Random Tuesday Thoughts: Rainy Day version.

I was up half of the night (re: 2:47 am to 4:34am) because I was so hopelessly uncomfortable. Were I not nine months pregnant, it would be easier to relieve what ailed me. Take a fistful of different stomach discomfort relievers and call it a night. But no. At this juncture I am left with no options but to sit up in bed, cross my fingers and hope like hell I burp or something. Pregnancy is super awesome. Over the course of the two hours, I was eventually relieved enough (or exhausted enough) to go back to sleep. The next time I woke was 6:15am. DH was already out of bed which meant I could rearrange all pillows and take over the entirety of the bed.

Success.

A combination of the pouring rain and my son muttering to himself in his room is what woke me. Can I say I love when it rains like this in the morning on my days off? The sky stays dark and the pitter patter of the rainfall keeps my toddler asleep longer than usual. Which means I get to sleep longer. Which means that even though I’ll have a headache later from sleeping too long, I don’t really care.

Does anyone want to wash my dishes? No? Just checking.

I’m wearing James’ favorite pajamas. Before you think I wrestled myself into a pair of size 3t pajamas with sharks on them, I’m referring to my own pajamas that have baked goods on them. He loves to point out the cookies and cupcakes and ice cream. “Mmmm. Ice cream! Delicious!” He’ll say as he rubs his belly and licks his lips. Okay the first time he licked his lips, I had no idea what he was doing. Clumsy and awkward? thy name is toddler.

Speaking of toddler. Last…thursday? James managed to get into my bedroom while I was in the bathroom (and I’m always in the bathroom these days) and while I was in there, I guess James helped himself to the very last 3 tums in the bottle on my bedside table. I didn’t find out until hours later, when I discovered the empty bottle behind my bedroom door. All I could do was knit my brows together and do my best not to laugh. Am I basically admitting I’m a bad mom? No. I have a reason for stifling laughter. You see, when I came out of the bathroom, I fetched James out of my room and we went to the living room. I thought I saw something in his mouth. So I asked him. James, what’s in your mouth? His reply?

“Teeth, mommy.”

How could I argue with that?

I brought the empty bottle with me to the computer and consulted my trusty friend Google. It turns out that my son is definitely not the first toddler to get his hands on tums and he definitely won’t be the last. After reading about many other experiences with toddlers and tums and phone calls to poison control, I determined that three tums in my mammoth toddler would be nothing more than a blip on his stomach’s radar. Especially considering hours passed, along with 2 soiled diapers, a snack, and 2 drinks of water.

If this is the worst thing he ever gets into, I would call that a success.

When I was a toddler, I drank a bottle of floor wax. It’s why I’m so bright and shiny. And demented.

The point of the matter though, is that I was cursing my inability to have eyes in the back of my head at about 3:01am this morning. “Dammit. If I was a better mother and had made sure my bedroom door was closed all the way, I might still have some tums and maybe that would make my stomach feel better.”

I really brought it on myself, yet again.

What has your child gotten into when your back was turned for a second? What did YOU get into when your parent’s backs were turned?

ADDENDUM: I found James playing with my cell phone. It was about to send some kind of mass photo message of James’ foot. I asked for my phone back and he gave it up without a fight. I noticed I’d received about 5 text messages. From my mother. In a panic. Evidently, James had sent her 2 text messages. One read “O” and the other read “T”. She was concerned this was my very shorthanded and insane way of informing her I’d gone into labor. Oh James, you’ve done it again.

Fear.

So I’m scheduled to have a c-section to bring Lucinda into the world on Thursday October 7th. That’s nearly nine weeks away.

In the beginning, I was apprehensive to the idea of simply having another c-section without trying for a VBAC. I remember feeling so robbed of the experience when I was in labor with James. It was awful and I felt like a failure when my doctor announced we no longer had any choice but to have an emergency c-section. Maybe it’s because I was in the irrational throes of labor, but I was devastated. What should have been one of the happiest days of my life, in essence, became one of the worst memories I have. My son was born perfectly healthy and I made a pretty quick recovery. Both things I am grateful for, but in the long run, that feeling of failure was pretty hard to shake. I’ve come to terms with it. I know I can’t change anything about what happened.

But it took me a long time to come to grips with that.

And now here’s the part where I talk about something I’ve almost never mentioned out loud.

After James was born, and after I struggled with breastfeeding to no avail, I was emotionally crushed. I would take James, sit in the rocking chair (or on the bed), cradle him in my arms and just weep. I cried for all the things that went wrong. I apologized to my newborn son for being such a dud, such a failure. I didn’t want anyone to know about it. I was certain I was being ridiculous and over-dramatic. Truth be told, I wasn’t prepared for any of it. I wasn’t prepared for things to go wrong. I wasn’t prepared to recover from major surgery. I wasn’t prepared to be unsuccessful at breastfeeding (clear proof I was doomed to be a bad mother).

Eventually the hurt subsided and I was able to pay my undivided attention to the new joys I had in my life.

James and I learned how to smile together.

Though that’s not to say that I was back in tip-top emotional shape by the time James was two months old, I was much more stable and much less likely to profess apologies over being a terrible mother due to things ultimately beyond my control.

In a little over nine weeks, I will have another c-section. I’m trying not to be terrified. I’m taking the time to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for the recovery. I have some amount of confidence that being prepared will aid me greatly. I have some amount of confidence that Dr. Awesome will assist me in my recovery to a greater extent than my previous doctor. I admit that I’m still concerned that I will have some small amount of postpartum depression (again). It’s something I hadn’t really thought about until somebody recently asked me point blank if I’d had trouble with it when I had my son. I realize that seems like an extremely personal question, and it is, but I wasn’t bothered by it. I was more bothered by the fact that when I got to talking about it with him, his wife and I pretty much have the same birth story. I confessed that the bulk of my depression was related to my feeling like a failure and my lack of control over the situation. But ultimately, I can’t speak for his wife.

In the past year or so, I’ve come to know some really great people through the blogosphere and the twittersphere. I find myself wishing I knew these people when I was in recovery the first time around. Maybe I would not have felt so alone. Maybe I would have reached out. I have some amount of confidence that should I find myself in the dumps again, I will have all of you to help pull me back out.

Because the sky is blue

I admit that I didn’t quite know how people were going to respond or react to the post I wrote yesterday. And I still don’t know. Are you reeling? Are you annoyed? Did I drag you down into the same existential crisis? If so, I apologize. I had something weighing on my heart and I needed to get it out.

You’ll be happy to know that I spend most of my time excited by the life ahead for my children. I learned some time ago that dwelling on the negative leads to surrender. I daydream of watching my children succeed in life in a way I never attempted.

My son carries around an ultrasound photo of his baby sister. He already loves her and wants to protect her. I can’t describe to you the pride that fills my heart when my sweet little boy comes to me, puts his hands on my belly, and says “Hi baby!”.

Lucinda is well loved. She has James who will protect her (even when he’s annoyed by her or annoying her himself). She has her daddy to dry her tears and make her laugh until she can’t breathe. She has her grandparents who will undoubtedly spoil the crap out of her. She has her mommy. She has me. The one that sings to her. The one who will teach her so much. The largest influence in her life.

Well, shit, that is a little scary isn’t it?

For now, I’ll continue to sing to her. James will continue to say Hi to her (and give my belly the occasional kiss or tickle). And Daddy will continue to spout gibberish to her “because it’s not like she can understand me anyway honey!”. And the two of us will dance together. In gentle, side to side, swaying motions.

The rest we’ll figure out as we all grow up together.

Gifts

Today is my first day off of work in 8 days. I’m pleased. I’m excited. I’m lazy. Outside of getting dressed and possibly going to the library, my only plans for the day were to relax. And by relax, I mean veg out on the sofa with a bag of potato chips my mother sent me from Canada and watch Discovery Health all day. The only way Mystery Diagnosis could be any better is if they didn’t air the interview with the person all the junk actually happened to until AFTER the diagnosis was made. Knowing they survive kind of sucks the suspense out of it. But at the same time, I find myself grateful for the knowledge that people can survive through such medical haphazard.

When I find myself reading Violence Unsilenced, more often than not it takes my breath away. It reminds me of both the strength and weakness of the human race. Of the individual. And I admit I find it comforting that the person making the contribution survived. But I find myself wondering, are they living?

I only say this because I survived various torment inflicted on me by the world at large. There was a period of time that I woke up every morning not sure of whether or not I was thankful to see the sunlight again. I was standing still and the world was spinning on it’s axis. The voices and actions of the world I’d been exposed to had infiltrated my head and my heart. I lost my faith. I couldn’t understand. I collapsed under the weight of my own self loathing. I tried to hide it. I don’t think I succeeded very well. I was surviving, but I was not living. My heart beat. My lungs expanded. My nails grew. But I was a shell. It’s not a good state for a person to be in. And I wonder if the contributors on V/U are living, and if so, how long did it take them to get there?

If you’ve read my blog before, or if you know me personally at all, you’d know that so many things changed in my life right around the time I met Robert. I learned how to fight for happiness. I learned how to love myself. I learned so many things about life and love and how to deal. I regained my breath. My heart occasionally skipped a beat. I painted my nails. I began to shed the weight of the past and started moving with the world instead of standing still against it. But I would be lying if I said that the same small sad version of me doesn’t still exist somewhere inside of me. I admit that certain people and certain things feed into that former self and make my weakness stronger again. I’ve been criticized before of leaving places and people behind with not much explanation. There you have it. Whether the people or places like it or not, they are inherently tied into the version of myself I can’t stand in the least.

I don’t want my daughter to learn how to love herself by first having to hate herself. I don’t want her to have to endure the crippling self doubt and self loathing. I want my daughter to live. I want to give her life. I want to give her the gift of love, of confidence, of self-assurance. I want to do everything I can to protect her from becoming a shell. I don’t want her to abuse herself. I’m not so naive to think I can protect her from everything. Some boy will break her heart. Some friend will hurt her feelings. She’ll deal with what I can only hope is a normal level of adolescent frustration. I can only hope that I can bestow upon her all the things she will need. Love, strength, faith, assurance, security. The most frustrating thing is knowing it will take decades to know whether or not I am successful.

Because sometimes, Love isn’t enough. And that’s the scary part.

I want to make it 100% crystal clear that I do not blame my mother for anything. My mother is a fantastic woman and were it not for her, I would not be the person I am today. It is a clear cut case of bad algebra. Too many variables, not enough control. I can only hope for fewer variables for my own children.

This is so not how I envisioned my day off. Pass the chips.

What do you think is the most terrifying aspect of parenthood?

Wordless Wednesday: 20 weeks

It’s not my fault I’m a total bitch, really.

So since I’ve been in preparation for becoming a mother of two (re: knocked up), it’s been brought to my attention (more than once) that I’ve been too unreasonable to even speak to. Apparently I’ve been flying off the handle over stuff that doesn’t even deserve a minute amount of irritability.

It’s like I’m in that Adam Sandler movie (that I didn’t see) Anger Management. Except here’s the thing, I know I’m being a butt. I know I’m being completely irrational and moody and unpredictable and flighty. Does that mean I can do something about it? Unfortunately no. And here’s why.

I’m freaking pregnant.

I can’t take mood stabilizers.

I am required to cut back on my caffeine intake.

I can’t sleep at night.
(and when I do sleep, I have weird dreams about sushi and my husband trying to kill someone with an exacto blade…true story)

So even though I know I’m being a total bitch, there is shit all I can do about it. Except eat chocolate and ice cream. And french fries. And nachos. and that works temporarily, or at least until the gas sets in. By then, the feel-good vibes tend to wear off.

The thing is, if I try to hold in my bitchiness and mood swings, it just makes it even worse. It makes me more likely to blow up over some completely insignificant thing.

For example. Which seems more unreasonable to you?

Me: I would like a medium iced vanilla latte please.
barista: Would you like decaf?
Me: ….No *rolls eyes when barista’s back is turned*

OR

me: I would like a medium iced vanilla latte please.
barista: UM DO YOU WANT DECAF?
me: OMFG STOP ASKING ME THAT *breaks glass and throws chairs around*

You don’t want that shit happening, I promise.

As tacky as you may think it is to blame the baby, I’m totally playing that card here. And let me tell you why. Because come October, I’ll be on maternity leave and you won’t have to deal with me AT ALL for three months (unless you know me online then HELLO ASHLEIGH OVERLOAD). Not only that, but if this baby is half as cute as James, peanut will be able to get away with things Dexter Morgan could only dream of.

Speaking of Dexter, I’m totally having Dexter and Rita related nightmares. Still. I think this is a problem.

I digress.

The point here is that I know that I’m being completely unreasonable from time to time but sometimes I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR TOLERANCE LEVEL IS FOR UNREASONABLE PREGNANT LADIES! It really is okay to say to me “Uh, Ashleigh. Calm down. It’s her job to ask you if you want decaf. She wasn’t calling you a bad mom.” It really is okay to tell me “Ashleigh, stop crying. I’ll answer the phone for once.” It’s even more okay to tell me “Ashleigh I totally understand that you can do very little to control how you’re feeling now, but I’d like to help by giving you chocolate/a massage/a day off.” But please, don’t try to get into a bitch fight with a pregnant lady. Especially when there are chairs around.

I think I was trying to go for laughs here, but the saddest part is that most of this is completely serious.

But I wouldn’t actually throw a chair at anybody. My back hurts too much.

What are some natural ways you try to de-stress? Clearly I could use some advice here 🙂