Me vs. Rut...: being a mama

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i kid you not...

... my child, my sweet cherub, SHAT CRAYON. yes, you read that right. yesterday? yeah, i saw the obvious teeth marks in the green crayon and realized that a piece was missing. in fact, i double checked to make sure it had the "non-toxic" label. but nothing, i. mean. NO.THING. could have prepared me for this : i wiped her butt after some extreme poopage and there were green scribbles on the wipe. some of the crayon pieces that were still stuck to her had created an image - a damn drawing!- on the wipe.

squiggly lines.

I AM NOT KIDDING, YALL!! it blew my mind. she shat crayon. i have seen it all.

01:21 AM in being a mama | Permalink | Comments (8)

pillow talk

excerpt of conversation between muppet and i, as we were laying down in bed:

me: (pointing to johnny) "who's that?"

muppet: "dahs papa!"

me: (pointing toward her chest area) "who's that?"

muppet: " dahs boobies!"

me: (pointing at myself) "who's this?"

muppet: "me!"

okay, so according to her, we are one and the same. geez, that baby knows how to make me melt. i kissed her sweet nose, feeling overwhelming surges of love.

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**yeah, yeah, i took that one little word and ran with the meaning behind it. whatever! so sue me! im a sad mama with a increasingly independant toddler. i will take it any way i can get it! (smile!)

09:50 PM in being a mama | Permalink | Comments (1)

motherhood isnt always a "bed of roses"

remember when i said that my child was a ~~stark raving mad lunatic who dominates the entire bed~~ wild sleeper? um, yeah. last night, hubby apparently thought it would be funny to document just how wild with his camera phone thingey. needless to say, i woke up with a "funny smell" in my nose that wont. go. away!!

09:41 AM in being a mama, kodak moments | Permalink | Comments (11)

the birth story, part 1 of 2

****warning: this is a looooong post. it is the first part of my birth story, which has been 18 months in the making. it took a long time for me to be able to finish this portion, as emotion and anger kept me from getting the words out. i am sharing this to facilitate the healing that i deserve...

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And I waited my entire life for this moment. And will spend the rest, changed, because of it.

k.a.s. 1:36am 21 March 06

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I craved burger king that day, wanting the grease, the fatty taste of the food in my mouth, the metallic taste of the ... ahem... beef. And as much as my mind told me this, my pregnant-sensitive vegetarian body laughed at me and promised me that I would see it again, soon. At 9:45pm on the night of 6 December 04, it fulfilled its promise. I stood over the toilet, clad in panties and a t-shirt, and allowed my stomach to empty itself. As usual, my bladder followed suit. Ah, the joys of the heave! Only this time, the flow on my bare legs did not stop with the vomit. Resigned and disgusted, I began to strip to get into the shower. And upon removing my old, stretched out, faded purple panties, I noticed something... strange about them. There were white flakes all over them (I later realized that this was vernix), and while looking downward, I also realized that the puddle on the light floor was not just large, but semi-cloudy. That was not urine. And my pulse started to race. Labor! I shook with excitement and a hint of trepidation; I wiggled my toes in the wetness and sniffed my hands, in awe at the sweet smell of the fluid. And then I thought to tell my husband, who was in the next room. "My water broke!" I yelled unnecessarily. And he began the stereotypical "dance of the father-to-be" – rushing to dress himself, while simultaneously checking for his wallet and calling the requisite family members. It was both sweet and silly to me, as we had talked in length about staying home till active labor. "Okay, we need to get ready to go the hospital!" he informed me. Ah, sweet man. But, um, no thanks. Lets wait for a few moments, shall we?

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So my mother and sister were called, along with the midwifery practice. I was asked whether or not I was contracting and about the color of my amniotic fluid, and upon returning a "no" and a "clear" verdict, was told that I could start off to the hospital (which was about a half an hour drive) or that I could take some castor oil and stay home. I chose the latter, and asked my mother to pick up some castor oil on her way. My contractions began not to long afterwards. I had showered and was wearing what I will affectionately call "my horse pads." You know, the huge super-double-mega-ultra pads with wings and a propeller and.... yeah. Those. With every contraction, and with every shift of my body, my uterus squeezed out a bit more fluid. I felt uncomfortable (and like a leaky faucet!) at that point, but it wasn't bad. I told hubby to get some sleep, and my family arrived not too long after that.

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Everyone slept lightly, awaiting the moment. I sat up and tried to rest. To no avail... There was no way that I could relax – my mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and I was consumed with the enormity of the situation. She still hadn't turned (was OP), and my back was starting to really throb. I must have tried a million different positions that night, trying to utilize my coping mechanisms. No sleep was to be had. The morning rolled around, and it was determined that my sister would go to work and come back up this way when "something happened." My mother took her home, and came back determined to get me to go the hospital. My water had been broken for 12 hours, and my labor was still slow going. That didn't necessarily bother me, but both my husband and mother were getting more worried by the minute. I had no bathtub in the apartment to use for relief and was in quite a good amount of pain. So at around 11, we set off for the hospital.

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Let me assure you that it was akin to being stabbed in the back with a hot poker. A poker that was strapped to the front of a mac truck. Sitting still and upright in the backseat of a car... with bucket seats? Ohhhhhhhhhhhh! There were tears, and I reassured myself that soon enough, I would be able to walk around and squat/crouch/whatever. We passed the state trooper little off-highway office thing, and my mother thought it would be a great idea to have an escort. We pulled in to the lot and she disappeared into the building for a moment. She came back with the option of a) having them call the ambulance and escorting that into the nearest hospital – which I think they really wanted to do out of panic, or b) continuing on unescorted, as they could not follow us without doing the "responsible" thing of calling an ambulance. We chose (I chose) to go on unescorted and just brave the traffic. We arrived at the hospital about 20 minutes later, and at that point, my contractions were about 10-20 minutes apart.

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Once checked in, it was determined that I was 2-3 centimeters dilated by the midwife I interviewed when I was considering the practice, Lauren, and a midwife in the practice that I had never met before, Rikki. Lauren was very opinionated and had informed me that she did things her way; the new one seemed nice enough at first. However, with my first contraction in her presence, Rikki insisted that I keep quiet, stop moving my body, and take slow deep breaths to work through it. I mean, she literally told me to "be quiet!" and stop flexing my toes. I figured that I would just ignore her, but hubby (bless his heart) figured that that was the correct way to do things (he truly believed in the "birth professionals" and felt that they knew best) and tried to remind me of what she said during the next contraction. After it, I politely told him, the midwife, and my mother that I needed to cope with my pain the way I/my body felt best. That involved moaning and twiddling my toes, thankyouverymuch. It was time for Lauren to leave, and Rikki informed me that she would be leaving in a few hours, too, and that Lonnie, the worst midwife of the bunch, was on that night. I prayed to every god I knew that I had the baby before then.

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My l/d room was small, but had a little attached room for my guests. The hospital had okayed my group of guests, and they were all on their way to the hospital – including both my chosen doula and a doula/aspiring midwife friend of mine. I wanted a birthing pool/tub but the woman in charge of rentals at the midwives office failed to have it for me when we went to pick it up at my last appointment, and hadn't gotten around to getting another for us. I did, however, receive the recommendation to take a nice hot shower, but it didn't do much to make me more comfortable.

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I took the liberty of handing out a copy of my birth plan to all who walked into my room and the nurses chuckled at my request to not be "cheered at" during pushing. I brought along plenty of liquids and light snacks and tried to drink and munch a banana, but wasn't really into it. I walked, I contracted, and I was beginning to be completely unconcerned with informing/educating those around me. I knew that I had discussed my wishes and desires with the practice, and that they were aware of the baby's positioning and all of my previous health issues. My room, at that point, was full of the people I invited – my mother, my sister, my 10 year old niece, my former best friend K (who was trying to redeem herself, I guess, by being there), her 10 year old daughter, my doula A, one of my oldest friends J, and the aspiring midwife friend G. And hubby, of course. His mother, though invited, never came.

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The day wore on, and though I was contracting and coping with a considerable amount of pain, I was not progressing as fast as the charts say you should. There seemed to be a rising frustration among the midwives directed to my "slow labor", my insistence to walk around and not stay still in that damn bed, and at my family, who had come to me to bring my child into family/love. I received the offer to be "stretched" and I consented, not knowing the full depths of what it would be like. I knew of "gentle manipulation of the cervix" and felt that it might be minor intervention that could bring about a big change. It felt as though someone was ripping apart my insides. And it didn't really help anything along. At around 4 pm, 7 December 04, it was decided that I needed to be started with an antibiotic drip, as my water had been broken for 18+ hours. I wasn't too happy about this, knowing that an IV would take away a bit of my freedom. When I was told that constant monitoring needed to accompany this, I heard warning bells in my head and began to come out of my "birthing bubble." It occurred to me that no one had even mentioned the fact that my baby was still posterior, and that the midwife seemed unconcerned with the fact that I was having very hard back labor. I was left with the midwife who had only just met me, but who held my experience in her hands.

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A nurse came in to put in the IV, tried, and failed. See, I have inherited my mother's ridiculously small and slippery veins, and combined with my extreme fear of needles, I was in hell. I became very... ahem... vocal at that point. Another nurse came in to do it, tried, and failed. At this point, I was freaking out and told them that they needed to get an anesthesiologist. They, of course, figured that I was just being both a big baby and a difficult patient. But the midwife got the head of anesthesiology to come down and put in my IV. (he was her husband, coincidentally, which is probably why he responded so quickly) His name was Dr. Gorman, and he was my salvation at that moment.

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He came in quietly, and walked up to me with a smile. I was in the midst of pain, exhaustion (having been awake for about 40 hours straight and having been in labor for about 19 hours), and I held out my hands to him, and he grasped them firmly. "I need to tell you something," I began. "This is the third try, and I am deathly afraid of needles. I need you to promise me that this will be okay." His kind and sincere blue eyes locked with mine, and he said to me with an absolute straight face: "Everything will be fine. Because I am not just a doctor, I am the 7-eleven employee of the month." As he said this, he turned his hospital badge over to reveal the afore mentioned store employee badge, and I dissolved in his warmth while having a much needed laugh. This man will never know how much I appreciate him. He put in the IV with no problem and with a smile, giving me a bit of... comfort.

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It was, however, short-lived. Lonnie – the head midwife in the practice- walked in and immediately ordered pitocin for me. No questions, no smile, no words of encouragement or advice as to what could be done otherwise. I instantly countered with "That's it? No discussion? A flat out order?!" (I was tired of dealing with her and her closed mindedness) To which she sucked her teeth and said, "There's nothing to discuss" so nastily that even the nurses were taken aback. I was not to be pushed around and insisted that she come over and give me the respect that I deserved. (again, not our first disagreement) I asserted (again) that I was not a merely a passenger along for the ride; I was an informed and educated woman in the midst of childbirth. I had preferences, rights and feelings. I was to be a participant in all decisions made regarding my body. Now, having researched, and being a doula myself, I knew full well that most hospitals would have already started me on this drug (many as routine) and that my walking had been helping my labor to progress. But I couldn't shake the nagging thought that had I been in a birthing center as planned, I would have been given 24 hours post membrane rupture. Intervention begets intervention. Well... I did get the pitocin, and my body responded by temporarily halting its efforts.

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It was as if it felt betrayed, angry that I had not let it do what it needed to do. It had been working hard; fighting to push down a "backwards" baby while it was in fight/flight mode. (I was neither happy nor comfortable in a hospital setting. My body knew this and I could not convince it otherwise.) As mentioned, I was now being monitored constantly. However, I refused to stay in the bed. I tried to have rational conversations with the midwives, telling them that lying down was excruciating and that since my child was posterior, lying down was the absolute worst thing to be doing, etc. Their attitudes were dismissive, reminding me of the way I had always been regarded in the office. They insisted on challenging me, and though I cried frustrated tears, and explained that my body would not work otherwise, things began to get heated.

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My family was told that they were retarding my progress and were keeping me from relaxing. (when in actuality, my family was the only thing keeping me sane) I was standing/rocking/gyrating to try to move the baby around, and a sweet nurse had even written an "x" on my stomach to try to remember the best place to pick up the baby's heartbeat so I wouldn't be forced to lie down, but I was told that I was uncooperative, and that my child was suffering because of it. My mother asked Lonnie what her problem was, and asked why she was approaching my labor as an annoyance. Why she was expressing such anger towards my family and why she was so harsh and short with me. Lonnie responded that she didn't feel as though they needed to be there and were a hindrance to what she was trying to do. Things pretty much only got worse from there.

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I asked for a birthing stool and got it, but was given flack about sitting on it. It was around then that I began to feel nauseous. (transition?! I only hoped.) I was given a bucket, and learned what it truly meant to "dry heave." I was sooo exhausted – both physically from exertion and lack of sleep, and emotionally for having to defend myself for the past day. Yes, I had my family and support people there and they were going to bat for me in some instances... but it was just so nasty – the way I was being treated. I fought for the right to stand and gyrate, shaking my hands in the air with every contraction (think jazz hands) trying to move my daughter down. I began to feel "pushy" and asked to be checked. "5 centimeters" they said. "Bullshit!" I thought. I wanted to walk some more. They wanted to give me a c-section. I wanted to try some different positions. They wanted me to have c-section. I wanted to scream. They wanted to arrest my voice. And then the scare tactics began. And I wanted to give up. And my doula covered the clock and played rhythmic chants. And my family began discussing everything in hushed tones and made me remember what was important to me. And the midwives said my baby was going to die. And I didn't believe them. And they offered no proof. And they told me I would never progress. And they wrote up the papers. And they yelled at me and told me I couldn't do it. And I told them that I needed the pitocin to STOP because I felt it coursing through my body and my body was rejecting it as a damn poison and that I couldn't even think with the unnaturally severe contractions one on top of the other and the only way that I could do this was to be in my right mind and that I needed PEACE BECAUSE MY BODY WAS TRYING TO HAVE A BABY! And they gave me a time limit, an ultimatum, and tons of judgment.

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I faltered.

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Even thought I had made it this far, with no pain drugs, with nothing but my convictions and my determination to not hurt my baby. And they checked me, declared me at 7 centimeters and wanted to give me a c-section. And I told them that I wanted a second opinion.

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Dr. Weiner came in. I was standing near the far wall, rocking and arching and gyrating as I had been doing. He took one look at me, and told them that my baby was posterior and hadn't dropped. Just from looking at my positioning from across the room, this man was able to see something that had escaped the women who had been with me for hours – and had done nothing about it. He checked me, not 5 minutes after they had, and he said that I was at 9.5 centimeters. But she had not dropped and her head was not tucked. She was not dropping. And things were becoming urgent. And he was gentle with me. And I signed the papers. I was going to have a c-section. This was a little after 1am on 8 December 04. I had been in labor for almost 28 hours. And I was barely able to stand.

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I was told to walk to the room, which was thankfully right down the hall. It was the longest walk of my life. This new anesthesiologist was very busy, and acted so. He told my husband to get out, and yelled at me for having a contraction on the table. He told me that I would be paralyzed if I didn't hold still and had no sympathy for the fact that there was still pitocin in my system and that I was still having contractions that were hard/severe enough to involuntarily shake my entire body. I was also consumed in fear, as I was alone in an operating room, and no one was taking the time to talk to me about what was going on. I knew, in theory, what happens during the process. But in the midst of it, all rational thought was gone, and I was just a naked, alone, pregnant woman scared to death and being bombarded with the need to protect my exposed belly, my child, my extended soul.

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"Sit up and arch back!" he warned in choppy english, as he began inserting the longest needle I had ever seen into my back. I tried to comply, but I either didn't hunch over enough or went too far. More threats. Lonnie came over and said that I could lean on her, and as I did, she began to talk to one of the nurses and took a few steps backward – away from me, into her own conversation and her own world. Never mind the trembling, tear streaked pregnant woman. My hands were barely touching her shoulders, that's all the support I got. And then she left, and I prayed that I didn't become paralyzed. It hurt, like I was being stabbed. But I dared not question, I was too weak to withstand more reprimanding, more nastiness, more threats. I held my breath until it was over, until they told me to lie down.

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My husband came in then, in his green scrubs. I looked to my right and saw my mother behind a pane of glass, tears on her face. "I'm okay," I mouthed to her, because I wanted her to calm down. She was having a hard time of it all, and as she has high blood pressure and a weak heart, the last thing I wanted was for her to need medical attention as well. I tried to smile for her, tried to smile for me.

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I told them I was going to throw up, and within seconds, they put something into my IV to quell the urge. There was silence... long silence. I tried to ask what was going on, but was met with silence... indifference. I wanted to know, I wanted to hear, I wanted to be a part of the birth of my child. "Please, please..." nothing. My child was taken from my body at 2:10 am, with out announcement, without ceremony, without my knowledge. To his credit, hubby did have his arm up, pointed towards my belly, snapping random pictures. I was dizzy, I was partially aware, I was sick, I was emotionally vacant as I felt my body being moved from side to side. Hubby became aware that she was out, and stood up. "She is beautiful!" he whispered in amazement. And that is how I knew that my daughter was born. But then there was more silence. I vaguely remember hearing a weak sound, but not a cry. Then more long silence. I didn't know what was happening, and `hubby was gone from my side. I pleaded with anyone who would listen "what was going on?! What was wrong with my baby??!!" They told me that nothing was wrong, everything was fine. An eternity later I remember screaming for someone to tell me what the hell was going on. A nurse, one who would become my savior, came over to me and told me in a rushed whisper that they couldn't get her to breathe. My world stopped, my head cleared, my heart rose to my throat. But I understood now where hubby was. He knew, it had been drilled into his head by my own mouth – "if anything happens to the baby, if she leaves my side for a moment, you go with her. Period, no exceptions."

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They were on the other side of the room, pounding her little body, trying to make her breathe. She did, weakly, and they rushed in my direction as the exit door was directly behind me. "I need to see her" I moaned, and they flashed her to me. Hubby, by the grace of god, flashed the camera then, and I have a picture of exactly what I saw.

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They sewed me up, they put me in a curtained area, and there I lay... for a very, very long time. My throat was dry and scratchy, I couldn't call for anyone. Finally, the nurse from the OR– my "soon-to-be savior" - came in to take my vitals. She told me that my daughter was in the NICU. They said she was touch and go, but she knew little else. I felt empty, cold, and dead inside. I didn't know what to do – everything in me told me to run to her, but I couldn't even move my toes. I could barely breathe, I lay on a table, my family was not allowed to see me yet. I was alone. I was alone. And no one was coming to tell me what was going on. I felt abandoned, neglected, as though I was being punished. I didn't want medication, I wanted awareness... the ability to see my child before... before... I wanted my baby. My body missed her; I hadn't had a chance to touch her, to smell her, to speak her name to her. I tried to convey this to the nurse, but it only came out in a whispered "I need to see her."

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I lay in that room for what seemed like a very long time. Hours, I know. I had a chance to think one other thought. Was I okay? Was there anything wrong with my body? I had just experienced major surgery, and yet no one came to give me a report, no one came to tell me that my body was okay. Why not? Why not? Why wouldn't anyone talk to me? Was I dying? Was my daughter still alive? What was wrong with her?! Did I do it? Were they right? Did I kill my baby? It was all consuming, there was no rationality there. And then, the nurse arrived.............. and saved me by handing me two polaroids of a baby in an isolette – connected to a billion wires, pale, rounded, still and silent.

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My child – alive, but not well. She had "pneumonia", she had swallowed fluid, she could not breathe. On respirators, floppy. Tubes in her mouth, tubes in her nose, tubes in her umbilicus. But there. And alive. My extension of self, lying there – as alone as I was.

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My husband came in, as did my mother. I asked them each what was going on, and they told me the same thing that the nurse said. Pneumonia. Touch and go. No one was allowed to spend the night with me, as there were no private rooms. So I spent my first few hours as a mother, cold and more scared than I have ever been in my life, clutching those two polaroids to my chin, afraid to sleep because they might fall.

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I got up and walked a few hours later – not because it was easy (each step pulled my separated abdominal muscles), not because I wasn't in pain (my body felt like it was going break open) but because a nurse said that the only way I could go to the nicu is if I could get out of bed and walk. And through fire, hell, and high water – I was going to get to my baby! (several members of the staff later told me that they had never had any patient walk so soon)

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She was there, in her bed. Like a peach in the sun. Fuzzy, round, warm. Peachy golden. I touched her belly and cried. I sang the colors of the rainbow to her. I tried to figure out why she was there, in this room, away from me.

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I felt the pain of "overdoing it" and tried to rest (thankfully, the NICU was across the hall from my room.) That day, Dr. Weiner came to see me. He told me that he had just come from seeing the baby, and she was doing amazingly well. He joked and laughed with me, mentioning how everyone was talking about "the lady who had a c-section and was seen hours later walking the halls." He made me smile, he told me to take care of my body and rest. I thanked him for checking on her, for checking on me... and taking the time to make me smile.

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He was delightful. The nurses who took care of me were kind. The NICU nurses grew used to me being there at any and all waking hours, and even had send me to bed one night when I was too tired and in too much pain to hold the baby anymore. They gave me the greatest gift of all by calling me "muppet's mom" and honoring me as such. With the millions of teeny bottles of pumped breast milk, with the gentleness of their words, with their attention to detail. I will never forget... one day, I came into the room and the baby's lips were dry. I asked them for a bit of the vitamin cream so I could put it on her lips and prevent cracking. The next time I came into the room, she was freshly bathed with moisturized lips. I asked them to take a polaroid, please, and that remains the most beautiful picture I have of her.

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I fell completely in love with her at that moment.

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I did eventually get a visit from the midwives. One from Lonnie - she came in the day after the baby was born to ask me what I thought went wrong with my birth experience. No questions about how I was feeling or whether or not I viewed it as something "wrong." Just blame (shifting, perhaps?) and guilt. Negativity during a time where the only energy I had needed to go to healing and staying strong for my baby. She then joked about how they had to prop my stomach up during the delivery due to my fat. Then... she left. That was the extent of her visit. Lynn, another midwife in the practice, and the only one that I cared for, came to visit on her rotation. I was glad to see her, until she opened her mouth. She, too, asked me about the "wrongness" of my labor and delivery, and then proceeded to tell me that it was the amount of people I had in the room that caused me to need a c –section. That maybe if I didn't do that next time, that all would be okay. And then... she left. My opinion of her instantly plummeted. And that was all I saw of them until the last day when Lonnie came to sign off on my discharge (funny how she wasn't even needed as the baby had been delivered by Dr. Weiner and thus I was technically his patient.) They never asked about breastfeeding, my pain level, how I was healing, how I actually felt about the birth, the baby, how I was coping with motherhood... nothing. Just blame, putting it onto me and shaking it off of themselves. I went home, and the baby stayed for two more days. I cried more than I have ever cried in life walking out to the parking lot without my child.

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I have spent well over a year trying to process this experience. I realize that it has stripped me of my faith in birth, in my body, in its abilities. I truly believed that despite my desire to birth her into peace and beauty, i had inadvertently damaged my child.

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As for what went wrong - immediately following the birth, I never thought that word in regards to muppet's birth. "WRONG." It didn't go as I would have liked, no. But I didn't view the birth as wrong. "Wrong" implied that it was defective, that my child and I were defective. And I was told that it was my actions that made it such, which says to me that, essentially, I fucked up my own experience. Stripped and blamed. Raped, dignity taken from me. Labeled with a scarlet "C," bruised and left as damaged. Wrong. Defective. Broken.

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**note: for those of you who may be taken aback by the word "rape", allow me to post something that may explain it a bit. this is a comment that i left on a friend's blog; edited for the privacy others who were involved in the discussion:

i think that i may have been the one to initially use the word "rape" in response to your post... and i was taken aback at how the use of the word became an issue... i cannot articulate my story at the moment as this is very, very raw. my scars (both physically and emotionally) are still unhealed. but i want to 1) acknowledge the fact that i am reading this dialogue and nodding through tears 2) thank "you" for being my voice at the moment and translating a few of my thoughts and 3) apologizing for being somewhat cryptic and quite vague. i have not, in the 14 months since my daughters birth, been able to complete my birth story. i was, indeed, violated. robbed of my sense of security, dismissed and abused by those who had "authority" over me, yelled at and left to curl up and cry alone why my family was held at bay. my body disregarded by those pompous enough to assume they knew what was best. uninformed and bruised, left on a stretcher as i regained awareness, and then told that it was all my fault.

rape.

defined many ways. but if the "classic" definition stands, this still applies.

for those who still do not understand, that is fine. but please, please do not judge. do not assume. this violation is real, the trauma is deep. we all react differently to different situations in our lives. i had my "prize" even while pregnant. my birth experience did not create my child, and nothing will ever be able to make her existance any less than the complete joy that it is. the tragedy is not about her. it is about how i was stripped.

i must post a disclaimer, i am typing freely, without thought (which is not always a good thing, but i think is okay given the topic?) but with a heavy soul.

no offense, no defense, no melodrama intended. just real. just my heart. thank you for reading this.

-kenya

10:10 PM in being a mama | Permalink | Comments (19)

sweet and sour

i dont know about you and your babies, but muppet consistently does this: just when i contort myself into a pseudo-yoga type position to stretch out a limb, she cuddles up to me in the sweetest way and reclines on me; one of those rare moments of "baby love" in the midst of this tornado like time in her life. which, of course, means that i have to stay in that contorted position because if i move, she will run away to play again.

ah, so sweet. ah, so painful.

anyway, my mothers day brought me most of the things i wanted. i got a big ole' pot of curry chicken and potatoes (whoo hoo!!) and lots of kisses.

i didnt get to sleep late, though, because my client (remember, i am a doula. my client just happens to be the doula i used at muppets birth!) started getting crampy, and as she was 3 cm dialated as of her friday appointment, we thought things could go fast. (things have since tapered off.)

then i had to work. ugh.

afterwards, we went out to eat at the restaraunt i chose - which, for the record, was ihop. i love ihop! besides, as we are going out for a fancy-shmancy dinner on thursday night post-graduation ceremonies, i really wanted super casual, low wait time type dining. i had yummy pancakes with the oh-so-fake-and-delicious-butter-pecan syrup! mmmmmm! of course, there was a down side. someone came with us... and, ahem, embarassed the hell out of me. and for someone to embarass you at ihop, you know it has to be bad. but i dont want to re-visit those emotions.

it was a sweet day. but also? a bit sour.

09:48 PM in being a mama | Permalink | Comments (6)

happy mothers day!!!

to all my lovely mothers out there, here are a few "gifts" for you... (make sure you click them in order, and once there, play along!!!)

http://www.hallmark.com/ECardWeb/ECV.jsp?a=3994891873116M115974571Y

and

http://www.hallmark.com/ECardWeb/ECV.jsp?a=5524471872119M115979385Y

and

http://www.hallmark.com/ECardWeb/ECV.jsp?a=5201521875119M115978866Y

enjoy your day, you amazing women!!!

12:44 AM in being a mama | Permalink | Comments (2)

mommy bloggers mothers day thingey

well, i was presented with some questions for a mass mother-love-a-thon over at mommybloggers, and i thought that i would post my answers here for your viewing pleasure:

1) Mother, Mommy, Mama, Mami, Moma or something else...what do you prefer,

and why?

I prefer "mama." In my house, it is pronounced "MAH-muh" and I love it because it sounds... well, a wee bit country. And I like that, my being a southern girl and all. It was always a title I wanted growing up and now... I have it. Corney, I know!

2) If you could visit your pre-child self, what would you tell her?

Oh, honey, stop buying all those little cutesy, ultimately unnecessary newborn things for the hope chest and start slowly stockpiling those cloth diapers 'cuz they are NOT cheap! (haha!) Seriously, I would tell her to finish that little blanket she started crocheting because it is going to come in handy for the NICU in her future. I would tell her to stick with her gut and be as natural and peaceful as possible. I would tell her that she is beautiful and that that knowledge will help her to raise an amazing little girl someday. Oh, and that slobbery kisses will one day rock her world!

3) What is your ideal Mother's Day celebration?

Sleeping in, waking up to a clean house and clean baby, and having some curry on the stove waiting for me while hubby prepares to give me a back rub

4) What parenting issue are you sick of hearing about?

Whether or not to be an attachment type parent. Just love your baby to the best of your ability, ladies. That's all that they know, that's all that matters. Trust me, they are not reading the latest literature on it, it only matters that they get all the hugs and kisses and warmth and kindness you can give.

5) What is the hardest mothering task?

For me, it is going to school and working while breastfeeding and being a full time mom. Ahhh!.., finding enough hours in the day without feeling like I am neglecting my baby... it is tough!

6) Who is your mothering role model?

Mother nature. She gives us the best she's got; its up to us to do right by it.

10:18 PM in being a mama | Permalink | Comments (3)

beating the hell out of a dead horse

yall like that title, dontcha??!!!

okay, heres the question that i have asked before, but i dont think i really got a specific answer, and i cant find any literature or opinions or experiences anywhere else on line... so heres my question. again. i know, i know. i will stop after this, i promise.

so our family reunion is this year, and the location (which has been changed a bazillion times) has finally been selected - the dominican republic. which means? first plane trip for muppet. now, we are doing the volo (to check as we enter the plane) to roam around the airport, but i didnt get her her own airline seat. i figured that i would use the flight vest thingey. well, turns out that you cant attatch it to you during take off and landing. it is only for the actual flight. so... am i to just hold her during take off and landing? simply... hold her? seems weird since i will be required to be strapped in. should i have gotten her a seat? is it cool to hold a baby during takeoff and landing? what did yall do with your little ones on their respective plane trips? my mom and the "old head" family members keep telling me that it is okay to hold a baby on the plane... thats what they did with us kids. but, um, that was pre-"required infant seat" time anyway.

tell me your stories about how yall did the flights. pleeeeeease. dont make me beg. it wont be pretty, i promise you.

06:57 PM in being a mama | Permalink | Comments (6)

Me vs. Rut...

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October 2006

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July 30, 2006

"talk" is cheap and pictures are worth a thousand words

July 14, 2006

i kid you not...

July 11, 2006

pillow talk

July 03, 2006

motherhood isnt always a "bed of roses"

June 16, 2006

you know what i love?

June 09, 2006

the birth story, part 1 of 2

May 16, 2006

sweet and sour

May 14, 2006

happy mothers day!!!

May 11, 2006

mommy bloggers mothers day thingey

April 09, 2006

beating the hell out of a dead horse