BabyMama & The Birth Story : Bebe Deux

There's something about the impending birthday of one's child that screams, "Let's go reflect (in excessive detail) upon the night you were born!" I don't make the rules. I just show up on the blog seemingly out of the blue, casually mentioning that I now have not one, but TWO children, the second of which is nearing two years old. This is just how that goes.

When writing the birth story for my firstborn, I felt eloquent, wiser, learn'ed. I felt like I needed to put to words the insane day that had officially launched me into motherhood proper, and I was as mindful as possible about how I shared that tale. Years later, I come to you now not wiser, but worn. My weariness stemming from the one certainty that comes with being a second time parent: uncertainty. Each pregnancy and birth is as different as each person on this earth. The tiny new humans we bring to life are unique, and so is the journey we take with them.

So, as our little son approaches two, let's revisit his entrance. 

I maintain that birthing persons are super heroes, and also maintain the same disclaimers as my first birth story:

• 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 asked my husband to keep track in a notepad - with our first we had texted updates to friends/family throughout my labor, but given the time of day, we didn't this time. I still liked having a log. Also had a few photos for time referencing. 
• 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). 
• I was very lucky to have a labor without massive complications. I'm not sure what a "normal" labor truly is, but mine was not out of the ordinary. Given that our second pregnancy had ended in a missed miscarriage, I spent a lot of time anxious about loss during all three trimesters, but was grateful that at no point during L&D did I feel fearful about the wellbeing of our baby boy. 

The scene: At 38 weeks pregnant, I was settling in for the long haul. For my first, I was induced at 41 weeks, so I assumed we'd be on a similar track. Being pregnant in the peak summer heat with a very animated toddler was like running a marathon twice daily, and my exhaustion was doubled by the last minute frantic cross-training of a former coworker / friend who would be covering for me while on maternity leave. (They hadn't let her start earlier, so I had only a few very long days anchored to my desk to try and prep her.) I was running on empty: fully mentally and emotionally depleted. 

On top of it all, there was the guilt of how we were about to completely disrupt our life as a trio, how our daughter's world was about to be turned upside down and she didn't even know it. And the deeper fear continued to creep in, the fear that something would go wrong. This had shifted from my first pregnancy, in which I was maybe more selfish, this time I was terrified that something might cause my little girl to lose her mom. So each daycare drop-off hug felt like it could be the last time, and the sadness was crippling some days. 

Cue Thursday morning:

I woke up a shell, not feeling great, completely overwhelmed. At drop-off, I openly wept at not just my daughter's current teacher but also the teacher for the room she was about to move into. I was so scared about all the transitions happening at once, so afraid our girl would feel unsupported. Those beautiful, kind women propped me up and assured me all would be well. I didn't believe it, but instead moved forward with the day, feeling unwell and nervous. 

A stressful work day, a regular night post-daycare, and then it was bedtime. My husband was doing most of the bedtime duties at that point since A) I was too massive to get in and out of our toddler's floor bed and B) I needed to rest proper. 

10pm : Went to bed early since I wasn't feeling well. Texted my husband shortly thereafter saying I was so sore and couldn't lay on my side because it hurt too much. 

10:45pm : Realized that this wasn't normal pain and it might be contractions. Since I'd only ever felt induced contractions, this was new territory. I scrambled to find the sheet from my OB sayin what to look for to know if it was time to get to the hospital. 4-1-1. Strong contractions every 4 minutes, each lasting 1 minute long, for 1 hour. 4-1-1, I frantically told my husband as I had him setting timers and counting. 

And this is where the logistics panic started. Because what if it was a false alarm and we triggered the "arrival plan" for nothing in the middle of the night?? We had really hoped maybe I'd go into labor like right around daycare drop-off so we'd have 8 hours to activate the grandmas, but instead the "night mode" (yes, I had a document with all these scenarios that I'd emailed out to everyone) was happening. We'd need local support (my MIL) to bridge the gap at home while my mom made the 3.5 hour drive south. The plan was for my mom to stay at our house with Irene for the days we were at the hospital for delivery and recovery - with support from my MIL/sister. 

But now, we'd be leaving while our daughter slept, without a proper goodbye. And my mom would be driving in the dark, after a full day, having not gotten any sleep yet. And we'd be waking up my MIL to also drive in the dark to to have a semi-sleepless night wondering what's going on with us. My stress was mounting. I basically spent an hour sobbing in a chair in our bedroom, holding my massive bump, in increasing amounts of pain, saying "not now, sweet boy, mommy can't be her best right now, I don't have the strength I need to do this right now, please wait." But it was happening, ready or not.  And then we knew we shouldn't wait anymore.

((AND fun fact, my OB whom I respect and adore and trust with my life and who I had planned to have deliver my second child... was on her one vacation of the year. Due to get back a few days later. And of course, I'd also slept poorly the night before but instead of going to bed, I was getting ready to pull an all-nighter and birth a human. So it was like every single less-than-ideal scenario was playing out. NOT STRESSFUL AT ALL.))

11:35pm : We activated the phone tree. My husband called his mom to come watch Irene / be at our house while she slept. I started texting my mom, who was mercifully still mostly awake. By midnight, my MIL had arrived and my mom was already on the road. I spent another half hour crying (for good measure) as I made sure everything in the go-bag was set.

And then in was Friday.....

12:30am : Snuck in to whisper some goodbyes to our sleeping little miss. She woke up crying and my husband held her for a little bit to get her back to sleep. I unleashed the last of my tears as well and then locked it down. 15 minutes later we were in the car. 

1:20am : Finally checked in at the hospital. Had a fun little SNAFU with parking (there was a security guard asleep in his vehicle and so we had to buzz to get someone to open the parking garage arm to get in lol) and then we had to go through a different entry than planned because it was not normal hours, so everything was just slightly off, but we made it. 

LFG.

Spoiler alert: things went fast from here on out. While my daughter's birth had been a marathon, my son's was about to be a sprint. I still had to run the same distance, but MUCH faster. With my first labor and delivery, I'd tried to stay in my power and be confident in my strength, this time I was unprepared and broken, and continually bemoaned to anyone in the room, exhausted, "this is happening too fast, I'm not ready" as I clamored internally to find some solid ground. 

1:45am : Admitted, in a room. First check: thick cervix, 5cm dilated. Things were happening, it wasn't a false alarm, this was the real deal. It was mostly just us with a very sweet young nightshift nurse, who was very kind as I explained that I was running on empty so didn't have energy to be as chatty and nice as I'd normally be. 

2:00am : IV placed. I had been flagged for Group B Strep again, so it was already in the plan to have a nice pouch of penicillin ready to go.

2:40am : Epidural placed. I wasn't fucking around like the last time. I ordered that thing pretty much the moment I had gotten the IV placed. Once the epidural is in, they tell you to rest. But mine was short-lived as the little monitor started to go off.

2:55am : My numbers started to drop, so they gave me medication for low blood pressure. I started to quietly panic, thinking this was the start of a serious of scary medical events that would lead to something awful:  an emergency c-section, losing my life, my baby dying, etc. Every single intrusive thought screamed as loud as possible. So maybe that helped, but my blood pressure was back up within 15 minutes. 

3:05am :  Blood taken for labs. Another check: thin cervix, 7cm dilated. That darling L&D nurse was on the horn, like "can we get a labor doc??" And she gently said she'd be ready to catch my baby if needed. Confidence level for both of us was palpably low, but we smiled and agreed we'd make this happen.

3:10 am: Since my blood pressure was looking good and things were moving, they set a Foley Cath (they'd waited to do this after epidural because of my numbers dropping). And then it was time for the good old "labor shakes" again, so  they piled warm blankets on me and told me to try and sleep. (I have a cherished photo of me as giant blanket pile with a head sticking out that my husband took at 3:24am lol) I briefly met another older nurse who said they were reaching out to the on-call doc (aka the backup for when my OB was on vacation). I'd gotten to meet two of the backup docs as a just-in-case (since my due date was so close to my OB's time away), and of course the one on duty was the one I hadn't met. The older nurse assured me that she would also be ready to catch my baby. Assurance was at an all-time high (sarcasm).

3:45am : From under the blanket mountain... my water broke. I was in a pool and my micro nap was thoroughly ended. Another check: 9cm dilated. For those keeping score at home: you need to hit 10 to deliver. 

4:00am : Lots of pressure. 9+ cm. Even with an epidural numbing the pain, you still feel pressure, and your body still burns massive amounts of energy with each contraction. The wee night nurse was grabbing any other nurse or person she could find to help her catch a baby. The on-call doc was on her way but the highway on/off ramps were closed from nighttime construction, and she lived 45 minutes away......

4:05am : Complete. We at a 10 outta 10, baby. Continued promises that the on-call doc was coming. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the older nurse was getting suited up and I could see my night nurse calling the desk again to ask status. 

4:10am : Lots of pressure. A quiet vigil of nurses, who were all way more chill than me, started to show up, telling me to just breath, while I demanded to know if I should be pushing. They all were like "no no, no pushing" the on-call doc was coming, just wait. And I was like "But I think this is pushing timeeee, this feels like pushing tiiiiime, TELL ME WHEN TO PUSH BECAUSE IT IS TIME AND I'M DOING IT WITH OR WITHOUT YOUR HELP." And I remember telling the one nurse that I really liked her glasses between waves of contractions. 

And somehow, she literally sprinted into the room just in time: the doc. She got up in there to help with the final stretch... and she caught the baby.

4:27am: Official time of birth.  As they handed our baby boy to my husband to hold, I introduced myself to the woman who delivered my baby and said thanks. She delivered my placenta, did some quick stitch work, and was gone. I never saw her again. She was like a phantom OB who swooped in and disappeared. 

Our steadfast little night nurse did all the follow-up things, and by 7:30am she had me in a wheelchair to roll up to the Mom & Baby Ward. I sleepily thanked her for being our one anchor in the speed run, and she was grateful she hadn't had to catch the baby. I ended up seeing her again in the days ahead because, with the full moon, lots of other moms went into labor and the ward was so full that they needed to have nurses help out in different sections. A few days later I definitely brought her a card and photo of us - we'd done it. It felt like her victory as much as mine. 

8:25am : I got breakfast in our recovery room. Having not eaten in about 12 hours, I was starved.

9:55am : I finally went to sleep, after what was the most stressful all-nighter of my life. 

At that point, we were officially a family of four. We'd bolted into a new chapter, ten days before what would've been my induction date, and eight days before my due date. The little lord was impatient to join our crew, and he's spent every day since impatiently demanding our love and attention. And it's a beautiful little life. 

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 

30, Unmarried

No matter the age, people will always be pelted with "What's Next?" questions. As a species, we're obsessed with the future more than the present. People seem especially concerned when it comes to females pushing 30.

Maybe it's some archaic worry about women being the "weaker sex" and not being able to make it on their own. Or it's a genuine concern about needing breeders to carry on the genetic code. Or people just get nervous about independent women in general. Whatever it is, at around age 18 the questions begin... "When are you going to find a nice man and settle down?"*
(Disclaimer: I realize that men also get pestered. But it's usually much later, and without an air of concern. Unmarried men are just "bachelors" and it usually has more of a playboy connotation, instead of a reference to cat hoarding problem.)

Going through the twenties, these questions get more persistent. More urgent. As if the longer one goes without a spouse and/or baby, the more dangerous they are; like an unmarried woman is a ticking time bomb (IT'S PROBABLY YOUR BIOLOGICAL CLOCK - don't get me started). Eventually, your either single or paired up but unmarried. You get bucketed into the "spinster" category (because one is destined to be alone forever if they've not found the "right one" by age 30??) or get pegged as "being afraid of commitment" or "unable to lock it down." And that's when my soapbox gets pulled out.

Happily, almost four years ago now, I snagged a beau. Due to the longevity of our relationship and our general happiness, I've spent the last four years being plopped into the second aforementioned bucket. The concern over my blingless finger and empty womb from all manner of friend, family, and stranger, is alarming at best. The questions have increased exponentially over the years, to the point where I'm being asked almost daily about my marital status (or lack thereof).

Please, tell me more about your opinions on my love life.

So, since the questions are so frequent, I figured it was overdue to lay out some answers to that number one question I get asked: Why aren't you married yet?
(Disclaimer: approaching this as a heterosexual cis female, but that's not to say the lovely lesbian ladies and my trans sisters don't get the same type of shitty comments! Cheers, gals, we're all in this annoying boat together! In fact, y'all probably have it worse because you also have to elaborate on your identity as well. Double the fun.)

1. Did I miss a memo? Is there some sort of time limit I wasn't aware of? What is this, The Lobster? The "yet" always seems to indicate that I've somehow missed the boat off of bachelorette island. Or that I've done something wrong in not following a specific schedule. Eff that noise. As a couple, we're a "we," not a "you," and we'll make our own damn timeline, thankyaverymuch.
2. Because marriage isn't just a box to check. I'm not going to just get married because of some old-fashioned notion of success. Five years ago, I proudly vehement that marriage just wasn't in the cards. Now, sure, it's on the radar, but sorry, it's still not on my 'bucket list.' Marriage isn't required for happiness, in my book.
3. I hadn't found a man worth marrying. No offense to some of the nicer fellas I dated over the years. You were all lovely for various reasons, but we weren't right for each other. Among the nice guys and straight up dudders, I hadn't found one who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Because I intend to live to a ripe old age, and most of you I'd have torn apart eventually, or you'd have driven me crazy. 
4. Forever is a long fucking time. Yeah, wedlock has always kind of terrified me. You're making a "lifelong commitment" to another human. A human of your choosing, too, so if you end up miserable it's kind of your own fault. That's a lot of pressure. Why would anyone want to rush that kind of decision? (Not to mention that planning a wedding in itself is an emotional and financial stressor.)
5. It wasn't a priority. Education, adventure, career, social life: those topped my priority list over the past decade. I was more focused on those than on getting my M-R-S. If Mr. Right showed up in the process of all that, it was an added bonus, but I wasn't out searching for him. Not all women are on some holy grail quest for marriage and babies (noble, as it is).
6. Get your shit together. I'm a big proponent of "love yourself or else how can you love someone else." And to be honest, I had quite a few bumpy years of anxiety and self-esteem issues that needed to be worked through before I could go open-armed to the world of men and say "Come at me, boys!" in any serious context. That also meant getting a grip on being an adult. If you don't act like a grown-ass-woman, how are you supposed to nail down a grown-ass-man? That meant tackling my debt, being self-sufficient, and making sure I could support myself overall before inviting in someone else. (Also, I couldn't even keep a plant alive, so how did that bode well for motherhood??)
7. It takes time. As a skittish, fiercely independent lady, I need to poke holes and figure out flaws. If I find red flags, I'm calling it. Life is short and I'm not going to waste effort dinking around. Finding a man, exposing his faults / deal-breakers, rejecting said man, and starting the cycle all over again - it just takes time.** 
8. Divorce sucks. I'm not about to jump into a commitment that isn't "easy" to get out of (see "skittish, fiercely independent" reference above). Divorce is messy and miserable and expensive. As a child of divorce, who has also witnessed several friends already go through the process, that's not really a path I feel like going down... ever. So again, not rushing down the aisle without putting in a lot of thought first. I'm all about building a good base (for drinking, relations, etc.).
9. Definition and gender role overload. Can't a gal just define herself for a bit? Does she have to be defined by her relationship to a man? Whoever I marry, they'll be the kind of man who accepts that I won't be defined only as "wife" or "mother." I can't be reduced to one or two elements. My twenties were all about establishing my actual identity, so it doesn't immediately get overwritten by a new title. That's how women lose themselves and wake up 18 years later, with a kid starting college, suddenly not knowing who they are as a person. And that is scary as hell. 

In a few short months, I'll officially have the ominous status of "30, Unmarried" - and I won't feel even the slightest bit bad about it. I'm entirely happy with the decisions I've made (good and bad) about my relationships with others and with myself. It hasn't always been rosy, there have been a few really low lows, but it always buoys back up again.

Maybe you're at the point like me, where marriage finally doesn't seem too horrifying, because you've got someone swell by your side. Or maybe you're reading the list above while sitting pants-less in your apartment, drinking a glass of wine, and thinking, "Preach, sister!" and a wedding just isn't on your to-do list. Or maybe you're somewhere else entirely. No matter what your relationship status, just remember that you get to define who you are, not someone else. So, kudos to all the happily married and engaged couples out there. Shout out to the singletons who are crushin' it at life just the same. And to those unmarried lovebirds, like me, you keep fucking chirping. Tweet tweet, mother fuckers. We're going to make it after all.

Can you?

* There are obviously several things wrong with this question. A) Nice man? Let's not discard the ladies as an option. B) Who says that just because one couples up, one has to settle down? C) WTFuck does settle down even mean? And why does one need a mate to do so? D) When I'm good and ready? Never? Are those optional answers? ... I have several questions about this question. 
** For those wondering about the beau... I've spent four years grilling this poor man, and trying to figure out what will drive him away, but here he is. Solid as a rock. I was happy to take the time to figure out what is or isn't right about us, together. Better to expose any deal-breakers now rather than later. That's why we also wanted to live together for awhile, to see that we were on the same page about running a household, finances, etc. And if we could like, not kill each other in the process. 

This Provincial Life

Headline: 90s Children Rejoice as Disney Machine Churns Out Live-action Versions of Film Faves
Subtitle: As adults, can no longer ignore dark undertones

Don't get me wrong, the new live-action Beauty and the Beast is stunning. Perfect casting, great costuming, more CGI than you can shake a stick at. Classic musical numbers intermingle with this tale as old as time, and we're all drinking the kool-aid. Take my money, just take it. I'm more than happy to pay for a ticket (is like a train ticket, next stop: my youth!) and let you wring my emotions out of me for a few hours, Disney.

But, let's pause for a second here. While Beauty and the Beast was of course one of my ultimate childhood obsessions (I literally learned French and to this day am enamored over beautiful libraries), watching it through an adult lens brings a different perspective.

Setting aside some of the backstory additives in the new version (as I don't want to spoil - but like, spoiler alert, there's plague involved - WTFuck), there's a lot of things to be frustrated by.*

1. What's a gal got to do to get a little adventure around here? Ah yes, be taken prisoner and develop Stockholm syndrome. Typical.
2. "Little town, it's a quiet village." Only it's not quiet at all. The small town is abuzz with gossip and nosy people with nothing better to do than start a rumor, ruin a life, or somehow further invade the privacy of their neighbors. Small town, small mindset. The portrayal in the "Bonjour" number reminds me painfully of grocery shopping in my hometown. Can it be a good thing? Yes, people know you and want to look out for you. Can it be awful? Yes, especially if you're the "peculiar" one like in this scenario. Then it can be a terrifyingly lonely life. 
3. Who is supplying the fresh food to this hidden, isolate magic castle? And does Belle even get to take a bite to eat during the "Be Our Guest" spectacle? Girl is starved and all she gets is a finger dollop of the grey stuff??
4. "It's not right for a woman to read. Soon she starts getting ideas... and thinking." HOW dreadful! Gaston literally is the patriarchy and the villagers are totally on board. Belle is ostracized for her intelligence and for wanting to lead a life beyond just that of a "little wife." The reason Belle is a good heroine is because she spends the whole movie trying to resist. You smash that patriarchy, girl! 
5. Speaking of Gaston, oh, I could go on for hours. He's labelled a "Disney Villain" for a reason, but his behavior isn't that uncommon, unfortunately. Everyday villainy occurs when gender role expectations are used to limit people.... Ladies should be thrilled to become wives. Burly men hunt and bring home food for said little wives to prepare meals for the children that they'll breed and raise. Manly men should have biceps to spare, ladies shouldn't have their nose stuck in a book.... Ugh ugh ugh. 



Let's take the muscle away from the patriarchy, shall we?

6. Doesn't a royal family typically lead the government? When the Prince and co. all just turned into creatures and were magically forgotten by everyone, was there a new government that rose up in their place to rule the kingdom? Or is it just lawlessness and lynch mobs now... oh wait... 
7. Mob mentality. There's a beast that we don't know anything about, but he looks different than us and that is scary. So grab the torches. Let's go burn this mother down. Sound archaic and silly? Well, it's just a more brutal, flaming version of building a wall really.
8. Toxic friendships. Again, Gaston is literally the worst. His bad bromance with LeFou is awful. He is domineering and treats his "friend" like shit, intimidating him into supporting his brutish antics. They try to force a woman into a marriage she doesn't want, lock up an old man, lead a riot, and overall just suck. What kind of man might LeFou be if he weren't caught up in this toxic relationship? Let this be a lesson to us all: dump the toxicity before it poisons you to death.
9. The overall premise of the curse. The castle has been under the spell for a decade by the time Belle and Beast start up their little tryst. So Beast was just a child when a creepy old woman showed up on his doorstep. A child. Not letting a stranger into the house. And we punish him for that?? I wouldn't let a stranger creepy hag into my home either, and I'm a grown ass woman. Also, why was a prince answering the door in the first place? He clearly has a whole castle full of servants. I bet Mrs. Potts would've given the old lady some tea and tucked her into bed with a kiss on her warted forehead, and then none of them would've been in this mess in the first place.
10. When the last petal falls: their humanity is gone. So, effectively, the enchantress condemns an entire castle full of people to DIE. Right now, they're running around all animated, living it up as teapots and snarky old clocks, but once that rose is petal-less, Beast becomes a beast forever, and the servants stop being lively and just become inanimate objects. They are all no longer human. The rose is a death sentence at the end of a long imprisonment for a minute crime. The justice system is totally effed when you let a pissed off enchantress (who likes to stalk around in stormy weather pretending to be an old hag??) act as both judge and executioner.  
11. Crazy old Maurice. Yeah, being an eccentric does not a lunatic make. Clearly this was set in an older time, but the fact that mental illness is still fairly taboo in this day in age is maddening. At least now we don't cart people off to terrifying facilities when they're different. 
12. Falling in love. Such an abstract concept shouldn't be put on a timer. Screw you, rose petals. Beast has been isolated with only servants as companions for years (and it wouldn't be appropriate for him to be on a personal level with them really, but, I mean, when you're cursed, rules of social hierarchy be damned). How is he supposed to be a Romeo when he lacks basic human interaction? Clearly that library wasn't stuffed with romance novels, because he's about as suave as an actual candlestick. And if he was learning how to be romantic from the talking candlestick, Lumière, then he believes romance is sneaking around and being a bit rapey with the maids. Also, he was a child when the curse was placed. So he spent all of puberty as a beast. I mean, didn't we all (amiright?!), but consider that self-confidence shot to shit. 
13. If almost all the objects in the castle are former servants - who got the short straw and became a chamber pot?
14. That magic mirror. When Belle shows up in town like, "Hey everyone, see, my dad's not a nutter, here's the beast right here in this magic mirror!" Um, lock that bitch up as a witch. If the townspeople are afraid of a beast, but not an enchantress, well, then clearly they've never rejected an old hag with a rose and suffered the consequences before.

But I digress... The new movie is fantastic. The old film is still a quintessential Disney classic. Belle still has me convinced that even we pale brunettes can pull off yellow in the right context. I should make a point to learn how to ballroom dance, just in case the need should arise. AND it's time to go stick my nose in a book and plan an adventure in the great wide somewhere. Cheers!



* It's not necessarily that the movie itself frustrates me, but that people and society are frustrating, even if they're in cartoon/movie form.
** Overall Note: none of this is new, I realize. We've been discussing the original film for over 25 years now. But with a fresh take on it, all the old thoughts were stirred up again. Wanted to keep this post spoiler-free, BUT if you wanna chat new BatB - like how they cut three of my fave scenes and how the additional back story stuff was just a device to punch my heart - I'd love to!

Though, We Adore Men Individually

When hearing the word "feminist," there are many who think of a rabid wild women. Unshaven and free, tits in the wind (curse you, bra, for attempting to constrain this gypsy she-beast). A rejector of standard female stereotypes. Hater of pink, florals, and the vile enemy that is man. 

That is definitely one version of "feminist" - probably one who was driven so far into the kitchen that when she finally got out, she sprinted into the sunset and cast off the shackles of yesterday and flung them off as far as possible. But obviously, there are many shades of that beautiful rainbow. The baseline that I've seen running as the pulse of feminism is simply this: freedom of choice and equal access/treatment, regardless of gender. That can mean a lot of things to different people, but in the purest form, in my opinion, it means:

• Being able to chose to have children and be a stay at home mom, or to never have kids at all. Or to adopt. Or to be a foster parent. Or to have children but send them to daycare to work. Having the right to be pro-life and never ever consider abortion for yourself, but also not stopping others who may need to chose that option from having access to proper medical procedures. Your body, your choice. 
• Freedom to love whoever you want, regardless of sexual orientation or gender. And to spend your time with them without persecution and harassment. 
• To be whoever you want - whether that means donning every pink girlie-girl outfit you can get your hands on, or rockin' the pantsuit. To be a strong, independent woman, or one who leans a little more heavily on their support system to keep afloat (we don't all have to be rocks or rolling stones, some of us are just trees who need roots).
• Having access to the same opportunities as anyone else, whether it be for housing, employment, access to education, travel, etc. We should all be given fair and equal treatment under the law. 

I could give a thousand examples of what I think that freedom of choice looks like, but that wasn't really where I was going when this started.... So, let me loop back to the type of feminist that I am. Far from being the man-hater (although, I do get on my "smash the patriarchy" rants a bit more frequently lately), I am a huge proponent of strength through teamwork. Men and women have many complimentary strengths, and while I don't think a woman "needs" a man to get by, with the right partnership, both can be enhanced and can grow. 

So, every once and again, from atop the soapbox, one must give a shout out.

As Jake and Elwood said, "Stand by your man." Cause, after all, he's just a man.

For just shy of three years (holy moley), I've been happy to have a ridiculously supportive partner by my side. In the days surrounding the Women's March, he was astounding, and I wanted to share some examples of how he was extra encouraging* as I laced up my marchin' boots:

• First off, he almost came with to the March. He later decided it was important for me to have that time with my ladies, so opted out. But for even considered coming, and not questioning my going, I give him my kudos.
• A few days beforehand, he helped me buy snacks for the roadtrip to the March and my poster-making night (which he happily was onboard with me volunteering our apartment for). When the ladies came over to dive into our feminist agenda and take marker-to-paper to stick it to the man, he gave us our space, and offered to make popovers... from scratch.
• In the evenings pre-March, I spent hours consuming women's lib documentaries - reminding myself of the struggles women went through, and growing angrier over the issues that are still a problem, decades later. (Go watch She's Beautiful When She's Angry on Netflix if you haven't yet - it's fantastic.) Instead of running away, the beau engaged me in conversation about points from the documentary. We got into a good discussion about what sparked the movement in the '60s and '70s and how those decades saw a perfect coupling of so many factors that brought forth such a strong feminist wave. 
• The night before, after making the last minute decision (at 11 pm) to draw up a "Side B" on my perfectly designed poster, he stayed up, even though he had work early the next day. When, after twenty minutes of stenciling and markering, I decided to hold up my sign to check out my progress... I realized the marker had bled through (they hadn't on the other side, but for some reason they did this time). My perfect poster (Side A) was basically ruined. Cue me having a complete breakdown. All the tears and emotions. I had wrecked the one thing I had done perfect to contribute to the cause, my flawless lines, my beautiful creation. Mere hours before getting ready to leave. I basically felt like I'd failed all of womankind.
  As I frantically dug through every drawer, basket, and craft box, scouring the apartment for white paints, markers, crayons, anything to fix my error, the beau took to the street. He ran to the store and bought pretty much every type of white-out they had. Upon return, he saw a much calmer version of my grief-stricken self and offered the solution he'd bought (along with snacks), and then let me salvage the remainder of my pride and work alone, painstakingly brushing away my mistake with that itty-bitty white-out sponge. Attempting to restore the former glory.
• The morning of the March, a freshly burned mix CD was handed to me. He'd made us a playlist of powerhouse fem vocals (from his regular music collection) to listen to on the drive. (Track list available upon request lol) As he headed to do his work and I headed to do mine, I was grateful that he had my back. He kissed me goodbye and wished me luck. Told me not to get arrested... I neglected to mention that I had his phone number Sharpied on my stomach, just in case I needed it for my one phone call. (Lord knows this memory of mine couldn't be trusted in time of need.)
• Once I got back home, he listened to my full recap with rapt attention, asking questions and filling me in on the news coverage of the day. In the subsequent days we've had talks on subjects ranging from politics to abortion. Always the good conversationalist, he has been a great sounding board during all this. 

Overall, there have been a lot of brownie points earned over the course of the past few weeks by my dear fella. ((Meanwhile, back on the soapbox....)) Not to belittle his behavior in any way, but the fact that his actions and level of support for all my feminist excursions seem so exceptional, well, it speaks volumes about some of the weak-tit men I've grappled with previously. (Not all, but definitely some.) Women need to insist on a high level of respect and support (and proper discourse) with the people they chose for partners. It shouldn't be an exception, it should be an expectation. Because, as Zefron once said, we're all in this together. And when we're being kind and supportive human beings, who see one another as equal (beyond gender, race, religion, creed, etc.) - well, we all win.



*Sorry beau, the internet knows how swell you are now... and the internet never forgets! 

1958 is calling. Don't answer.

Yesterday (Saturday, January 21, 2017) was a beautiful day. Millions of peoples, across hundreds of cities, took to the streets for a Women's March. The signs, the chants, the costumery, the speakers, the goodwill and kindness... The anger was palpable and absolutely stunning. A great giantess has been awoken, and she is not going back to sleep.

Today, my cheeks hurt from smiling. My upper body and side-boob muscles hurt from Norma Rae-ing my sign around the capitol.* And my heart hurts from the realization that this type of rally is still so very necessary.

Hey baby, what's your sign?

What's that? ...Tired of hearing about the Women's March already? Did you hop on social media yesterday and feel bombarded? Already fatigued from the messages of protest? Burned-out on people and their causes? Irritated by some of the hokier demonstrations?

Well, if so, here is a list of things (in no particular order) that I'm sick and tired of as a women. Issues that still impact my sisters around the globe and get the gals riled.

1. The continuing gender wage gap - which, given how often salary increases are tied to current earnings, will continue to screw over current generations. BUT it's a tide we can turn, to give the future generation a fighting financial chance. 
2. Lack of representation for women in: political offices, the justice system (holla to RBG), upper academic positions (female college presidents?), corporate boards, high-tech fields, STEM occupations, etc.**
3. Violence against women. Domestic abuse, sexual assault, an acceptance of rape culture, et al. No one should live in fear of harm. The human body is a majestic organism that should be respected. 
4. The continual prodding at reproductive rights 
• Insufficient and inconsistent education about sex, contraceptives, birth control methods, etc. being given in school systems. Knowledge is power.
• No mandate for maternity leave (and a lack of support for paternity leave, too!) in the United States, let alone paid leave. If having time to meet your newborn is a concern of yours, ladies, you'd be better off having a baby in almost any other developed country than this one. And don't get me started about how being absent from the workplace for a pregnancy (you know, to bring a LIFE into this world, like a g'damn miracle) can impact promotions, raises, career advancements, and job security in general. And if there are after-birth complications or struggles with postpartum, well, good luck (the healthcare system and your company will likely let you down on those ones)! 
• Speaking of reproductive healthcare, oh boy, raise the inconsistency flag again! A mammogram, a pap, proper care during (and after) a pregnancy - for many women, these don't come cheap. Depending on your insurance coverage, even basic physicals may not be covered. 
• Free birth control (thanks, Obama) being threatened - if men could get pregnant, they'd have birth control in frickin' gumball machines. For everyone in a tizzy about abortions, making the Pill less obtainable isn't going to help. 
• The constant efforts to chip away at Roe vs. Wade. Accessibility to abortion shouldn't depend on where you live, and women shouldn't have to resort to less safe methods due to expense or a lack of clinics. 
• Go ahead, ask me about my ticking clock and I'll tell you how it's none of your damn business.
5. Holy shit, the cost of child care. Affordable and competent child care would make such a difference financially for families. Expensive child care is just one more way to try and force women back into the home, and it's malarkey. 
6. Double standards. Promiscuous women are 'sluts,' but boys are just being boys. In the workplace a man speaking his mind is 'assertive' and displays 'leadership skills,' but a woman is a 'bitch' or 'bossy.' Men can go running topless, but lord forbid a single flash of nipple show while a woman is breastfeeding. Also, let's not even get into the topic of body hair (remember how the bearded lady was literally a circus freak?? #neverforget) Rage rage rage.
7. Human trafficking and the sex slave industry. We're human beings, not property - Need I say more?*** 
8. General equality issues. I mean, thanks so much for allowing us to vote, but equality goes beyond the polls. Every belittling moment where a women's opinion gets pushed aside or she is referred to as being "just a little girl." Every cat call or assumption of "services" based on the proffering of a cocktail out at a bar. Every time a person is seen as less qualified or less worthy somehow due to their gender. We're all humans, let's start treating each other with some dignity already.  

All this and so much more, it's #WhyIMarch. So next time you're "over" the whole "protest thing," try helping us fix some of the issues we're trying to shine a spotlight on. Help us make our point. One voice is a whisper, many voices is a roar. We need all the voices we can muster to help improve things for future generations, just as the feminists before us helped affect the changes that we now reap the benefits of. They left the kitchen and started paving the way. We have to pick up the cause and keep building that path.

We can't go back.

The future is female.

*Seriously, John Cusack must've had huge side-boob muscles from toting around that boom box!
**In my high school "learn about jobs and being an adult" class (which was only a quarter long and clearly not sufficient enough), I will never forget my teacher telling us that the one thing she hoped for, above all, is that one of us would become a female firefighter. Because there weren't enough firewomen in the world. Next class reunion, I'll hold that failure over the heads of all the ladies. We let her down. 
***To quote one of the many amazing signs from the Women's March: "I'm a mind and a soul, not just flesh and a hole." 
**** HUGE note: yes, I know my privilege is showing. As an educated, white, middle-class woman, I know I have things pretty good. But just because things are "good" for me doesn't mean they're "good" for everyone and it's a slippery slope back down to being barefoot in the kitchen. United we stand, no matter our differences. We have to be the voice for the voiceless.

Time to Get Some Work Done

As an "adult," one is expected to have a certain level of responsibility when it comes to health, appointment making, etc. Somehow, instead of accepting this duty to myself, I have avidly dodged and made a game of avoiding. (Shame. Start shaming here.) Despite being properly insured and able to pay for said appointments, I've failed to adult in this regard.

The eye doctor? How long can a one-year supply of contacts last? Welp, over five years, if you play your cards right. How long can a pair of glasses hang in there? Um, if you buy your own little glasses repair kit and have some tape, at least ten years.

The regular doctor? No. That one I don't avoid. Yearly checkups for my lady bits and overall health, those are important. Though blood draws I've shied away from at times.

Then there's the dentist. The damn dentist. Bane of my existence. After some awful experiences in my youth, I have avoided dental work like the plague. My teeth are 50% robot as is, with all the ancient fillings lurking about, so handing over more cha-ching to get more metal and torture wasn't a high priority on my list.

But then last week happened. I know I already recapped some of the emotions I went through on election day itself, but those were nothing compared to the vast swings of my mental state in the past seven days. As I laid awake, alone on the couch, staring into the early hours of Wednesday, November 9th, I was deep in the first stage of grief: denial. When they announced that the call had been made, and that the woman who should have been our first female president had conceded to the system, I morphed straight into the stage I shall reside in for the next four years: anger.

That little spark that said: don't grow complacent. This is not acceptable and you now have to take fate into your own hands. You need to work harder to improve yourself, to enhance your community, and to help others. Because things could get very scary in the years to come; but they don't have to, if we all do our part to shine a light on dark spaces, to build each other up, and do right by the planet. As youths, we were starry-eyed dreamers who wanted to save the world, but some of us got distracted along the way. Time to get back at it (even a little at a time).

So. Every day/week I'm making a list (don't worry, I won't share it all the time!) to make sure I've accomplished at least one thing in the following areas:

1. Something to improve myself (me)
2. Something to bring joy or show support to another (you)
3. Something to better my community or our union (we)

Here's some of the "you, me, we" items from week one:

• (we) Donated to Planned Parenthood
• (we) Researched and paired down the short list for charities in my community that I can volunteer for (based on timing and requirements for volunteers) - apps and phone calls to start up following my return to town after Thanksgiving
• (we) Started a positive-post-it girl-power mirror wall in the ladies room at the office

A positive spin, when real life gets shitty.

• (you) Discussed the election and positive ways to move forward with concerned friends and family
• (we) Yes, I wore my safety pin 
• (me) Saw a documentary on Maya Angelou - trying to watch more documentaries and read more works outside of my usual scope to get a broader look at the human experience - and OH this one was so fascinating
• (you) Went out to support a family member going through a rough time
• (you) Wrote a few letters / sent out care packages to a few friends - just because
• (me) Fell back into the movie watching and reading wormhole - taking time for the things I love (like seeing Fantastic Beasts and reading the next Outlander book)
• (we) Started following a organizations that post action items for citizens to influence government policies / help defend groups who could be at risk come January
• (we) Picked a child's name for our office holiday giving program
• (me) Re-listened to the speech Gwen Ifill gave at my commencement - which helped put some perspective on how much and how little has changed in the years since
• (we) Picked through my clothes to find some work outfits to donate to a local charity

You might be asking yourself: at what point did a post about dentistry morph into a little soap box speech about changing the world? The answer: It always was. Because, like taking care of one's teeth, taking care of yourself and your community is essential. Else, years later, you'll regret having not worked harder to keep things good in the first place, and will realize things have gotten rotten due to your neglect. And if you think a regular root canal is bad, imagine needing one on a much larger scale. That out-of-pocket expense is way too high to pay...

List writing to make a difference.

Soldiers in Petticoats

It's voting day, America. And I feel like I've taken a giant patriotism adrenaline needle straight to the chest, Pulp Fiction style.

This election has been so ridiculous, in so many ways. Whatever side of the aisle you live your life on, there's no denying that. It feels like we've been watching this unfold for years and years, all of it culminating tonight, when (hopefully) we'll know our nation's fate: one way or another. ((If you're going to pray for anything: let it be that there's a landslide, so we don't have a nation divided for the next four years, and let it be that we know the results tonight, so we don't have another "hanging chad" situation to drag this out further.))

No matter where you stand, the one thing you need to do: cast your vote. If you have an excuse as to why you won't be voting, please let me know and I'll happily take that excuse out back and let you return to performing your civic duty. Too many people over the centuries fought to keep this basic right, so don't waste it. And, if the presidential race is the one that has you in a tizzy - there are other important items up for vote. No. Excuses. Let your voice be heard through your ballot; without it, your post-election complaining will fall on deaf ears, because your voice will literally not have counted in the process.

Four years ago: My polling place at the time was an elementary school. After voting, upon leaving the building I saw two young girls, one holding up a music book and the other holding a violin and playing a very broken version of "America the Beautiful." It didn't matter how happy or angry the election was making people, it was clear: we're all Americans, we're all just folks. THAT is how election day makes me feel: proud and patriotic.

The past year: The media has swung in every direction, showing messages of hate (from both sides). The truth has been stretched, broken and jabbed. Awful things have been underplayed, as jokes and mere entertainment. Small things have been overplayed, as awful and unforgivable. Messages have been muddied. The world has been watching as a great nation has pandered to the jeering masses and let loose the circus. (A circus whose finale determines the fate of the world economies.) Sure, some of it's been entertaining, but mostly it's just been horrifying. THAT is how election day makes me feel: anxious.

Give peace a chance, friends.
The election charade is almost over, time to get
back to working together and getting things done.

This morning: I woke up in a fervor of excitement. Unable to vote before work due to an early meeting, there were others up at dawn in my apartment building. I smiled to one, saying, "Happy Election Day!" to which she responded, "Heading to get in line at the polls now to beat the rush!" We high-fived. Yes. Two strangers, at 6:15 am on a Tuesday randomly high-fived. Because this country is a beautiful place. I have no clue what political affiliation that woman is, all that mattered was a shared appreciation for the opportunity to be heard. THAT is how election day makes me feel: excited.

This afternoon: I'll be in line (I hope) to vote. The weightiness of the decision not lost on me, I cannot wait to say that in this unforgettable election, I picked which side of history I wanted to be on. No matter how it turns out, my ballot represented my voice. And the voices of all those before me who didn't live to see this day (who I think would be pretty damn proud to have a woman finally have a real chance at representing our nation on the world stage). You can bet there will be tears tonight. I hope they're tears of joy.

THAT is how election day makes me feel: like we're at a turning point.
This is it. Don't get scared now.

Yeah, I'll say it... I'm with Her.