leisurely trip to the Farmer's Market with my BFF. We bought peaches for me to blanch and freeze, and then she gave me reflexology to try to help induce labor***. Walking and this one session of a wonderful foot massage were the only natural labor-induction techniques I tried. Maybe I would change that, too, if I could go back in time. But maybe not...I had a very relaxing week off before baby came, thinking about a lot of things. Mostly how much my life was going to change, and I better soak up my last chance to be lazy.

I had my OB appointment set for the next afternoon, and I was hoping that all the walking was doing something to stretch out my cervix. As a member of an online pregnancy community, I tried not to be discouraged by the fact that I had remained closed up tight the entire 3rd trimester, because every other day were birth story posts about how they went in for their 39,40 week appointment, talked over induction because they still hadn't dilated or effaced, only to go home and begin labor spontaneously.

Oh, how I waited that week to begin labor spontaneously. I had such an easy pregnancy, without so much as a vaginal cramp, but at this point I was actually starting to find myself jealous of the women complaining at 28 weeks of all the Braxton-Hicks they were having. Call me crazy, but I wanted to KNOW what a contraction was, what I was in for, even just a preview so that I could better gauge if I would be able to handle labor or not.

To wrap up Sunday, I relaxed for my reflexology session and went to bed early. No broken water, no labor pains, not so much as a hint of contraction in my girly region. What on earth would we find out at the doctor's appointment?

***Although I am in no way certified, for any of my readers out there full term pregnant and ready to give birth, try rubbing the indentation of skin between your heel and your ankle bone. Use firm, long strokes.***

And in the End, I Have No Control.

When we last "spoke", I was trying to make the decision as to whether to keep pumping or give up the fight. After pumping so much that last week and having a wonderful week breastfeeding my son (my walking, talking, almost no longer a baby, son), I lugged the monstrous Medela and associated accoutrements, ice packs, and cold bag back to work today.

After an extremely hectic morning that included a new hire that I had no idea was starting today at the door at 9AM, I finally sat down about an hour ago and prepared myself, only to find after sitting half exposed in my freezing office that my pump is broken. This moment could not be any more anticlimactic if I tried. I fumbled around for a few minutes, trying to figure out if the plug or something was just messed up. It may be the A/C adapter, and it may work in my car at lunch. But as of right now, the word is no more full time pumping.

I should be overjoyed. Lord knows I have done nothing but complain about it for the last 6 or so months. Here, in my online mom group, to my husband, family, co-workers. All they have heard is what a drag it is and how I can't wait to be done with it. But now that the choice has been taken away from me, I'm left only with the thought of the impending weekend and my probable inability to nurse my son more than twice a day.

I tried to cherish every moment of nursing over the last nine days, knowing that we would likely be cutting back. But I am a very sentimental, nostalgic person inside, and all I can focus on now is how my baby is not a baby any more. He is now walking 75% of the time, and the crawling is really only to find something to pull up on so that he can walk. No more watching a crawling, naked baby following me down the hall to fold laundry. No more soothing at the breast. No more naps with mommy...he has trained himself well to sleep in a crib in a room on his own. He is growing more independent by the day, and with the countdown to his 1 year birthday at 23 days now, Mama is growing weepier and weepier at the loss of her wee babe.

I thought I got it before, when everyone told me it flies by. But I am only now beginning to understand...

I Love Guest Bloggers!

You guys know that I love, love, love Anne from AJD+three. She inspires me in so many ways. Possibly the biggest is when I get down about being a full-time working mama and feel stretched to my absolute limit, I can think about her being a full-time working single mama, putting herself through law school. It doesn't get tougher than that, ladies and gents, which is why I feel that this post of hers in particular should not only win some awards, but also be able to be entered as an essay on any job application she is filling out!

Without further ado, ENJOY!

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Why “Mom” Should be Considered a Job Asset

First, I want to start off my saying I am honored to guest post for Ali. She is a good friend and a great blogger. I racked my brain for something interesting, witty, funny, and captivating to share with you all today….well, you get this instead, as I have discovered I blog best when I am blogging about what strikes me.

Those of you familiar with my blog know that I am unemployed and I like to keep it real. Reality for me is, I have been job searching for over a year and the “gap” in my employment history has become quite an issue. I am volunteering to plug the hole a bit, but really, employers know that I just can’t find a job.

You know what I think though? I should be permitted to plug that hole with the job title “Stay at Home Mom.” I should be able to write down: “Completed work projects after traditional work hours.” Or maybe: “Mastered multi-tasking amongst multiple high priority tasks with a high rate of success.” How about: “Obtained good results working with high demand clients.” Those are all necessary, useful and impressive job skills, right?

Well, unfortunately, in my profession and in many others, being a stay at home mom not held in a positive light. In my field specifically, as an attorney, many firms consider having a family to be a negative attribute, as that family may take time away from working. Despite working a job that often is done thanklessly and without pay (aside from the unemployment, of course), I cannot say that I have worked during this past year. I simply must leave that year blank.

How screwed up is this? I know all moms, those who work from home, stay at home, work outside of the home, work very hard to maintain their homes, raise their children, be good wives or partners and still keep a part of themselves. I find it really difficult to fathom why work as important as child rearing is often not considered valuable work experience or history to hiring managers out there.

I am not naive enough to believe “you and I can change the world” or anything of that sort. I know that when I wake up tomorrow that my resume will still end in June 2009. But I also know that I appreciate my accomplishments. I have learned a great deal from staying at home. I have gained many hard to acquire skills.

So to me, those skills, my friends, are job assets.

This post was going to be titled "Say Goodbye to my Little Friend"

Because when I made this decision on Monday, today was supposed to be my last day pumping. I was going to go home, throw out all my flanges, and put this monstrous leather bound box with a strap on a very, very high shelf and forget about it. We are 2 days away from the one-month-countdown to birthday, and for the next 9 days I will be by my little guy's side 24-7 (well, except maybe a date with hubby one night) so I decided that I would pump this week just to keep my supply regulated so I can feed him those 9 days.

My supply has steadily decreased over the last 7 months. Working full-time and nursing just don't mesh easily. Am I proud of myself for sticking this out so long? Of course! Am I hoping that my boobs and Jacob's wishes will allow us to still nurse twice a day for the next 6 months or so? Absolutely! But it's so disenheartening to pump only 4 oz a day, and earlier this week I reached the point where it was taking 20 minutes to let down. Not good for the nips in any way, shape, or form. It even hurt to nurse him because I was so sore from pumping.

This combined with the fact that he has taken straight formula bottles a couple of times recently and happily consumed them, when before he would reject a bottle if there were not at least 2 oz of breastmilk mixed in, made the decision a little easier. That and the fact that a guardian angel whose son turns one this weekend sent me two boxes of Similac and only asked me to pay shipping. I even knew it was the right decision at the right time, because instead of feeling guilty as I did a couple of months ago when I considered stopping, I felt nothing but sweet relief. Imagine not having to lug a pump, a cold bag full of ice packs and pump accessories and milk, and my purse to work every day. And home every night. And if we weren't going straight home, I had to carry that dumb bag around everywhere to keep my milk cold.

Well, as usual, my breasts have had a resurgence, causing me to reconsider my grand plans. Every day this week, I have taken home between 6-10 oz, an amount unheard of a month or even two months ago. I just pumped and got 7oz in one sitting. I swear I haven't done that in nearly 5 months. In fact, I only brought two storage containers, and this will fill both, so I have to scrounge around to figure out what to do for storage when I pump this afternoon. I mean, I guess this is great news, because now I should be able to ride out just 3 more weeks when I return to work.

And I can say that my son was primarily breastfed his first year. But you guys know I gave up labels long, long ago. So, I guess we shall see...