In Case of Emergency: Break Glass

It has taken me awhile to firmly come to this conclusion, but: I am the emergency glass friend. 

Let me explain.

As an extrovert, I watch relationships of everyone around me with rapt fascination. I chameleon my way about, trying to adapt to whoever I might be around just enough to make sure they "like" me - because we extroverts need to be liked or we'll die. We need human connection to live. And we're drawn into the connections of others like a moth to the flame. 

The state of my friendships and relationships has ebbed and flowed over the years, as it does for all of us. The proximity of close friends during a time like high school or college typically just doesn't exist in adulthood. And as we all barrel through different stages of life, we find connections shift and realign depending on what era others are in versus us. This is all completely normal and a beautiful (sometimes sad) evolution. 

Some personalities (or life choices) drift one towards certain paths. We land more firmly in certain categories than others. For example... Those who have one best friend, and it's their spouse/partner.* Those who have few, but very close friends (either all locally or all completely scattered across the globe). Those who have a wide array of acquaintances, but lack really strong bonds. Those who have a mix of local and long distance fellowship, on a variety of levels. Etc. And, one most fascinating to me: the adult BFFs. 

The adult BFFs are a rare, beautiful breed to me. Often stemming from childhood or young adulthood, they are quite literally two peas in a pod. They are up-to-date on all the goings on in one another's lives. They spend time together (whether in person or virtually) OFTEN. They have inside jokes that span decades, can fight like an old married couple,** and can read one another's emotions so well it's almost alarming. They're the ones who give the best person speech at the other's wedding and legit sob because they know there is a forever shift occurring in their perfect dynamic that they'll have to overcome - but they'll make it happen, because the F in BFF is FUCKING FOREVER. They care so deeply. They are a huge priority to each other. They are something special in a world full of loneliness. 

I am not one of these people. 

But it was in witnessing these people that I realized what category I personally fall into. 

• I am not the ride or die. I am the "I'm dying on this ride - help!"  
• I am not the one who has a standing friend hangout, I am the one you call when you've been left hung out to dry. 
• I am not attached at the hip with anyone, but the one who drives you for a hip replacement. 

I am the emergency glass friend. If you need me: I will show up for you in whatever way I can / you need. You turn on that "need friend!" bat signal, and I will answer the call. We may have not spoken in weeks, even years, but if you say that my support is what you need (or don't have support from elsewhere so need someone to step up), then that's what you'll get. 

And honestly, it works very well for me to help fill this niche need in the friend arena. I wouldn't have the mental/emotional/physical capacity to be "all in" all the time for the net of people I consider friends,*** but I sure can dial it up to 11 for shorter periods as needed. Which maybe sounds shitty but, it's really true that we all just have only so many hours in a day, and limited attention to give to others outside our immediates. How available I am to fill this role can vary by era - for example, when I had a newborn baby and was just surviving, or when it was peak pandemic and I had my own personal demons to fight before helping others with theirs. In these times, I'm still "on call" if the beacons are lit, I might just not be as fast to get to Gondor. 

While I keep referencing this very abstractly, here's some random tangible examples from the past such and such years - more obscure than the usual verbal/emotional support, but, you know, to give you some idea. What being the emergency glass friend looks like has a lot of range. It can look like: 2am memes while holding a screaming baby. Driving you to O'Hare because your connection in MKE had issues and you missed the bus. Going to an apartment showing and videoing you for a walk through when you're too sick to go. Proofing a resume/letter of complaint/two weeks notice email. Helping you practice for a eulogy/breakup speech/interview. Being an open door during a power outage. Long phone calls (always, any time. I love long phone calls). Scraping you up off a bar bathroom floor on a Tuesday night because liquor hits different in your thirties. Roadside pickup when you've got a flat. Being your driver after surgery. Sewing the arm back on your toddler's stuffed animal. "Accidentally" running into you while on your failed date when you text me your need-to-bail safe word. Driving the U-Haul for your move / when you decided to thrift something too big for your car. Cat-sitting even though I'm allergic. Being your unofficial wedding photographer when yours is annoying you (or anything wedding related, really). Helping un-super-glue your hands when a craft project went awry. Providing a spreadsheet with unnecessary levels of detail for simple recommendation requests. There is an endless volume of ways to "show up" - I live in the full realm of possibility, because life is NOT linear and is absolutely messy. 

This emergency glass role wouldn't suit everyone. 

• Some people have a greater need for more constant involvement in the lives of their friends, or feel like friendships get retired when not maintained. One thing I can truly say is that if you have ever been someone who I cared about in life, you will always be someone who I care about in life.**** You're stuck with me for always, even if I'm just lurking in the distance and we never across paths again. I'm still there. 
• I know a lot of people would feel like one gets "used" for support during just the hard times, and misses out on the good times. But, I have enough good times to be getting on with and never want someone I care about to feel like their amongst a fair-weather flock with no one to turn to in the rough waters. It's so much harder to ask for support when you need it when you feel like a burden - you're not a burden. Reach out. 
• Certain eras may be more conducive to taking on this role. For example: as someone who was recently a "new mom," everything of the pregnancy/postpartum era is still very fresh, so I can easily tap in to support new moms in progress. It'd be harder for me to show support in a tactful way if I hadn't had the experience myself. So I'm a much better candidate for glass breaking for traumas or events I've lived through as well - which is part of why I'm an over-sharer in general on the Socials: so friends know they can reach out, that they're not alone, that they have an ally with a shared experience. 
• I'm lucky enough to be deeply supported and connected in my own life, to give time and energy to support others in theirs. 

Hopefully I've not offended loved ones with the more in-and-out nature of my friendships, and they've always felt I was there when needed. My number one wish is that my emergency friend services have been helpful over the years - I have been so damn hashtag blessed to be trusted by people to help navigate the chaotic times. And if you're reading this thinking, "Girl, that's just what I need at this point in my life!" Well then grab the tiny hammer and smash that glass, friend. And I'll be seeing you soon. 

Tissues? Coffee? Wine? A baseball bat?
Just let me know what to bring! 

* There are also those for whom this is not a choice. People in abusive relationships or with very jealous/territorial partners. People who have debilitating physical situations or chronic illnesses, that limit their ability to bond with others. Etc. They may be people who desperately long for a 'village,' but are cut off from having those connections due to a toxic and/or uncontrollable situation. 

** Note that some of the MOST toxic friendships I've ever seen are adult BFFs. The kind that force things to stay a certain way because they've simply invested too much time and literally lack any other form of companionship due to just how much they've only focused on this singular thing. And even if they have longggg since outgrown one another, and bring out the very worst in each other, they'll still outwardly pitch how great it is to be the bestest of the besties. Forever. Whether they like it or not. 

*** I say all this as one very lucky bitch. I have a very wide net of people I consider close to me and I am FOREVER grateful for that. It's a legit privilege to be considered a friend by people, given all the options they have for companionship in this world. 

**** I can think of like... maybe TWO exceptions to this. But luckily, I don't personally have many in my life who have done SO wrong by me that I don't wish them well and wouldn't help them if they needed it. I might not care to the degree I once did about them (especially if they were former romantics, obvi), but I still care enough to hope the best for them and be here if they need support.

BabyMama & The State of the U(terus)

TW: post contains references to miscarriage, fertility struggles, etc.  If any of that is hurtful to your heart in this era of life, please skip. Your feelings matter. Love you! 

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The topic of fertility can be a delicate one. I’ve so appreciated the good vibes, hopeful thoughts, and well wishes from each and every person over the past several years, during my various eras of pregnancy, motherhood, loss, etc. Following my last post, I was overwhelmed by the number of heart wrenching stories that were shared with me from other mothers (and/or would-be mothers) and their partners about all the struggles they’ve faced on the journey to becoming parents. Tiny pieces of my heart broke off to go live with each of them, like little Jiminy Crickets snuggling on their shoulders to help them heal, to let them know they are forever loved, and to whisper little “hey, you’re gonna be okay” sweet nothings at them semi-creepily in the lonely hours of the night. 

Having been so vocal about both my pregnancy, birth story, postpartum ups/downs, and our recent miscarriage, I opened up the conversation door and waved folks in. I was glad to be one voice to help represent a single version of experiences shared by many. More than willing to be a thoughtful ear or a shoulder to cry on. A constant beacon of support for familiars near and far. BUT with that has also come the unfortunate awkwardness of people caring and wanting to know how things are going but also wanting to be delicate about asking for updates. The clumsy conversation that is at the intersection of past trauma and winky "hey how is banging your husband going, ya knocked up yet?" 

So, just to make it easier, I'll do what I always do: spin up an unnecessarily long blog post. 

For Those of You Just Tuning In

• Our beautiful baby girl is now a ferocious and feisty toddler who just turned two. She’s not my *whole* world, but pretty darn close. We couldn’t be luckier to have her – she is a true light in a darkening world.
• Our second pregnancy did not go to term. I had a fairly traumatizing Missed Miscarriage in the spring. One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. One in four. 

Current State of the U

We are not expecting. I am not pregnant.

Miscarriage is a tricky thing. If you're lucky, when it's through, you're told that your body has returned to a non-pregnant state and there is no reason you won't go on to have a perfectly normal pregnancy. Carry on, dear womb, go try again. "When you're ready," my doctor added, with a kind undertone. "Your mental and emotional health matters and much as your physical health," she assured me.

A lovely sentiment... for a younger uterus. 

Given my "advanced" maternal age, the desired timeline in my head, and the miscarriage that had "set us back" five months, my "being ready" seemed like the least important piece of this puzzle. So I insisted that we get back on the proverbial horse and start trying again. I tried not to put too much pressure on the situation outwardly to my husband, while in my mind the clock was SCREAMING at me about the very finite window of opportunity for another healthy pregnancy (in my preferred timeline*). 

What I didn't realize was that my period had decided to become irregular (not necessarily due to the miscarriage, more likely just due to aging) - meaning that calculating a fertility window was a bit more of a task. Like aiming for moving goal posts. And we kept missing. 

Month after month, when my period arrived, so did a wave of sadness and frustration. More time "lost." The weeks ticked on with my silent alt-history timeline running in my head of just how fat and pregnant and miserable I'd be if our second baby had made it to term. 

This week we'd have been welcoming our new little one to the world.**  We'd be on the brink of a totally new adventure again. A new phase of difficulty and pure joy. 

Instead, we are just waiting. Waiting to find out if the most recent attempt "worked," or if it was another swing and a miss. I know that if it's the latter, given the alt history of where we could be, this month will be exceptionally difficult. (Maybe a little dash of deep-in-my-soul depression to sprinkle on top of one's regular Wisconsin-winter-seasonal-depression, but also with a santa hat on #cuzfestive!) But I'm also a practical woman... I know that two times of "easily" getting pregnant did not mean that was a forever situation. I know just how lucky we are to have gotten pregnant two times, period. I know that a few off months doesn't necessarily indicate a larger problem and that our time may come. 

But now, in addition to those things I know, I'm also learning... About secondary infertility (which I hope is not us). About local options for fertility doctors (to see if something straightforward is amiss - we will NOT being going the IVF or other routes, that's just not a path we want to go down). About how my emphasis of the timeline and my stress around the situation has impacted our attempts and relationship. About how while I say I'm okay with being "one and done," having been on the brink of two, it's clear just how much my heart aches for a second wee bebe, how much the vision in my mind included that second child. About just how many other women have found themselves in this exact same situation, but haven't had people to talk to about it. 

I keep reminding myself that I'm one of the lucky ones. Not to say I'm not allowed to feel my feels and the full spectrum of sadness, confusion, joy, etc. But just that we are lucky. To have an OB I trust for guidance through this. To have access to fertility information and options and be financially secure enough to fund whatever path we end up on. To have a supportive and loving partner, and a village of friends (especially mom friends) and family to openly have conversations about all this with. To still feel GENUINE happiness for all our loved ones who are having successful fertility journeys (seriously - I promise I can feel emo for myself while still wanting to talk ALL the baby things and feel excited for you all!). To have our perfect daughter to bring me constant happiness. And to have my health in all this. 

We're at a strange point in this journey. I'm hopeful for the days ahead, but also working on my mental shift back to total acceptance around whatever our family unit looks like a year from now - whether we stay a trio or expand to a wee crew of four. Sending lots of love and luck in the new year to all those down a similar path, and all those on a totally different one. Life can look so different for each of us, but still be so beautiful. 

* I have mentally set a line in the sand for myself that if we're not pregnant by the time I'm 36, we may just be one and done. Having too big of an age gap between kids stresses me out and at that stage in life, I don't know if I'll mentally or physically be able to restart at the newborn stage, I just don't know if I want to go down that path. Maybe this will change, but right now that means we have until next summer to be successful at this thing for a third time. And given one has only a handful of fertile days per cycle, that is a very tiny window indeed. 

** Via a planned induction, a week before my due date, if they hadn't arrived sooner, given how massive our darling first baby was and her and devastation on my body lol I had already discussed with my OB when I'd found out I was pregnant. 

BabyMama & The Silent Miscarriage

TW/spoiler alert (though the title was a giveaway): post contains details around miscarriage, child loss, etc. If you’re pregnant, feeling trauma from your own loss, or have loved and lost in a way that would make you feel uncomfortable reading this, please stop. Your heart doesn’t need this. Take care of yourself. You have all of my love, just the same. 

Also: never meant for this blog to morph into an anxiety journal - like some sort of captain's log on the good ship adulting - but here we arrrrreeee. 

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The below encompasses several very long weeks. Having added to this post at various points of this process, it's obnoxiously long, and I straight-up didn't feel like editing myself down this time - so please be generous in your reading. And, um, I’ve been going through a thing so… don’t be a dick. 

This is laced with some flippant remarks and bits of levity. It's a coping mechanism. I am not trying to minimize or make light of anyone else’s trauma or loss, I promise. As every birth story is unique, so is every pregnancy journey. Your story is your own, and it matters. And you don't owe anyone your trauma. In a world of oversharing, you decide what you are comfortable telling others, periodt. I'm sharing our story, knowing it's one of many, and that many will never be shared. Sending love to all. 

I want to say off the bat: I’m okay. Really. I’ll explain, but, just know I’m alright, friends. We are alright. 

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The Odds May Not Ever Be in Your Favor

One in four. It’s the kind of stat that you’d hear and think “that’s really high!” If you were told you had a one in four chance of getting struck by lightning, you’d probably be a lot more afraid of storms. And while it’s not actual lightning, it can strike in a way that’s just as shocking… a miscarriage. 

One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage.

A miscarriage is defined as a spontaneous loss of a pregnancy before the 20th week. You’ve probably had many people you know wait to tell people about their pregnancy until after they were “in the clear” – given that the risk of a miscarriage drops drastically after week 12. People are afraid to share the news, knowing there’s such a risk of loss. I used to not understand, but in my first pregnancy, it became a bit clear as to why... What happened if you did face such loss, and suddenly you got a “hey how’s pregnancy?” ping from a friend. Or a knitted hat from an aunt. Or some other slap-to-the-face reminder that you had a shared joy with so many that was taken away?

The chance of miscarriage does increase with certain risk factors (advanced age, certain health conditions, if you smoke/drink/drug while pregnant, etc.). BUT it’s important to know, really know, that most miscarriages cannot be prevented. There’s nothing the mother or birthing person could have done differently. It is not their fault. Most miscarriages simply occur because the fetus is not developing as expected (about half of miscarriages are due to an extra or missing chromosome). The body knows that the pregnancy is no longer viable, and it aborts the pregnancy.*

Odds are that you know at least one person (more likely many) who has gone through a miscarriage. Many miscarry so early on that they may not even fully realize what has happened. Some suffer a miscarriage further on in their journey and go through a very different event. Either way, there is often a lot of trauma, sadness, and pain that accompanies this thing. It blows my mind how just now the subject is finally becoming slightly less taboo but, in the attempts to make it less taboo it’s also being somehow…minimized? Like, oh, one in four, it’s very common. Sorry you went through that very common thing, I’m sure it was bad, but you can try again right??  >> An oversimplification of some of what I’ve seen, NOT directed at me, but at others.

Again: each person will have a different experience, a different kind of feels. The below are mine.

Our Story

Week 4
A missed period. Tale as old as time. A mental review of the calendar, and a quiet wondering if maybe this is it, we’ve signed up for another journey into a very new chapter of parenthood. Ready or not.

I didn’t take a test. I wasn’t ready. It was too soon. I’d been certain that things might take longer to work out, due my darling aging uterus. There was no way we were pregnant already. I didn’t say anything to my husband, and just carried on.

Week 5
Mentally certain. While my period had changed post-partum, it had continued to be as consistent as a damn colonial’s watch (...despite comments made to others about it being inconsistent PP – a narrative that I'd started building as a means of protecting my heart later if we found ourselves struggling with fertility: blame the wonky period, easy, an easy lie, and who could contradict it?) I knew it was time to take a test and make things real. So, Friday morning when my husband had left for work, I did the standard pee in a cup, popped in a pregnancy test, and played with our toddler while the timer ticked on. 

Before I’d even set the test down, there was already the faint two lines. My daughter and I checked the test together as the timer rang, and there it was: pregnant. Ready or not. A few days later, we shared our surprise with my husband (in the form of a "big sister" t-shirt on a very drooly little girl).

Week 6
A few days after my positive at home test, at my OB’s office, peeing in yet another cup. She “checked my homework” to the same conclusion: there was a baby brewing. We put the 8 week ultrasound on the books and back to life went. Work, prep for our daughter’s first flight and a trip to see family, and the usual doings. My body started to hold weight, my boobs were like “let’s go girrrrls,” my hormones came out to play, I was once again perpetually thirsty and waking up to pee in the middle of the night. The quiet exhaustion set in. First trimester was underway, in a familiar rhythm. 

I mentally held the same shield I did during my first pregnancy. “It’s very early,” I disclaimed when telling my husband, “there’s more risk than the last time, I’m not getting any younger.” Labels like "advanced maternal age" were slapped on my paperwork and I jokingly said of my uterus, "Let's hope the old girl can pull this off!" Even our language to each other was laced with caution, things like: "hopefully this is the last time we tell our moms that we’re having a baby" and "if we're lucky, this is the last time we get to do this: how should we share the news?" or "no bad morning sickness, knock on wood, seems like I got off easy for all my pregnancies!" 

I didn’t project personhood onto the tiny cell cluster forming yet: it remained abstract. Logistical things started to play out in my mind, like alerting daycare to put us on the waitlist for March of 2024 (because yes, there's a waitlist that far out, ugh). And really specific things spun about: like our toddler’s transition to a big-girl bed vs the baby needing the crib and me not wanting our toddler to think the baby stole her crib so wondering when to do that and how to reconfigure our rooms to best help her sleep when a newborn was up screaming at night. I cried, thinking about my late December due date and how I’d miss being at family Christmas for a fourth year in a row. I shushed selfish thoughts about how I’d be stone cold sober for a dear friend’s bachelorette AND wedding. In my mind, I organized newborn things we had kept and could reuse vs things we’d want to update/replace. But, I didn’t think about names, or the new person who would be joining us because they weren’t allowed to be real yet in my mind, for my own protection.

Because I knew the odds.

I felt a bit bad about this mental wall, and tried to do little things to start pulling this abstract idea out of the ether and into view. In the morning, when buckling our baby girl into her carseat to go to daycare, I always give her three kisses and say, “One for you, one for me, one for dad” – I started to add “one for the baby” to which she happily would say, “BABY!” (because she likes the word ‘baby’). I found myself doing the default “hand on tummy” position when sitting, giving a little hand of comfort, with a “we got this” whisper when I started feeling overwhelmed at the idea of starting things over again. And of course, the adjustments in my diet and routine, to keep my body safe for bebe. There were little moments like this, but we mostly carried on as if not pregnant.

Week 7
We were visiting family in California and decided to share the news. Because what else would explain my not wanting sushi the second I approached the coast? We warned how it was still so earlier. Too soon to even be saying anything. So risky. One in four. We hadn't even told other close family yet.

In shops, I gently touched tiny newborn clothing, without purchasing. 

Week 8
In my 8-week ultrasound, all was not well. No heartbeat. Our wee little one had stopped growing at six weeks. A “silent miscarriage.”

How that played out in real time:
When I arrived for my appointment, there was a mix-up with the fax and order for my ultrasound or something silly. After much back and forth, they agreed to squeeze me in twenty minutes after my original time. If you’ve ever had an ultrasound, you know it involves drinking an epic ton of water in advance of the appointment and holding that liquid. Sitting in the waiting area, the usual stream of HGTV schlock flashing on the nearby TV. I texted my husband: this felt like a bad omen, and I might pee my pants. (Literally, I almost peed my pants.)

Finally in with the ultrasound tech, answering a pretty standard series of questions: Was this my first pregnancy? No. How many children did I have? One. How many pregnancies had I had? …One. That question had seemed odd to me initially. Like, I just told you I had one child, so duh I had one pregnancy. My brain took a full moment to think about all the loved ones I knew who’d had far more pregnancies than living children, and I gave an open look of sadness. A brow furrow. And then that tiny moment of recognition passed and I was laying down with a wand on my belly.

The thing about an ultrasound tech: they’re not supposed to tell you definitive information. They do the scans, and your OB/doc tells you explicit medical answers after the fact. A good tech has a poker face. A more realistic tech doesn’t. In an 8-week ultrasound, there’s a big three that you need to get from your tech, and anything beyond that comes from your doc later after they’ve seen what the tech has sent over. The big three: Is there a good heartbeat? Is it only one heartbeat? Are things developing on track with the due date predicted, or is there a different due date estimation?

After a few minutes of silent wanding, I knew something was off. “So, how is it looking?” I asked, as casually as possible. A tiny attempt at a reassuring smile flashed my way, with a lined brow prominent above concerned eyes. She wasn’t quite seeing what she needed to, she likewise tried to say casually that it was likely just due to my tilted uterus (something my OB had warned might happen in my ultrasound – a known thing to cause visibility issues with an external look). When I asked what she wasn't quite seeing so gave a pause and an um. She wasn’t seeing a baby…. Would it be okay to do an internal ultrasound? I agreed after confirming what that entailed, if there was an alternative, how it’d feel, etc.** They insist you go to the bathroom before that, mercifully. I quietly shed some tears in the bathroom, taking a few deep breaths. I texted my husband saying something might be wrong. This felt ominous. This didn’t feel like it was going well.

She started the internal ultrasound. A minute later, she still was quiet. I let a few quiet tears drip sideways off my face. 

I left the office soon thereafter, informed that I'd need to talk to my OB - with a side comment that maybe I should prepare for not good news. Yeah. Yeah I'd gathered that already, thanks. I blindly walked to the parking ramp and sat in my car, waiting on a phone call from my OB. After a few minutes, I started driving back towards home, deciding I'd get a shake from Arby's en route. I pulled over as soon as my OB called. "I'm sorry, but we both know what this is..." she began. And there I was, parked outside some random person's house in the suburbs, while my logic brain calmly asked my doctor about next steps, and my emotional brain wept. 

A "missed miscarriage" or "missed abortion" was the technical term. But. It couldn’t legally be classified as a conclusive ultrasound because of certain rules in my state,*** meaning I had to schedule a second ultrasound a few weeks out (assuming my body didn’t resolve things in the interim) to get another ultrasound to prove that I had miscarried, before I could receive any medications to help my body process. I also had the option to do blood work to show if my hormone levels were decreasing in order to help prove that the pregnancy was no longer viable - but since that isn't always conclusive (i.e. your hormone levels can stay pretty high until the actual departure of pregnancy tissue from your body occurs), I opted to not put myself through that as well. 

The phone call with my OB was fairly long: a thorough explanation of all the possible aftermath/outcomes. Necessarily graphic and detailed, I tried my best to absorb the information so I'd be prepared for what was to come. [I'm forever grateful for the partnership I have with her in all stages of my pregnancy journey(s).] After the call, I got that Arby's shake and drove home to lead a retro call for work - I'd only taken the morning off. My afternoon was packed with meetings. 

Week 8-10
A waiting game. Carrying tissue in my womb that was no longer a baby. Waiting to see if I'd start bleeding. It felt very much like the final days of pregnancy with my first: you know that any time of day, no matter where you are, you could suddenly have a bunch of fluid leave your body in a very violent way. Only in this case, the end result was not a baby, it was a lack thereof. A very long two weeks indeed.

After the ultrasound, I was mentally and emotionally fairly okay. I had known the statistics/risks. I knew there’s nothing I did wrong or could have done differently. I understood the science. We knew that it was still very early and there had been a very real possibility that something may go wrong. My logic brain understood it all. But for two weeks I carried around the persistent thought of the wee bebe that didn't get a chance to grow, but that wouldn't leave its mom. My body wouldn't let it go, and so my emotions escalated quietly over the course of several weeks - caught in a limbo, me and the baby that wouldn't be. Neither one of us physically able to move on. 

During this, the real kicker was that my body continued to think it was pregnant. My hormones continued to rage, my boobs continued growing as if preparing to feed a small army, my exhaustion was all encompassing, and overall my body carried on with the first tri like nothing was amiss. Just as I carried on with my day-to-day (through the hormonal brain fog). It's hard to explain that you're going through a miscarriage but haven't yet fully miscarried - most people don't think about miscarriage as a state of purgatory, but instead as an event that happens fairly suddenly. That's how I'd always thought of it as well. 

While about 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, less than 5% are silent miscarriages. 

Week 10
Exactly two weeks after my first week ultrasound, I found myself in that same waiting room, with the same HGTV schlock echoing about the room. The ultrasound tech physically braced herself as she opened the door and called my name. I told her it was okay, I knew what we were expecting to see and I was ready for it this time. These things happen. One in four. It was okay. 

I had asked my OB what the odds were that I might march into the second ultra and suddenly they'd find a growing, living baby. "I'm not trying to cling to optimism, just wondering how prepared to be for another drastic emotional swing," I had told her on the phone. She said she hesitated to even say there was less than a one percent chance. Trusting her, and knowing what we knew, it was no surprise to me when the tech one again found no heartbeat, and only tissue pacing at six weeks. 

Conclusive. It was finally conclusive in the eyes of the State.

Once again on the phone to my OB, she already had the news as I rang. She had called in a prescription to the pharmacy before I had dialed. Called instead of faxed, because she needed to explain the situation and confirm that the medication I was getting was for "miscarriage management" and not an abortion, (because pharmacies are skittish these days). We talked through all the steps, what I could expect, etc. 

If you're not interested in that process, or details around this kind of "woman problem" or the idea of abortion methods stresses you out - feel free to skip ahead to the "It's Gonna Be Okay" section. Else, knowledge is power, so the following is fairly detailed, based on my knowledge for my specific experience. I'm not a doctor, or medical expert, so this is paraphrased based on explanations from my OB.

When you hear people talk about "early stage abortions" there are two main methods:

1. A Medical Abortion: typically done at home - i.e. the 'abortion pill'
2. A Surgical Abortion: done in-clinic - i.e. a D&C (Dilation and Curretage) 

Both are also options for "miscarriage management." D&C being the less ideal option, but both being very safe approaches to helping your body miscarry the no-longer-viable pregnancy tissue. In my case, we opted for the pill, with a D&C being a last resort if my body wasn't able to expel the tissue fully with medicinal support. The 'abortion pill' is actually a series of pills typically:

1. Mifepristone : this pill blocks progesterone - the hormone your body needs to support pregnancy (it basically helps your uterus lining implant and support your egg / baby in the first tri) - stopping the pregnancy from growing
2. Misoprostol : this pill causes cramping and bleeding to empty your uterus

Based on my situation, I was prescribed just two doses of misoprostol (since my wee bebe had already stopped growing). The effectiveness is around 85-95% so the second dose was to be on hand in case it didn't fully work with the first round. When to take it was up to me. I could wait, and hope my body figured it out itself. But that could lead to complications if it took too long, and also would stall out our fertility journey in general (because getting pregnant again when your womb is already occupado is a tricky matter). In my case: waiting had already been taking a toll on me emotionally/mentally, and the continued physical toll on my body was not something I wanted to just let drag on. 

I decided to take it the next day. My OB advised that the heaviest bleeding/cramping typically started about 6-12 hours after taking the pills, and could last several hours. It was one of those things you should kind of clear your schedule for. With the lead time, I was also worried about taking it too late in the day and being up all night dealing with the trauma in the wee small hours. So I decided to take the first dose after daycare dropoff. It was a Wednesday. I didn't have any afternoon meetings and I'm WFH. (I had also heard rumor of major changes coming at work so figured it would be a day where people would be distracted - it turned out to be a day of massive layoffs, restructures, and pay cuts - so - the day was very dramatic on EVERY front for me.) 

Additional disclaimer: this is where the TMI comes in - if it's not something you want to read about, please skip ahead. I had NO idea what this process was like prior to going through it myself so - TMYK.

So Misoprostol. You don't take it in your mouth.... :| 

I felt like I was trying to sneak drugs across the border or something bizarre. Because the whole thing was bizarre. Like a sitcom freeze frame on me awkwardly popping pills up my snatch with a voiceover quirkily saying, "so how did we get here? well it all started two weeks and a day ago..." 

Hours later, cramping and light spotting. And then things hit their stride. If you imagine how the flow of your regular period exits over the course of several days, instead it was like… it exiting all within 12 hours. In much larger clots. Terrifyingly large blood clots. Like, when you see a clot the size of a golf ball and think "Oh, it's getting smaller" you know you've been going through a thing. Throughout this, I texted my husband a running tally of how things were going.**** Fun fact: there's isn't a great "period" emoji - and a few days prior we had been discussing a lecture he had watched about emoji development and the conversation around a period emoji (because a bloody undie emoji was not kosh). What a lot of people use instead is either the blood drop, or the Japanese flag (white with a red dot). So... our text history now has a two day stint with an alarming number of Japanese flags. 

Within 24 hours, things should be pretty well done. You may have some period-like bleeding for a few days but you're mostly in the clear. But, sometimes you aren't. In my case, the bleeding continued at a higher than normal, but not alarming flow (there are rare cases of excessive bleeding, which will pop you into urgent care - I was not at that point). Something wasn't quite right. I kept in close contact with my OB and a week later, she suggested it might be prudent for me to take the second dose. Help my body finish the process. Or I could wait it out. It was up to me. 

Week 11
A week and a day after the first dose, with continued bleeding and uncertainty around whether the first dose was fully effective, I caved and took the second dose. With the second dose, you can't just snatch-pop the pills, because your bod would bleed them out. So instead you hold them in your cheek/gums until they dissolve. Also like a drug addict. (I don't know much about The Drugs, but this should all be a pretty good indication that I'd be bad at them.) And then you wait, again. In my case, there was not another mass exodus. It seemed like things might be over.

Week 12
A positive pregnancy test. Still. 

My OB had warned me that this might happen for a few weeks following my miscarriage. And with my prolonged bleeding, I knew it was too early to take one, but I tried anyways. Because the longer this dragged out, the more my state of mind deteriorated. While I had been very sound and certain upfront, each day that I couldn't move forward dragged me down further. Random cries, exhaustion, a feeling of constant overwhelm... all the fun and then some. 

So what next? As I roll into Week 13...
I plan to take another test tomorrow. If I'm still getting a positive test, then I need to call my OB to figure out what we do next, because something could still be lingering. It may be a third round of pills or a D&C, or something else. After I get a negative pregnancy test, my OB recommended we wait until my next normal period barrels through before 'trying' again. If we're emotionally ready, my bod should be physically ready. It could be another week before we get a negative test, or several weeks if I need to take additional next steps, and then maybe a couple more weeks before my period, and then a couple weeks before we hit a 'fertile' window.... all told, it could be 17 weeks out from when my last pregnancy began before we can start trying for the next one. Almost five months of "lost" time. For my aging uterus, that somehow feels like a massive tick tock of the clock. 

But...

It's Gonna Be Okay

Again, PLEASE do not take any of this as minimizing your experience or that of a loved one, if you’ve been close to a miscarriage…

We're okay. Truly. 

• If this had been my first pregnancy, I think a miscarriage would've broken me. But we have our daughter. She is the literal light of our lives. She is truly enough. Anything more is a beautiful bonus. So if a second child isn't in the cards, it'll be alright. We won't just be content, we'll be happy. Sure, we'll try again, but if it's a "one and done" situation, then that'll be perfectly fine for our wee family unit. Our girl has so many people who love her, it's enough.
  
  
• I take a lot of solace in knowing: this ain't my body’s first rodeo. I’ve got a proven track record of both getting knocked up and having a full-tern pregnancy / big old baby delivery. I know my body is capable, and that this whole experience was it being capable in knowing something was wrong and that the pregnancy couldn’t continue. It did what it had to do, and there is no different way things could have gone this time around. There's no blame here, just a sidestep in the journey. (Everything so far also indicates that nothing is awry with my body - this all is not a sign of any overall infertility issues, knock on wood.)
  
  
• We have such a strong village of friends, family, and loved ones. The small handful who we told about this early on literally encased us in a bubble of kindness to protect us from the baddies. And so many others gave support without fully knowing the situation, just based on vibes. We are massively hashtag fucking blessed by the people in our lives, and know that they'll be here for us no matter what turn this road takes. It makes everything in general feel more okay, honestly.
  
  
• There are a bunch of other life things that we had felt rushed on / worried about with a December due date on the horizon, so this unfortunate change does give us time to iron those things out. It gives me time to get stronger, to get into a better groove eating, to support loved ones going through their own big changes right now, etc. There's not a "silver lining" to something sad like this, but there is just knowledge of how the steps forward can dance about a bit in the interim.

There's no point where this all fades from my memory. I'll be grateful to physically move forward, so my logic brain can kick back in and acknowledge this whole situation fully for what it is: an unfortunate thing, that just happens (and happens to SO many). Somehow typing this all out helped put some of the weight of it off my mind, and out into the ether. I hope it gives you some perspective on what some go through and that you never have to experience it yourself. Honestly, silence is just not golden in this case. 

* Yes, a “spontaneous abortion” is one of the other terms for a “miscarriage” - you'll hear doctors say "ab" instead of "abortion" in some cases - probably due to the stigma around the word "abortion."

** "Not as invasive as a pap” she said she’d been told – pretty accurate in my opinion. It’s a big wand up your snatch, but not the duck bill.

*** Because it was measuring at six weeks, and I could just be a silly girl who got my dates wrong and maybe I wasn't certain when my last period was or certain when I'd gotten a positive pregnancy test at home and in my doctors office. So, not to be trusted, it could be I hadn't given it enough time. (Because a six week fetus is indeed very tiny and hard to capture on an ultrasound - which is why you go in at 8 weeks plus typically - and which is why I did go in at 8 weeks.) 

****  I have a deeply rooted fear of ending up in the hospital, unable to communicate, and the staff asking my husband what kind of symptoms I've been having or if there's been anything amiss and him not knowing or being able to help because "she hasn't said anything." My father-in-law passed away very unexpectedly of sepsis, and had the people closest to him heard some of his symptoms as they were happening, he may have gotten to the hospital sooner, may have had precious time on his side, may have been able to give clues to tip off and get him the help he'd have needed. Since then, I sound like a complete hypochondriac, but I insist that my husband know every time I'm feeling out of sorts. I want it said out loud, and in his mind, should something happen and doctors need to know. 

BabyMama Part Deux?

The only thing people are more persistent about asking than "When are you having kids?" is "When are you having another one?" Every time this question is even alluded to, my brain has a loud shrieking warning bell, my body visually tenses, and honestly, I panic a bit. So, let's dig in on the very personal topic of the second child. 

The usual disclaimers apply here: this is from the perspective of a healthy, white, middleclass, cisgender woman, with a supportive partner, family, and friends. We did not have any complexities in getting pregnant the first time, my pregnancy/labor were all fairly normal, and in all these things we are very lucky. All of this colors the convo around a second. Also, none of these points are insurmountable - I'm not saying we will or won't have one more - these are just the stressors my brain is going through when debating the topic. While I'm focusing on the anxieties more than the benefits/good bits, that doesn't mean there aren't any. And of course: zero judgements if you're Team No Kids, a One and Done fam, or building your own Brady Bunch - you do you! (And my heart goes out if you have bodily or other limitations that prevent you from growing your family the way you want to - love you.)

Baseline: kids were never in my "life plan" (more on that here). But once it was decided that we'd give it a go, we were a "Zero or Two" household. We'd try, and if it didn't work out, we'd be okay sans babies. But if it did: we'd like to have two. ('Two' being an easy thing to say when you haven't yet experienced birthing and parenting one.) And in November 2021, we had our beautiful baby girl. 

The primary thing that makes me most worried about having a second is that little girl. 

• During my first pregnancy, I had an overwhelming fear of not surviving labor, of something going wrong. In that scenario, I'd have left behind my husband and (hopefully) newborn child. Now that I've met that child, the thought of voluntarily doing anything that might cause me to have fewer years on this earth with her absolutely cripples me. Why would I ever put myself at such risk and be so selfish as to potentially leave her?*
• Our wee bébé is pretty much my whole damn world. Yes, I'm a working mom and have other things in life I care about / put my time towards, but, she is where I want to put the majority of my energy. She gets the best of me. I want her to always feel like I'm there for her, that she has my full support. Right now I am and she does, but that dynamic obviously will have to shift if another piece of my heart comes out into this world. My time will be divided. And I know that it's just a matter of adapting and finding a new groove as an expanded family unit, I get it. But it WILL be different. It WILL change how our trio is right now, and it hurts my heart to think about our sweet girl feeling any stress during that transition. About her not having my undivided attention. About her feeling second fiddle to someone else. 
• Even silly stuff like: will her room stay a nursery while she moves to a new room? Or is the current nursery her room, and her room forever? How's she going to feel about sharing her space and having some small creature screaming in the night??
• What if they are the kind of siblings who fight all the time? Or are totally different in a way that requires completely different parenting styles? 
• The longer we wait, will it become more difficult for our oldest? To adapt to the change and with being 'close' to their brother/sister?

And what about them, the new bébé ?

• What if (knock on wood) bébé deux is born with some extra nuance (genetically or physically) that requires a lot of additional support? (Also, how does that impact our relationship with our oldest?)
• I don't even want to say this one out loud and jinx things but... what if there's more than one heartbeat in there?? What if we mean to have a second and end up with a BOGO situation? That would literally flip our lives upside down way more than I'm mentally prepared for. FUN FACT: the odds of having twins/multiples increases with maternal age. Scientifically it's something to do with increased production of FSH, but in my personal laymen's terms: your aging lady bits get confused and be like, "Did I already drop an egg this round? I can't remember, better drop another one just in cases!" 
• The temperament and needs of each new human are so unique. What if we end up with a very colicky baby? What if they'll only contact nap? What if they are just a jerk and hate us? 
• And of course, the big existential questions can't help but loom... Looking at the current socio-political-environmental landscape of our planet... what kind of hellscape am I bringing this new life into? What hardships will they have to face with increasingly draconian laws being passed? With a planet that is being destroyed? With increasing competition over resources and wealth? Is it almost irresponsible to add another headcount to this world?

The next is me. I'm the problem, it's me. 

• My fucking career. You know, the thing that I prioritized during my young adulthood so heavily. How does that balance with an additional member of our household? Would one of us quit the workforce to be a full time parent because the cost of daycare is so exorbitant - and would that be me? AND what if I get laid off or what to switch jobs? There are plenty of companies with way better (and way worse) maternity leave benefits than what I got at my current employer, but there are also many where you don't get access to those benefits until you've been with them for a certain time period (many six months, a year, or even longer!) - so if I need, want, or am forced to switch jobs, how does that fit in with our family planning in order to have access to benefits?? ('Murricaaaaa the not-so-great.) And, will that job offer the flexibility I have now, which I've had to rely on frequently when our little one has been sick or daycare has been closed? 
• Pregnancy: 
• This uterus ain't getting any younger. What if this time we struggle to conceive, like SO many do? What if we go through the heartbreak of a miscarriage? What if that ovarian cyst I had last time decides to inflate again and causes issues? Did we get off "too easy" the first time, so this pregnancy will be total hell (plus a bouncing toddler)?
• The idea of putting my body through the marathon that is a nine month pregnancy again is... chilling. The rearranging of my organs, stretching of my body, weight gain, heartburn, all of it. The discomfort mixed with aging doesn't sound fun. I'd want my body to be strong and ready to tackle this again, but, I know I need to do a lot of work to get there.
• Aw man, the hormones. I don't think mine every rebalanced after my last pregnancy - I'm still a weepy mess at the slightest sadness (or happiness). Not to mention the anxiety. 
• The repeal of Roe v Wade. Ectopic pregnancy risks. Access to essential reproductive healthcare. It all weighs heavily on my mind.** As mentioned above (not just for my child and husband, but also for me): I do not want to die due to pregnancy. And I especially don't want to die because of some outdated law limiting my access to necessary medical services. 
• Labor/Delivery: they say the human race has expanded purely due to women "forgetting" about all the bad bits of labor. LOL well, I remember them, so. Here we are. I didn't have a terribly traumatic birth compared to many (luckily), but I won't pretend it wasn't somewhat traumatic for me. And what if this time it's worse? What if this time I end up with a C-Section and totally different kind of recovery? 
• Postpartum: 
• See anxiety and hormones note above.
• What does that even look like with a toddler in the mix?! A newborn is a LOT of work, plus we already have a little darling who is a lot of work. I know people do this every day, but, my brain is just thinking of how exhausting that will be and it feels really stressful. Especially if I breastfeed again (if I can - who knows if).
• Being a parent is hard. It's the hardest (albeit most rewarding) thing I've literally ever done. It's like having a hobby that you're obsessed with (like Crossfit) and it's all-consuming. My identity as 'me' is already blurry as I morphed into 'wife' and then 'mother.' It's hard to settle into a new 'me' with a little-little one, and having another just delays the time it will take me to re-find myself maybe.... And maybe that's not a bad thing? I like my mom-ness. But, it's a thing. It's a difficult thing to process the complete change to your identity when you're so focused on someone else's needs over yours.
• There's also the whole having to kind of sacrifice my bodily autonomy for an extended period of time. First in sharing my body with another human (with my womb playing the role of apartment) and then when breastfeeding (because what I ingest is still being ingested by another human, as their sole food source). My choices are heavily influenced by another, instead of just doing whatever I want with my body. And again, not to say that any of this is wrong, it just...is. While I'm so used to do this already, is it best just to jump right back in now before I get to used to exercising my bodily freewill again? (I don't want to give up ibuprofen and Nyquil again - there, I said it!!)

Also: this is us.

• Besides our dynamic as a trio, there's the core foundation of my husband and me. It feels like we just got into a legit schedule (we fully sleep at night, everything is grooving), and this will just throw a big wrench back in things. Right now we're able to tag team household stuff and toddler watch, so we each get a reprieve throughout the day/night. With two, will we just have to... divide and conquer? Will we just live on separate tracks, each with one child, for a year or so? Having one child completely upended our lifestyle : will that just hit doubly so with another? How far apart do my husband and I drift as we weather the transitional storm - or are we made all the closer, clinging to a life raft, getting beat by waves of toddler attitude plus newborn cries?
• Monnneyyy honnneeey. Anyone who whines "but don't you want your child to have a playmate??"*** when pushing for additional babies: that is one insanely fucking expensive playmate. I could buy our child friends and the local park for that kind of money. We are very lucky to be in a really solid place financially, but I'd be lying if I said the thought of cost wasn't on my mind. With daycare pricing alone, not to mention everything else - the costs are astronomical (and I'm a thrifty bitch). 
• What about the extended 'us' of family and friends - how hard does spending time with them become? Especially re: traveling to see people. It feels like that will take a severe dip again, just as it was starting to renew. 

So now we debate. Are we a "one and done" household? Do we try, see if it works out, and roll the dice? The biological clock is ticking like a damn bomb, and my back certainly isn't Benjamin Buttoning over here. This whole topic becomes a moot point if my eggs decide they've had enough of this waiting and I get hit with premature menopause or something random. Overall: time is not on our side. So, are our hearts ready to welcome a new life and are we willing to sign up for that burden/joy/wild ride? Is our little family unit of three going to make the big jump to four at some point?? We shall see. 

Are we ready to take the next big step, little girl?

*Yes, I get it, even getting in a car could kill me. But. Just don't be a dick - I don't need stats about mortality rates. It's how I feel and no logic is going to convince my soul otherwise. 

**Had my annual OB/GYN appointment a few months back. She is a woman I deeply trust, who supported me in every way through my pregnancy and labor, so I felt comfortable having the difficult conversation with her about pregnancy in a post Roe era. How myself and many others I know are terrified to be pregnant again. Terrified of not having access to essential reproductive healthcare, should we need it. Fearful of ectopic pregnancies, miscarriages, or any complications that might require care that could give a doctor pause in the current state of the U. Am I willing to roll the dice? To risk my life? Will she do everything in her power to help me and not just my fetus? The answer is: I trust her to do right by me. BUT that is based on the current state - what if further legal changes occur? I still trust her, but, it doesn't mean I don't deeply worry about the risks. 

***To be fair, yes, I like the idea of having two kids for the forever-partner concept. So when my husband and I are old / gone, our beautiful girl will have built-in immediate family that she can turn to. But, there's no guarantee that they won't hate each other or never speak as adults or whatever so, that's nice in theory but not essential. We have a lot of friends/family, and they have kids who will be a fresh gen for her to bond with - she will not be alone. 

BabyMama & The Birth Story

Every telling of a birth story that I have witnessed has felt like listening to a veteran. Someone who has been through something life changing that not everyone has experienced. Someone who has seen some stuff. Someone who may or may not have a little PTSD from the event. Someone who is a bit of a hero, depending on your definition of the word. 

It's a saga. A telling of joy and potentially trauma. It's the tale as old as time: that of new life. 

I'm not saying that this is any of that, but, with our baby girl coming up on the year mark, I figured it's now or never to tell the tale of her entry. Because sharing these stories is important - hearing these stories before and after my delivery helped me be aware of what to expect and connected me to others. As captain of Team-No-Kids, I hadn't heard many details about pregnancy or labor prior to being pregnant, and I feel like I'd have had a greater appreciation if I had. I'd have been more empathetic, more supportive. Birthing persons are super heroes. 

Disclaimers: 

• Semi graphic labor details to follow (will put the most graphic asterisked in a foot note, skip if you prefer - or if you're like a co-worker who stumbled upon this blog and is thinking "yikes, I don't want to know!"). 
• Note that the exact timestamps are because I had my husband texting updates to our immediates (which was actually nice to have a little log of the day) and had some photos from the day. 
• Every labor and delivery story is unique, this was mine: that of a healthy, white, middleclass,  cisgender woman, with a pretty straightforward pregnancy, a supportive partner, and access to a great hospital (plus the wonderful staff that came with it). 
• Despite my ongoing fear throughout pregnancy that I was going to die in labor, I never once felt in danger during my labor and delivery. I was very lucky to have a labor without massive complications. I won't go so far to say it was a "normal" labor, but it was not out of the ordinary. 

The scene: After our first ultrasound, our original due date was moved up a week. But that due date came and went.  Due to Covid and the strains on the hospital system, "elective" inductions were not allowed. One week post due date an induction is able to be considered "medically necessary" though, so that's when our doc put it on the calendar. At week 38, baby was in position and I was almost 2cm dilated, but it stalled out there and baby girl decided to hang out until the 41 week mark. Then induction day was upon us and it was go-time!

4:30am : Up to start getting ready and have a big breakfast. My doc warned me to eat because I'd be on a liquid diet upon arrival (which, is fair because you could end up having a major surgery - a C-Section - and you wouldn't be eating at the hospital before a major surgery), so I scarfed an eggy sandwich. We were scheduled for 6am but told to call at 5am to confirm availability. If a bunch of others had gone into labor overnight and the unit was full, we'd have to wait. 

5am : We called and got put on hold for the longest ten minutes of my life, but got the all clear! To get to the hospital and parked is about 25 minutes, so shortly after we got the okay, we were out the door.

((Stage 1: Early Labor))

6:02am : Checked in at Labor & Delivery. The Kyle Rittenhouse case was on the news, and the Christmas tree was already up in the empty lobby. 

Shortly after, we were in a room and I changed into my laboring gown. They strapped a bunch of external monitors on my belly and got the IV going. I had been flagged with Group B Strep early on in my pregnancy - something that is just a regular part of my body, that could be harmful for a baby on it's way out - which is very easily treated with antibiotics during labor as a precaution. So I knew coming in that I would have penicillin via an IV. Since I needed to be induced and wanted an epidural, an IV was always in the cards. 

The monitors fed a stream of fetal/contraction data to both a digital screen and an old-school printer which steadily drew a line showing my progress, upon a never-ending stream of paper. It turned out that the back pain I had been feeling in the days leading up had actually been minor contractions, they just didn't feel like "normal contractions" (whatever that means lol) thanks to my anterior placenta (my placenta was always on the front of my belly, which cushions baby movements - so I felt kicks later and less intensely early on). Watching the upticks in the line and matching them in real-time with how my body was feeling, I was able to know when contractions were happening. And I definitely thought, "Okay, this isn't so bad." Because everyone tells you "OH YOU'LL KNOW when they're happening!" but at that time, I would've still just thought I was achy. 

7:10am : They started the Pitocin in my IV. Pitocin is a hormone used to induce labor.*

9:18am : Up and walking about with my IV stand. I told them I wanted to be up and about as much as possible, and they largely left me to my own devices. I couldn't wander the halls or anything with Covid, so just paced about our giant delivery room (it was super swanky). 

10:15am : My "liquid diet" meal arrived. Broth, Jell-O, juice, popsicles. I ordered it asap after the Pitocin started, knowing it'd take awhile to arrive. (My biggest fear is being hungry, and I absolutely was justified about that worry later.) I absolutely made my husband take a photo of me holding my broth cup like Baby Yoda - no regrets. 

Random hospital thing: they measure your pee. The toilet in the room has a cup to catch and measure so they can make sure you're hydrated. As a pregnant woman, I peed every ten minutes basically, so the poor nurses had to deal with that a bunch. 

11am : Shift change for my nurses. I thanked them for all their help and said I hoped I didn't see them again when they came back (12 hours later). 

11:43am : They had been slowing upping the Pitocin, to the point where my contractions were regular but still not super strong. The nurses consulted with my OB/GYN and they planned to "break my bag of waters." There was a different doctor who was coming in to do that procedure. Two good notes with this:

• When they said my labor was not progressing much and they planned to break my water, they had to ask permission to take that step. One key bit I remembered from the online birthing class we watched (thanks Covid again - only virtual options were available) was the BAR approach. If there are decisions to be made, you don't have to know all about them in advance of your labor, you just have to know how to get an understanding to make an informed decision. So you ask: what are the Benefits? the Alternatives? the Risks?
• My OB was not present throughout my entire labor - she popped in to check on me a few times and consulted over the phone with my nurses, but she was not just hanging out all day. I was very grateful to have my specific baby doc for my entire pregnancy and the confidence that she would be the one delivering my baby. That helped me to have someone I really trusted (that woman saw me at my highest highs and lowest lows - I consider her a trusted ally). 

12:13pm : Water broken. Definitely a whoosh of fluid. This started my "I am... in a pool" joke with my husband. Pool of fluid, pool of tears, pool of baby spit: somehow, I'm always in a pool. My exact text describing the process of them "breaking my bag of waters" to my friends moments later: "It's like they tried to crochet a sweater up my snatch, but hopefully that'll get things moving!" Feel free to google "amniotic hook" on your own time. (You can also look up goodies like "bloody show" while you're there, if you're feeling feisty.) 

12:57pm : Up and walking about again. I was very determined to keep walking to help bébé labor down as long as possible. Once you get that epidural, the walking stops, so I was on my feet as much as I could be. The thing I didn't fully understand before being pregnant: contractions basically come in waves, fairly standard waves, and they get closer together and can last longer as you get closer to birth. So for example, they can last about 30 to 70 seconds and come about 5 to 10 minutes apart. So you can feel "fine" and be walking around and then suddenly have to pause and do some deep breathing during the contraction and then as it passes you can carry on. 

2:40pm : No updates, really. Contractions were coming on hard but the nurse seemed to think that it'd still be awhile. No epidural yet. Just up and walking about, listening to my labor playlist and chit chatting with my husband. Everyone told me to bring a book / shows to watch, but we didn't turn the TV on even once, and my book went unopened. I was pretty well focused on the task at hand, and didn't need/want any distractions. Just my approach on it. 

2:57pm : When asked about dilation status: they said 3cm but the last cervical check had been a few hours prior. They try not to do too many cervical checks, because after your water is broken, each check could potentially be introducing bacteria, disrupt labor, and just hurt like a bitch. (Cervical checks leading up to my due date, I equated to Hermione reaching into her magic purse #IYKYK)

With little progress, the nurses kept offering me options for pain management: use the birthing ball, lay down in a certain way, take a bath, take a shower, etc. The birthing suite basically had a swanky spa in the room. While the bath option was out since they'd broken my water, a shower was still an option. I love a good hot shower, but it's a little less nice when you have to roll your IV stand just outside the shower and stick your arm out the curtain. Not quite as relaxing. Did not make me feel less in pain, just made me feel awkwardly wet. 

The awkward arm-out shower stemmed from the DRASTIC mistake I made upon arrival of saying that I was 'not opposed to an epidural' vs making my intentions known that I did plan to have one. So, the nurses thought that by offering other things, they were following my wishes. And my damn midwest-nice attitude made me say "suuuure I'll try these things." But my contractions were coming on strong enough that I'd pretty much have to stop dead and focus up, and I was like "QUIT offering me these woo-woo pansy options and give me the damn needle in my spine!" I knew it'd take a bit for the epidural docs to come and get it all in, so when I knew it was time, I made my demand for it (and more Jell-O).

((Stage 1: Active Labor))

4:28pm : Epidural time and bonus cath LOL see this post for all the shit I didn't know about epidurals before needing one. Fun fact: I didn't realize until later that the doc who put the epidural in my spin was actually like the doc-in-training. THAT would've made me feel super stressed as fuck. But, the whole thing went smoothly. I am not a big fan of needles, but my game face was on, so, I think I did a damn good job. 

They always tell you to rest once you get the epidural in, so I did. Walking around was no longer an option anyways. I told the doc I could still feel my foot a lot though and that I didn't think it was working well enough. He said he could do a test and to let him know what I could feel. I told him I was ready for the test and he was already doing it - it's just an ice cube test. I thought I had feeling but I couldn't feel an ice cube on my foot at all. Epidurals are wild. 

6:16pm : 5.5 centimeters (after twelve hours in the delivery room). Which felt like nothing knowing I had to get to ten, and yet felt like we'd finally made some progress. At this point, I was absolutely starving and exhausted from laboring all day. While walking around had been something I felt so adamant about doing, it had worn me out. In hindsight, I'd have chilled with the walking about to save that energy.

6:50pm : 8 centimeters, 100% effaced. My OB was called in mid-dinner, and it felt like it was go-time. (Spoiler alert: I was about 4.5 hours away from having our little girl in-arm.) 

7pm : They began stopping the Pitocin, hoping I'd be able to get the last 2cm on my own. My OB was there, getting her scrubs on. They told us that if the last 2cm didn't come, they would turn the Pitocin back on for a bit. The hope was that the baby's heart rate would stay in a good place, and there wouldn't be a need for a C-Section.

7:11pm : It happened at different points throughout the day, but this was the time there was photographic documentation of it: the "labor shakes," in which one starts shaking/shivering uncontrollably. I felt cold and yet sweaty, and jittery as hell. The nurses put warm blankets on me and I tried to rest. It is apparently fairly common and basically happens because your body has a big old surge of hormones and freaks the fuck out (that's the medical description for it, obvi).

After further evaluation, my OB told us that while the baby was head down (good), it was in posterior position, aka "sunny side up," aka its nose was towards my abdomen instead of my back. This isn't the preferred position for pushing out a babe, because the baby’s head is more likely to get wedged against the pubic bone, putting pressure on mama's spine/sacrum. This can cause a longer and more painful delivery, a higher chance of needing a C-section, and other complications. Apparently, up to a third of babies are in this position in the first stage of labor - most rotate themselves into the right position before go time! 

Since the ideal position was for bébé to be facing nose-to-back, we talked through options for how to coax her into rotating. With the epidural, I was in jellyfish mode, so the nurses moved me about into various positions (to one side, to the other, etc.) and we waited. 

8:08pm : Next up to try involved them putting a giant peanut shaped ball/balloon between my legs to try and rotate that baby.

((Stage 1: Transition))

8:53pm : This time they sat me up into "throne position" where I rested and waited. 

Keep in mind, when I say "resting," I mean riding the contraction waves - as you transition out of active labor and into the actual birthing, the contractions are strong and close together - so every 3 to 5 minutes, and lasting about 60 to 90 seconds each. Not a very "restful" time. Thank GOODNESS for that epidural. Without it, I'd have been in a massive amount of pain - instead I just felt pressure. Like, I could tell when contractions were coming and happening, but it didn't hurt, it was more just like a wave of exhaustion. (Your body is running a marathon, you just can't feel your legs hitting the pavement.) 

More than any other feeling, for me personally, was that of hunger. I am an angry panda when not fed, and with naught but a liquid brunch eleven hours prior, and scattered Jell-O's thereafter, I was running low on fuel. I asked if I could have another Jell-O or anything before we hit the final stage, and my OB politely explained that they were about to put an oxygen mask on me, and many women throw up during labor - and that I did not want to vomit red Jell-O into that mask, because it would not be pleasant. And I was like.... touché, doc, no Jell-O.

((Stage 2: Baby Birthing Time!))

9:20pm : 10cm, baby is face down, pushing starting imminently. This was it. Game face on, I asked my OB how long women have to push for on average. She warned me that it could be hours, and I was like "challenge accepted" - I wasn't going to do this for hours. I was going to push and breath so well, and give this baby my very best, and we were going to get this thing done asap. 

My plan had been to not have my husband in the room during this stage - I needed to be in the zone, and have all my mental energy focused on the task at hand, not worrying about how he was doing or feeling. I didn't want the distraction. But with Covid, he wouldn't have been allowed to linger out in the waiting room and basically would've had to go wait in the car, and that just seemed stupid, so I asked him to stay out of the action, and back over my shoulder where I couldn't see him. Yes, I basically asked him to go sit in the corner. Comforting and hand holding and whatever else would've just made me lose concentration and probably pissed me off. ((Note: this had been discussed well in advance, and I'm grateful that he was respectful of my wishes, because I basically was asking him to not be in the weeds for the arrival of his child - something plenty of people told me I was being a jerk about, depriving him of this special moment. But, my labor, my rules.))

9:27pm : Pushing began. I have never been more focused on anything in my entire life than I was during those first few pushes. Our nurses were excellent and talked me through the breathing, pushing, etc. and I made AWESOME progress immediately. Everyone was all "wow, this is impressive, just a few more pushes like that and like, we'll be done" - much applause. I was a goddamn champion.

9:50pm : And then I was still pushing. Still doing great they told me. But as time went on, my pushes were not as strong because I was so worn out, and every time it seemed I was making progress, I was losing it. 

**See double asterisk subnote if you want the graphic, nitty-gritty details of this part - please skip if it'll make you uncomfortable. It sure made ME uncomfortable.

10:52pm : Still pushing, getting closer. We switched position/approach slightly. But I basically had two nurses holding my legs (since I couldn't feel them) at any given time. It's fascinating when you try to dig in your heels when you...can't feel your heels. 

At some point, my OB asked if I'd like a mirror to see the baby crowning so I could *see* my progress, to visualize/motivate me, or if I'd like to touch the baby's head: both were a HARD NO from me. Literally zero interest in either of those things. I feel like it would have been the opposite of motivating to see my poor body being destroyed by the exodus of our dear babe.

11:00pm : And there it was, the shift change. My nurse from the morning was back and I was absolutely disappointed to still be laboring.  The nurse who had been with me for the past hour and a half of pushing stayed around but had to go do the shift hand off, and other nurses came in. In the jumble, my OB hailed my husband over: someone needed to hold a leg. So much for me wanting to keep him as far away from the action as possible, but there was nothing for it: that leg needed holding. 

As the staff shift whirled about, I was still just there, waiting for each contraction wave, trying to muster up what was left of my energy to get our baby out into the world. I was so very tired. I wish I could say there was a sudden surge of adrenaline or something that got me through, but it was more just a primal need to be done. If it didn't happen soon, I wouldn't be able to have a vaginal delivery, and I was so scared of a C-section that I knew it needed to happen. 

My main pushing-nurse had been my rock in terms of counting and talking me through the breathing, and in the shuffle there were different people saying different things, my legs weren't being held properly, and everyone just seemed distracted from the task at hand. In my delirium, my project management skills came out and I had to give a wee speech along the lines of "hey, we all need to be on the same page - I need someone to do the counting again, I need my legs to both be held the same way, I need help, I need everyone to focus." And we regrouped, with my OB acting as coxswain for the finale. 

11:15pm : Our little girl was born. Nine pounds. Per my husband, it was like seeing a little inanimate thing flop out, and then just spring to life. 

((Stage 3))

I remember saying I wanted the baby cleaned off before they gave her to me for skin-to-skin, but that's apparently not a thing (babies don't get a bath until 24 hours after birth - the goo is protective for them), so the beautiful slimy creature I had grown was handed over, for me to cling to as my body collapsed under the weight of the effort it had just made. The doc began to "repair" the damage (which I could unfortunately feel most of, as the epidural was being tapered off) while we got to meet our sweet girl. A time later, I remember asking my doc about delivering the placenta (which I knew happened after labor), she kindly said it had already happened (so apparently the epidural was still working enough!). The nurses began kneading my stomach, something they'd come do throughout the time it took my uterus to shrink back to size. They did tests and assessments on our baby in the room, while I began recovery.***

Mom and baby were both safe and healthy, that's what mattered. My OB had informed me before pushing that with most insurances, we would get "two midnights" to stay in the recovery ward for a vaginal birth. Some people who are closer to the midnight mark stop pushing and wait... because America. (Seriously, how fucked up is our healthcare system??) So by the time we were moved out of the labor and delivery ward, we were already well into our "first night" for our recovery stay. 

At that stage in the pandemic, I was allowed one visitor in a 24-hour period, i.e. if I wanted someone other than my husband, it would be just that person for that day and my husband would be kicked out during that time. Needless to say, it was just us three. Just us three to begin this wonderful, chaotic journey. At the point of no return, ready to enter parenthood. We'd done it. We'd ticked a little +1 to humanity. It might have meant sacrificing my body in the process, but, she was finally on the outside, ready to start the big adventure called life. 

Life is rarely a straight line.

* NOTE that Pitocin can also be used in abortions, and with legislation restricting access to reproductive healthcare, this may become something unavailable to women - meaning that I would have had to continue to carry my baby for an undetermined number of days. I could have gone post-term and had to deal with a number of health risks to myself and my child. Getting an induction allowed me to have a safe labor and a healthy child. This is a reminder to please VOTE and understand that restricting reproductive healthcare extends well beyond abortions.

*** At my six-week postpartum appointment with my OB, I still was NOT recovered and had a lot of healing to do. I pushed a nine pound baby out, and she did not go quietly into the night. 

** When in stage two, you are still waiting for contractions. You feel the contraction coming on, like riding up the hill on a roller coaster. When the contraction hits, you push. When it ends, you wait until you go up another hill again. I ended up "pushing" for about two hours. With contractions about 3 to 5 minutes apart, that means I may have pushed about two dozen times. Putting your entire being into pushing a giant object out of a small opening, when you can't feel your body and haven't eaten anything? It's um, not delightful. Rather tiring. While I started with such verve, I got increasingly more fatigued. When I say it felt like I was losing progress, I was literally losing progress. With my initial pushes, the baby's head could be seen, but as things went on, each contraction the baby would push out a bit, and in between contractions/pushing the baby would slide back in. Literally two steps forward and one step back. You can imagine the impact of having a large baby head just there, hanging out in my vagina for two hours, bobbing in and out... it was, not good. 

My OB explained to me that the baby would not be able to fit through as things were, and that they might need to make more room for the baby to exit. I had made it very clear beforehand that I did not want an episiotomy (in which they strategically cut the perineum - the area between your vag and anus - to enlarge the opening for the babe to come through) unless absolutely necessary, and that I preferred to let things "expand" (i.e. rip/tear, sigh) naturally, if needed. Dazed, I tried to reiterate this, asking how bad the tearing might be if we just continued on. And **skip to next paragraph if you want to avoid the most traumatizing thing a doc has ever said to me** my kind, straightforward doc, who I deeply trust, looked at me and told me that things were not looking to rip backwards....they were looking like they would rip upwards if they didn't intervene. If you're a woman reading this, take a second to let that horror sink in. If you're a man, just move along. 

And I finally caved: I started crying. Out of pure frustration and exhaustion. I had thought I'd be this rockstar who would push this baby right out. My mom had told endless tales of how we had basically walked right out of her vagina into the world, so I had thought that my "child bearing hips" would make for an easy go of things. And here we were. I took some deep breathes and told my OB she could proceed. She was already on it. We needed to get the baby out, we'd come too far.  The pushing needed to continue.... Okay, jump back up to the timeline now <3 

BabyMama: Is this the real life?

There is a stranger living in our house. 

We feed her, cloth her, care for her. But we're still learning who she is. We trust that she's a good person, but don't actually know what she's capable of.

One day, we were just two of us, a married couple, living happily in our home, and the next we had a new boarder. A tiny tenant for whom we had to re-arrange our schedules and lifestyle. We accepted this change willing, happily, and without hesitation. 

And it is so, so bizarre. 

Our sweet girl is almost 10 months old now. She has spent more time living outside my body than within. It is something I still marvel at, and even though it is very much a real part of our lives, still seems so foreign somehow. 

When our bebe was around two months old, the first time I was away from her for more than just an hour or so, it felt so strange to not be in her presence. I remember driving back, thinking to myself that if I arrived home to find no baby, and all the child-adjacent items gone - if I looked about and saw our home just as it had been only a few months before - I would think I had made it all up. That it had been just a dream. That we hadn't created a person and brought her into this world. There's no way so much had actually shifted in our lives so rapidly.

But I arrived home and there she was. Waiting with a toothless, drooly grin, presented in Simba-like fashion by her dad at our threshold. A new human, entirely dependent on us for survival, growth, and emotional support. A malleable creature whose future self will root deeply back to these current day-to-day moments. I remember just staring, thinking how strange it was that she was there. Having vividly remembered carrying her to term (and then some) and given birth to her, and hours of time spent physically feeding her with my body, and of us playing with her and cherishing time together - all those memories existed, but when she had no longer been in my physical presence, it seemed so unreal.* But a quick snuggling of her petite frame with my bosomy mom embrace, and it was clear that this really is happening.

We spend our lives in different stages, with some surpassing others as we go along. Sixteen years of my life were spent as a student. Twelve as a worker bee (so far). I've been eight years a partner and three years a wife. All my years I've been a sister, a daughter, a granddaughter (while our moms are just now become grandmothers - a new phase for them). But not yet one year a mother. Eventually, I'll have been married longer than I was unmarried (knock on wood), and will be a mama longer than I'll have been childless. Certain phases will eclipse others, and probably just as our daughter is ready to leave home, I'll have somewhat forgotten what life was like before her. 

I'm not at that point yet though. Right now, my days without her are still so vivid in my mind. New parents often have sentimental posts stating "I can't imagine my life without this little one!" But I can. I spent decades living it. I know exactly how things might look without our bundle of joy having ever been delivered. We chose this adventure though. We decided to embrace this new life (both literally a new life and a new type of life for us). We know what it looks like to be happy sans baby, while equally loving the world we're building. It is so beautiful, and exhausting.** I'm extremely present whilst simultaneously sentimental about every moment (even as it's still happening), because I know this precious time is fleeting. Yet it's still so hard to fathom that this is it. This really is our life. I can see all the steps that we took to get here, and I know we are here. Somehow I'm just dumbfounded and in awe, basking in this strange glow. Maybe it's the months of sleep deprivation finally manifesting. Or maybe I need to let our wee bebe pinch me with her teeny fingers just so I know I'm not dreaming... 

If this is a dream, maybe don't wake me. I want to see how it ends.

* Not like a Schrödinger's cat situation, but like, somehow that's what came to mind? But not in a morbid way? Like... I don't want to be comparing our daughter to a potentially dead cat? IDK, IYKYK.

** Sometimes the days are difficult, and I'm so tired and just wish the little lady would sleep so I can rest. But then when she's asleep, I stare at the monitor, wishing I could hold her and that we could laugh and play. You can appreciate how demanding parenthood is, and how tough it can be to show up the way you want to, while still being super sappy about it. My husband made a comment that sometimes when looking at old pix of our daughter when she's still so small, he wishes he could just reach into the picture and be back in that moment. And oooh boy do comments like that make me weeeeep.

BabyMama & The Who Knews

As the former captain of Team No-Kids, I admittedly was super ignorant around a lot of elements of pregnancy, labor & delivery, postpartum, and just parenting stuffs in general. While the internets / socials are filled with mommy blog intel and opinions galore about the whole process, I had never really dwelled in that space. And even though I had the best of intentions with my child-bearing friends over the years - asking questions while trying to give them space to discuss their major life altering event - I honestly wasn't absorbing a lot of the details. The minutia of the thing was foreign to me. There were just so many pieces of that journey that were outside my realm that I mostly listened without understanding. And especially did not think how those things could apply to me one day.

So by the time I was down the path to parenthood myself, I was doe-eyed and stumbling. 

We've been SO grateful to have a large network of good friends and family who have been supportive, shared wisdom, paved the way, told us the tales, etc. This list is comprised of things that were surprising to me, in one way or another. Some of which I'd been warned of (because you do get all the horrid details as soon as you're already pregnant), and some I knew about, but didn't really comprehend until we were in the thick of it ourselves. (This list is obvi not all encompassing - it's what I happened to think of just now so I'm sure it's missing a lot of things.)

Pregnancy

• Your organs literally rearrange. Sure, I figured your body has to make room for a baby, so other stuff has to move a bit. I mostly thought about how things grow out, not how internal things shuffle. Obviously that's a big part of why pregnant women have to pee so often - a dozen pounds of baby and bodily fluid is now smashing down on your bladder all day. Plus, heartburn is the literal devil.
• Unexpected symptoms during pregnancy. Needing to pump up a baby, your blood really gets flowing, which for me meant bloody noses. I also found myself getting a lot of night sweats?* And, fun fact, you can get carpal tunnel while pregnant - WHO KNEW?!
• I care really deeply about my belly button. My greatest fear in life is having an outie. In the final days, it was completely flat... If it had popped out, I think I'd have just died on the spot.
• Stretch marks. Everywhere. I had mentally prepared for belly stretch marks, but the first random one that showed up in week 15 on the underside of my boob, visible only to me? Nope. Complete fucking mental breakdown. No amount of lotions or oils could save my porcelain skin and that's just life - shit comes down mostly to genetics. Mind over stretchy matter.

Labor & Delivery

• Epidurals were a mystery. I knew it was a giant needle in your spine. But I had always imagined a Pulp Fiction style needle stab: one and done. However, it is NOT one and done. It is actually a tube they put into your spine that stays there and delivers the anesthesia. There's a button where they can toggle it up or down. You lay there, with a tube dangling out your spine. What. The. Actual. Fuck. It completely blew my mind somehow that that's how they work. Oh, and you get a catheter. Momma's first surprise catheter. Which made sense because, you can't really feel a lot of your lower half. But. Um. Gross... Don't get it twisted, I LOVED having an epidural. 10/10 would do again. Still, the whole concept makes me cringe. 
• You aren't supposed to eat while laboring. Before going in for my induction, my OB told me to have a big breakfast, because I'd be on a liquids-only diet (broth, jello, juice) at the hospital. So I knew (slash secretly packed snacks), yet was not mentally prepared for not eating. I love eating. Plus, you burn a lot of energy laboring. I totally get it: there's a chance of a C-Section, which is a major operation, and they definitely make people fast before major operations usually. But still.

Motherhood & Postpartum

• Newborns make weird noises. Like a tiny caged velociraptor or a truffling pig.
• Your Period doesn't come back right away. Well, for some it does. Others it doesn't come back until after you're done breastfeeding, or just randomly later. WHY did I never know that?? (At time of writing this, I haven't had my period for 18 months - that feels insane.)
• You don't have to baby proof for a long time. Newborns are literally not mobile. No newborn is getting anywhere near your electrical outlets unless you put them there - they aren't in control of their limbs enough to poke fingers into tiny holes even if you do. The dexterity, curiosity, and ability to move about all comes so much later. I had always thought that was a must-do thing before giving birth - it's really not urgent though. (Although, you'll probably have more energy to babyproof pre-baby.)
• Nightlights are mostly for adults. So I can creep on my baby while constantly checking to see if she's breathing. (Spoiler alert: she is.) Newborns aren't afraid of the dark - they spent nine months in total darkness, they're cool with it. Fear of the dark is learned later.
• Wake windows & overstimulation. Learning how much babies sleep and how that manifests is fascinating. Overstimulation is a very real thing, which makes sense because it's literally a brand new world for them (adults get overstimulated, too, obvi, we just react differently). I'd never heard the term "wake windows" before in my life, and now they're a guideline for our day-to-day. 
• All the feels / hormones. Go see my other post, I can't recount the ridiculous weepiness again.
• The loneliness. We are lucky enough to have a big support system, with a network of caring loved ones who helped us and reached out during every step of this process. (I know I already said that - but like, seriously, without it this would've felt overwhelmingly isolating.) Many mom friends have told me about that element of loneliness, when you find yourself up in the wee small hours with a petit bebe at your breast/the bottle, listening to the not-so-gentle snores of your husband - but I always found that I was not alone during that time. There was always some other mom online or a message from their feeding an hour prior waiting for me. I was never alone in the night. It was kind of beautiful.
  BUT the thing that did get me, was when my maternity leave ended / daycare began. At the start of the pandemic, I was sent to work from home, and have yet to return to the office. As an extrovert, transitioning to being physically alone all day had its ups and downs. But I adapted. Then we had a baby. I had three wonderful months with her - all day, every day. Newborn snuggles, comforting cries, milk&music jam seshs, hand holds with itty bitty fingers - it was wonderful. I did not feel "touched out" like some moms do - I was exhausted but overjoyed. But then, I was just alone again. All day. It was such a sharp pivot, which instantly brought to the forefront all the subtle PTSD I had from the loneliness of being thrust into WFH in the first place. I missed our little girl. I didn't want to be alone. 

MilkMamahood (ie the Breastfeeding Journey)

Want to preface this: you know that scene in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory when Gene Wilder takes them on that terrifying, trippy boat ride? THAT is what I mean by "journey." THAT is what the "breastfeeding journey" vibe is. Still, I feel lucky and grateful to have been in the chocolate factory (had a healthy pregnancy/birth) at all, let alone to get on the boat (be able to breastfeed) - so not trying to diminish that bit - but mannnn it's a wild ride. 

• The boob/milk ecosystem. The lactation consultant warned me that my milk coming in would make me feel like "a busty Renaissance woman" - truer words were never spoken. While pregnant, I was alarmed at how rapidly my ta-tas were gaining size, but that paled in comparison to the early weeks postpartum. I learned a lot about how milk ducts work - and how they're basically rock hard bunches of grapes in your tits.** It's delightfully insane how human bodies work and how weird it is to keep another human life alive using my body.
• The maintenance. The volume of boob pads I've gone through (I wash reusable ones), and the amount of clothing that will just forever smell of slightly stale milk - it's unfathomable. Also, lanolin is greasy. Getting grease out of things sucks. The pump parts, the milk storage (I love our chest freezer), the endless wash. It is a fulltime job. 
• The tether. Oh, the baby is at daycare? You can just live your life same as pre-baby, right? Wrong. Time to pump! Oh, you want to run some errands or see a friend? Okay, cool, um, as long as you're only gone for a few hours because you need to get those titties back to feed the baby. Oh, the baby is sleeping through the night? Now you can finally sleep through the night? Lolz. Your boobs are leaking everywhere - grab that haakaa!
  I knew that by choosing to breastfeed, I'd be committing to the TIME it'd take to do the feeding itself, but the logistics involved and timing of it I hadn't fully understood. Your time is already not your own with a baby, but when you're their primary food source, you're absolutely on their schedule. You are fully tethered to them.*** Especially during a damn formula shortage.

There will probably never be a point where something new and surprising doesn't emerge. Where I don't learn about a new piece of this puzzle and go "Oh, wait, what?" My attempts to overshare are my way of helping someone else be less shocked while going down this road. Though I guess the eye-opening moments are all part of the experience? Wouldn't trade these WTFs for anything else. 

Figuring out this new life, together.

* There has been a running joke with my husband where I just flatly say "I am in a pool." Originally that was because I was in a pool of sweat upon waking while pregnant. Then during my delivery, when they "broke my bag of waters." Then later, in the breastfeeding era when my boobs would randomly spring a leak. Glammmmoroussss AF.

** Another ongoing laugh - me grabbing my boobs when they're too full and it's time for feeding and repeating that dumb tiktok audio of "Hollllly shit, look at these rocks!" (No idea the origin of the audio - but it's all over on videos like this and then I consumed it via the Gram, because like a true millennial I'm not on the tik nor toks).

*** Note: I did do a solo trip for 5 days to Scotland, back in April. That adventure involved me scrambling to pump in a myriad of locations in between a fully packed wedding weekend schedule. I pumped on planes and trains, in a castle, in sketchy bar bathrooms, and everywhere in between. What I did not do though was try to keep that milk and deal with the logistics of that - it was already overwhelming to manage my time around my milk - transiting it would've broken my brain completely. Even though it broke my soul to waste it.