Blog Archive

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

My birth story: Natural birth after a 4th degree tear

My birth story from my first child can be found here.

And my birth plan for the birth you're about to read about can be found here.

This story probably starts on Saturday morning, August 15, when I woke up feeling so fantastic that I actually decided to go to Zumba class. I couldn’t believe it – 39.6 weeks pregnant, the size of a house, and feeling awesome enough to actually go and dance through an entire hour-long Zumba class. I hoped maybe the exercise would help shake him loose.

The face of a genuine idiot!

The next day, still no baby. We took Audrey to the local spray park to play in the water, and then my mom and I went for a three mile walk that afternoon. I felt a bit crampy with a contraction here and there, but nothing noteworthy. Of course, I still made sure not to tell anyone about the crampiness, in case it was a sign of early labor. I didn’t want to jinx anything.

That night, I went to bed early and fell asleep quickly. But I woke up several times having strange dreams. Pain dreams. After the third or fourth time, I realized that I was being woken up by contractions. I let myself get a little excited.

At 10:20PM or so, I was woken up by another contraction, and then I felt the slightest trickle between my legs. My heart skipped a beat and I felt my adrenaline surge. My water must have just broken. It was going to happen tonight.

I reached over and tapped Jesse on the arm until he responded. “I think my water just broke,” I whispered. “And I’m having contractions. I think I’m in labor.”

And Jesse’s response? “No. Don’t do it tonight. August 17 is a terrible  birthday. Just go back to sleep.”

Deeply offended and annoyed, I went to the bathroom to inspect the situation, but there were no further gushes of fluid. The original trickle had been so minor … maybe I had imagined it. Pregnant women’s vaginas can be a bit … ahem … unpredictable in their fluid levels, after all. Dejected, I went back to bed and closed my eyes.

At 10:35, an unmistakably large gush of fluid came out of me. There was no denying it this time; I was in labor and we were going to have a baby tonight. I reached over and tapped Jesse again. “I wasn’t imagining it,” I said when he responded. “This is happening tonight. Get up.”

Suddenly, Jesse came alive. “Really? Really??! Oh my god. Are you having contractions? Did your water break?”

“Yeah … it broke a while ago. When I told you it broke.”

And then we realized that the entire conversation Jesse had had with me, where he complained about the August 17 birthday and told me to go back to sleep, had occurred while he was completely asleep. He remembered none of it. So I guess I don’t need to be mad at him for the shit he said. I don’t need to. I can still choose to. :-)

We got our bags organized, woke up my mom and told her she was on Audrey duty, and then took off for the hospital. Contractions started coming pretty regularly along the way – I downloaded an app to track them (of COURSE there’s an app for that) and found that they were about three minutes apart and lasting a minute each. Shit was on.

We got to the hospital and were overjoyed to find out that the midwife on call that night was the same one I had seen for every appointment when I was pregnant with Audrey (during this pregnancy, I saw a different midwife for every appointment, so that I would be acquainted with the whole team before showing up to the hospital to give birth). She was as excited to see us as we were to see her.

In the Labor & Delivery triage room, I was hooked up to a machine to track both baby’s heart rate and my contractions. Even though my birth plan specified that I wanted these to be tracked only intermittently throughout my labor, they needed to track them steadily for 20-30 minutes when I first arrived so that they could make sure that everything was going well in my uterus.

Ready to do it to it.

While this was going on, it was also time to sign some papers … and have a very difficult conversation with the midwife.

You see, as many of you well know, giving birth to my daughter Audrey was a bit of a disaster at the end. She got stuck in the birth canal and her heart rate was dropping, which necessitated an emergency episiotomy and vacuum-assisted birth to get her the hell out of there as fast as possible. Unfortunately, these interventions led to me getting a fourth-degree tear, which is when the perineum tears completely apart and the vagina and bumhole merge into one superhole called a vaganus. It sounds horrendous and I’m sure you’re all crossing your legs right now even if you were already well aware of this story, but I’m TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW that I did not feel it happen, it didn’t hurt as it healed, and it healed completely without issue. Stubbing my toe really violently hurts a lot more than that fourth-degree tear.

HOWEVER. Healing completely from one fourth-degree tear is one thing. Healing completely from two fourth-degree tears is asking a whole lot more of one’s body. There be scar tissue in them hills. Scar tissue tears more easily and has a harder time knitting back together when it does. So another fourth-degree tear would be really bad and could lead to me having bowel incontinence issues for a lonnnnng time.

Therefore, my birth plan specified pretty clearly that if we reached a point where those same kind of interventions were going to be necessary, I would prefer we ABORT ABORT ABORT and go for a C-section instead.

The midwife and I discussed this for a bit and she understood my perspective, but wanted to get the OB in there as well to have a chat with me (since if things reached that point, this birth would no longer be a midwife show and would be handed over to the OB-GYNs to handle). The OB’s point of view was essentially this: we will do our best to do as you request, BUT … if the baby is low enough down that his head is basically sticking out of you, we can’t really push him back in and give you a C-section. Or rather, we can do that, but it could take up to ten minutes to get it done, and you’d have someone’s entire hand in your vagina pushing the baby back up, which could also cause a big tear. Whereas using the vacuum on you for 15 seconds might be all it takes to pull him out. The only way to truly avoid your nightmare scenario is to do a primary C-section right now.

I only paused for a moment. As much as having another fourth-degree would suck, the chances of that seemed pretty low. Having a primary C-section and going home from the hospital with staples in my abdomen was a 100% guaranteed suck. So I told the doctor that I understood what he was saying, and that if things really got hairy I would of course defer to their judgment on the whole vacuum-assist thing, and that I would much rather have a vaganus and a healthy baby than an unhealthy (or even deceased) baby but HEY DID YOU SEE HOW GREAT MY BUTTHOLE LOOKS?? So that’s where we left it – everyone crossing their fingers that it didn’t come to any of this, but understanding that a C-section is preferable to another fourth-degree tear, but a fourth-degree tear is preferable to a damaged baby. And cross my fingers I did.

At this point, I was transferred to the birthing suite and hooked up to my antibiotic drip for Group B Strep. I’m allergic to Penicillin, so lucky me, I got to be hooked up to a mighty powerful antibiotic called Vancomycin that takes a full hour to dispense from the IV rather than the ~20 minutes or so most people have to suffer through when they’re GBS positive. Harrumph.

During all this, my contractions had slowed down somewhat, probably because I was lounging in a bed rather than walking around. In fact, the contractions got so manageable that I spent the entire hour of the antibiotic drip, from 1AM to 2AM, lounging in bed (minus the trips to the bathroom for the Labor Shits, which are like Period Shits but on steroids. Oh god it’s so terrible). When a contraction would come on, I discovered that for some reason, I really liked rubbing my face as hard as I could while Jesse rubbed my scalp as hard as he could. Like, this was not some gentle Asian lady at the salon giving you a friendly scalp massage. We were rubbing like we wanted the skin to come off. And it felt wonderful.

Finally, FINALLY, I got to ditch my IV at 2AM, at which point I knew it was time to start walking around so we could get this show on the road. It’s a funny thing, being so in charge of your own labor. I knew full well that walking around was going to make things suck a lot more for me, but I also knew that if I didn’t do it, we’d be here forever and they might start floating words like “Pitocin” if I couldn’t get things moving enough on my own. So I took a deep breath, and up I went. And of course a big fat contraction hit the instant I stood up and dropped baby’s head onto my cervix.

I turned on a podcast of trance music that I’ve loved for years and years and know every single beat of, and I just stood there with my iPod on my upper arm ‘dancing’ to the music. I put ‘dancing’ in sarcastic air quotes because my dancing was like the one guy at the rave who is so f***ing high he can’t even communicate in English anymore and only understands the language of the staaaaaaars. I closed my eyes, templed my hands in front of me, and bounced back and forth from one leg to the other, lolling my head along with my body as I bounced. And every time a contraction came on, Jesse would jump up and try to remove the skin from my head. It was going well.

The podcast went on for an hour and I listened to the whole thing … so that would put us at around 3AM or so. I then decided that I wanted to give the shower another try.

I am a big time shower relaxer. Nothing takes the edge off for me better than a supremely hot and endless shower. But when I was in labor with Audrey, for whatever reason, the water in the shower at the hospital was NOT hot enough. It was truly the worst part of my labor with her – cowering in that almost-but-not-quite-hot-enough shower, fighting through contractions and brimming with disappointment. I would take ten fourth-degree tears in a row before I’d repeat that shivering misery.

But this time, the shower cooperated. We turned that bitch up to 11 and in I went. And since Jesse was the only person in the room with me this time (last time I had my mother and doula in the room as well), I felt zero shame in just getting completely naked in the shower. Which was way, way more comfortable. Highly recommend.

I was in there for what seemed like ages. The midwife came to check on us and told me that when I have a contraction, I should squat down because that will put more pressure on my cervix and will help it open up faster. This sounded like a terrible idea because opening my cervix is painful and I don’t like it one bit … but alas, she was right. So with every contraction, I squatted down and Jesse adjusted the shower spray to be right on me as I huffed and puffed and shouted and moaned and shrieked “I DO NOT LIKE THIS I DO NOT LIKE THIS” on repeat.

It was while I was in that shower that labor turned on me. It all went from manageable to MOST F***ING UNMANAGEABLE. I asked Jesse to get me the egg-shaped birth ball, and I sat on it. And the contractions reached a point where I started feeling that urge to push, even though I knew it was way way WAY too early. But urge to push changes the way you sound during a contraction. Instead of just a higher-pitched AHH AHHHH AHHHH screaming sound, you get a nice mix of AHH AHH AHH UNNNGGGGHHHHHHH AHH AHH AHH UNNNGHHHHHHH as you start pushing uncontrollably like you’re having ferocious diarrhea (btw, thanks Labor Shits for clearing me all out so that I wasn’t actually having ferocious diarrhea in the shower). The nurses all know to listen for this change.

The midwife came back to check me again, and she found that my cervix was open a solid 6cm and fully effaced (thinned out). I was starting transition, a.k.a the worst part of labor. A.k.a THE WORST HOUR OF MY LIFE.

I’m not going to sugar coat this: transition this time around was the most savage, relentless torment I have ever experienced in my life. I hope to never go through something like that again as long as I live. I crawled out of the shower and it was all we could do to dry me off a bit before another contraction came. I waddled over to the bed screaming and grunting and shouting “THIS IS NOT OKAY. THIS IS NOT OKAY.” I sat down on the edge of the bed to try and put my hospital gown back on, but another contraction hit and I peed everywhere. I screamed for Jesse to get my sweat band out of the bag, and then another contraction hit. At this point, they weren’t even going away before the next one would start. The contraction would take off, peak within 10 seconds, remain at that peak for another 20 seconds, and then dissipate back down to a 20% level or so before the next one would take off. It never stopped.

The sounds I was making were terrifying and primal. Screaming, but not prolonged “I’m being murdered” screaming. Just these awful bursts of “AH AH AH AH AH” like a hyena caught in a trap. I wanted to put my mesh panties back on because I couldn’t stop peeing, but the thought of holding still long enough for Jesse to put them over my feet was inconceivable. So no mesh panties.

I screamed that I was too hot, that I was burning up from being in the shower for so long, that I was going to die. The nurse turned on a giant fan and aimed it directly at me. And by god, it was the best thing I’ve ever felt.

I decided I needed to turn around and get in the ‘open knee chest’ position, which is basically yoga child’s pose. It uses gravity to take baby’s head off the cervix, and I knew that if I couldn’t get a break, I was going to break. So I turned around and gripped the edge of the bed.

The midwife checked me again at this point, and said I was there. There was just one tiny lip of cervix left. “I’m just gonna go get some stuff and then we can do this,” she said, and I was in complete shock. I knew things had been moving fast and those contractions-on-top-of-contractions had probably been doing good work, but to actually be ready to push?

This was also a very strange emotional experience for me. With Audrey’s birth, I never really got to experience that “IT IS NOW TIME TO PUSH” moment. Things were already 1000% drama at that point, with my room full of nurses and doctors and anesthesiologists as I was given the instruction to “push NOW and if the baby doesn’t come out we’re doing a C-section.” But here we were, just me, Jesse, one nurse, and the midwife, and she was telling me it was time to actually push in a normal and controlled manner.

So I did. Contractions would come and I would push-push-push, and then the contraction would lapse and I would stop. It was all so normal. I could feel the midwife back there tugging and stretching at my perineum, rubbing mineral oil into it and doing everything she could to ensure I didn’t tear from bow to stern again. I pushed and pushed, and everyone kept telling me I was doing a great job, but I didn’t really feel that way. If I was doing such a great job, then why was the baby still inside me? Somehow, I had convinced myself that I could push him out with just a few big heaves. So I asked the midwife, how was it coming along? Was I actually making any progress? And she told me … to feel for myself.

I was reluctant. Even though my birth plan specified that I would like to touch baby’s head as it crowned, now that I was actually in position to do so, I didn’t want to. But she pretty much told me to DO IT NOW because when else in my life could I possibly get to experience something like this? And she was right.

So I reached down and felt that there was the top of a baby’s head sticking about a quarter inch out of me.



At this point, I realized that pushing in this position wasn’t working for me anymore. I was spending far too much energy just trying to keep my balance on my hands and knees, and my legs were getting tired. I asked if I could try something different, and the midwife suggested that I roll onto my side instead. That way, I could relax and let the bed hold my weight, but with one knee up in the air, my pelvis would still be wide open in a great position to make room for baby to come out.

This position was fantastic. I was comfortable, and I felt strong enough to keep working. I kept pushing with each contraction while everyone reminded me to tuck my chin into my chest for maximum pushing power. I’m pretty sure I pooped. I’m 100% sure nobody cared.

The midwife told me to reach down and touch the head again, and this time I did so without hesitation. It was definitely farther out than it was the first time I touched it. It was incredible.

With each push, I found myself experiencing the famous “ring of fire” that women talk about – that as the tissue of the perineum stretches to the max, it starts to burn like hell. But this didn’t even register as pain to me – it was just an interesting feeling that I didn’t get to have with Audrey. The midwife never told me to slow down or push less, so I just kept maxing out with every contraction and finally, they told me that his head would for sure come out on the next one.

In a state of complete disbelief, I buckled down and gave one more huge push, and sure enough his head was out! Then everyone started shouting at me that I wasn’t done yet and I had to get the shoulders out next, so without skipping a beat I gave another big push and screamed “OH F***” as I felt the weirdest and grossest and most indescribable thing I have ever felt in my life: a whole human person suddenly being expelled from my vagina in one single moment.

And that was it. I was finished. Trevor Elliott was born at 5:47AM, a mere ~7 hours after my water broke.

From there, everything followed my birth plan perfectly. I was not given a Pitocin drip even though those are standard protocol at my hospital (recall that I didn’t want one because giving Pitocin to someone who hasn’t had any drugs during labor can result in contractions that hurt even more than the ones they felt during labor. Yeah, no thanks, unless I’m actually hemorrhaging to death). We were not able to do delayed cord clamping because we had opted instead for cord blood donation, so the cord was clamped immediately and Jesse cut it. And my little boy was plopped down on my chest in a blanket for some serious snuggle time.

The final tally: he weighed in at 8 pounds 2 ounces, almost a full pound heavier than Audrey at 7 pounds 4 ounces. 19 and ¾ inches long. As for my bottom, I had a second-degree tear, which is when the perineum tears up to but NOT including the rectum – in other words, IT WAS A VAGANUS-FREE ZONE! And since people always end up curious about this, allow me to just reiterate: I had no pain medication whatsoever, not even local anesthetic down there this time, and I did not feel that tear happen. I did not feel any pain after the birth. I had no idea if I’d torn at all, and was somewhat surprised to find that I had even reached a second-degree because it didn’t hurt a bit. The recovery from this tear has been a total breeze. Complete non-issue. So if the possibility of perineal tears is the kind of thing that keeps you up at night, please remember this. I wouldn’t lie to you about something like that.

So there you have it! Trevor is born, I didn’t rip my asshole apart, I made it through without drugs, and I’m NEVER DOING ANY OF IT AGAIN SO HELP ME GOD.


Being born is the worst!

 Being a week old is way better!

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

I had another baby!

Hey there friends/foes (why would foes waste their time reading this though?? Madness I tell you!), if you're wondering why the blog has been silent, it's because baby Trevor has joined the world! He came out yesterday morning and has total old man baby face. He's adorable, though I do think he spends too much time ranting about gerrymandering congressional districts and not enough time just being a baby. I guess in the end it's his life, though.

I have a lot of half-written drafts of blog posts, so hopefully things won't be ALL silent for the next few months. You might get some half finished unfunny garbage to scoff at, for example. And definitely a birth story will come your way soon. Spoiler alert: no vaganus this time.

And now for the pictures!!

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Parenting: "Is this the hill you want to die on?" YES, YES IT IS.

One of the most common bits of advice that toddler parents give to each other is to constantly ask the question "is this the hill you want to die on?" We are like a broken record with this question, asking it over and over and over again every time some disciplinary issue comes up.

Why? Because toddlers can be willful, and they don't respond well to reason and logic. You can explain to them all day long how important it is for them to brush their teeth, but if they don't want to brush their teeth, they're just gonna scream and hit you in the face as you come at them with the toothbrush.

So whenever they engage in a behavior that you're not a fan of, you have to ask yourself: is it REALLY worth it to fight this fight? Is this issue important enough to be worth doing whatever it takes to emerge victorious? Or am I better off just caving on this one and saving my ammo for bigger, more important battles later on? 

Sometimes, the answer is "yes, this is worth it." But far more often, the answer is "no, not really." And recognizing that distinction can be the difference between being a happy and relaxed parent with a happy and relaxed kid vs. a harried and overwrought parent with a psycho kid. If you turn everything into a pitched battle, you're just turning yourself into an adversary ... and that pretty much never works out well.

Audrey definitely has some behaviors I wish she didn't have. She spends too much of the day with a binkie in her mouth; she often refuses to wear the clothing I've picked out for her; sometimes she doesn't want to eat whatever healthy thing I've prepared her for dinner after she's been at daycare all day; if she sees a cupcake in the fridge, she won't stop screaming until she gets a bite of it.

In a perfect world, I would say "EAT YOUR DINNER AND NO CUPCAKES FOR YOU" and she would just obey me quietly. But we don't live in a perfect world; we live in this world. Where she usually eats her dinner without issue, and we rarely have cupcakes in the house, but sometimes we do and sometimes she sees them in the fridge when I'm getting out her milk. Why would I subject myself to a screaming, irrational toddler tantrum that could last for an hour just to make the point that I'm in charge on some minor issue that almost never comes up?

That would be madness.

So she gets her way a lot. And that's fine. (the key is to act like the whole thing was your idea anyway, rather than acting like you caved to their demands. "Oh, you want a cupcake? Okay, let's have cupcakes!")

But there have been hills upon which I am content to make my last stand, and if I die, I die:

Real ones:


This one has to be nipped in the bud from the very first time they do it. You can't have a kid that hits people when they're mad.

And kids will naturally hit people when they're mad. They didn't learn it from TV or from their cousin or from that kid on the playground -- it is HUMAN NATURE.

Why, just this morning, Audrey was out on the driveway watching a worm when I told her that we needed to get in the car to go to daycare. And she was like "no." And I was like "yep, you can look at worms another time, but right now we need to go." And I picked her up to carry her to the car, and she screamed bloody murder and punched me in the face.

Punched me. In the face.

And she got in trouuuuuuuuuuuuble. I was every kind of stern as I informed her that "we do NOT hit. EVER. I don't care how mad you get -- WE DO NOT HIT." And then I strapped her into her carseat coldly, methodically, and without eye contact, and she cried. Only when I was finished putting her in the seat did I soften and tell her that I of course loved her very much and I always would.

If I have to go ten rounds with her every single day until she learns not to hit, I will gladly do so. Because I WILL NOT be one of those parents whose kid gets violent whenever they don't get their way. This is just not acceptable.

I will die upon this hill.


Sometimes, when Audrey has decided she doesn't want her dinner, she will start grabbing fistfuls of food and squishing it as hard as she can before throwing it on the floor.

I find this to be Grade A Asshole Behavior and I will not stand for it. It is not cute. I do not laugh. When Audrey starts squishing food and throwing it, she gets her plate taken away and that is the end of dinner time. Oh, you were hoping for some fruit for dessert? Shouldn't have squished your food, then.

I will not have one of those kids who goes to restaurants and throws food around thinking it's funny. 

I will die upon this hill.

If I say you've had enough sweets, YOU'VE HAD ENOUGH SWEETS

Sweets are delicious. You know it, I know it, and Audrey definitely knows it.

So naturally, whenever there's a special occasion and we treat ourselves to something really yummy (like cake, ice cream, candy, etc.), Audrey ends up wanting more.

And once I decide she's had enough, I do not give her more.

I don't care how many times she asks. I don't care how hard she works herself into a frenzy. How loud she screams. How hard she hits me in the face. 

She is going to learn moderation, goddammit, if it kills me.

I will die upon this hill.

And then, there are the hills that I should probably abandon because seriously? Come on.


Real stupid ones:


These two f***ing flies have been in our house since the weekend, and at this point my vendetta against them has reached comically exaggerated proportions. I would smash my car through the back windows at 60mph if I thought it would lead to the death of those flies.

Alas, that would be impractical, so instead I hunt them with a fly swatter. And of course, Audrey wants to be just like Mommy and Daddy, so when I put the fly swatter down, she picks it up and starts carrying it around hitting stuff with it. It's super cute.

But then she touched the fly swatter to her face. We told her not to do that, because the fly swatter is covered in diseased fly corpse juices, but she did it again.

So Jesse took the fly swatter away, and she pitched a huge fit, but there was no way she was getting that fly swatter back. You can't just walk around touching fly swatters to your face like some kind of cave person. I will let her play with a KNIFE before I'll give that fly swatter back!

I will die upon this hill.


Audrey figured out a long time ago that between Netflix and On Demand cable, we can pretty easily turn on the shows she likes on TV whenever she asks. And since she doesn't watch any TV at all while she's at daycare, I don't worry too much about over-saturating her with screen time. If she says she wants to watch Elmo, I'll turn on Elmo.

Recently, however, she has also figured out that I have the Netflix app on my phone. She knows which folder it's stored in, and she knows what the app's icon looks like.

And sometimes, while Sesame Street plays on the TV, she will take my phone, open up Netflix, and turn on Mickey Mouse so that she can watch that at the same time.


It's bad enough that you force us to watch Elmo all the goddamned time ... now I have to listen to competing high-pitched voices as both Mickey and Elmo battle for your attention (and my sanity)??!?!




Oftentimes, when it's time to change Audrey's diaper, I will ask her how she feels about that and she'll either signal that she's cool with it, or she'll say "no" and I'll wait a bit longer. I figure that unless the diaper is about to burst, there's no reason not to let her have at least some say in the matter. I don't want to turn diaper changes into an overly traumatic episode between us if I can help it.

However, all semblance of autonomous decision-making goes out the window as soon as a poop enters the equation.

So here's how it goes down: Audrey poops. I tell her we need to change her diaper because there's poop in it. She says "no." I tell her that "no" isn't an acceptable answer and that we are changing the diaper right now. She says "no" again and runs off to hide somewhere -- usually the pantry.

I chase her down and WRASSLE HER LIKE AN ANGRY CROCODILE into the laundry room where the changing pad is, and then I WRASSLE HER LIKE AN ANGRY CROCODILE until her pants are off and the diaper is getting changed, and she screams and cries and tries to hit me and I just bellow WE ARE CHANGING YOUR DIAPER RIGHT NOW AND THAT IS FINAL and she squirms and flails and tries to escape and I WRASSLE HER LIKE AN ANGRY CROCODILE until the new diaper is on. Once the whole thing is done, she has a bit of PTSD but NO CHILD OF MINE IS GOING TO WALK AROUND WITH TURDS JUST CHILLING IN THEIR DIAPER.

Parenting: it's a messy business. Choose your battles carefully.

And keep the fly swatters well hidden.

Thursday, August 6, 2015

The Indignities of (very late) Pregnancy: These stretch marks are very, very angry and they scare me a little

Welcome to what will likely be the final installment of "The Indignities of Pregnancy" ... because I won't be pregnant for much longer, and if all goes according to plan, after this I will NEVER BE PREGNANT AGAIN!


I am now full term with baby #2. Over 38 weeks. He could come at any time.

With baby #1, I made it all the way to delivery without any significant stretch marks. I only had one little one, which appeared right on top of my belly button (my belly button is pierced, so the hole where the piercing exits my navel gave the stretch mark a foothold). The little stretch mark set up camp in the final few weeks of that pregnancy, but he never had much chance to establish himself before Audrey was born and the cops came and told him to move on.

This time around, that little stretch mark came back ... and he brought some friends he recruited. Once again, that stupid exit-hole of my navel piercing provided Mr. Stretch Mark and his pals a place to establish their camp. And they did.

There are now three of them living there in that camp. The camp started out small and neat, with the three of them living in small individual tents. They were clean, they were quiet, and they generally stayed out of everyone's way, so I didn't have much problem with them. We left each other alone and everything was fine.

But then all of a sudden in the last couple of weeks, something seems to have happened to the stretch mark camp.

It's gotten ... rowdier.

They've started drinking more. They took down their tents and hung up a bunch of tarps instead, making a sort of stretch mark hobo shantytown. They even got another small family to join their camp, albeit on the other side of the train tracks (my belly button). The new family is pretty respectful, though I'm certainly not happy about their arrival.

As for the original three marks, they're belligerent. They're drunk 24/7 and their camp is littered with empty beer cans and bottles of Military Special vodka -- $8 for a half gallon. They don't talk -- they shout. They interpret everything I say as some kind of insult or personal attack, and they accuse me of talking shit about their little sister. One of them tried to throw a punch, but missed and fell into the campfire instead.

It's getting ugly down there, is what I'm trying to say. And the cops have done nothing to shut this down.

Now, I will freely admit that I am one lucky duck to still only have three big stretch marks. But DAMN, they are assholes.

I've started dousing their camp in 100% Shea butter and Aquaphor ointment several times a day, but this only seems to infuriate them more (for the record, I have been slathering on the 100% Shea butter daily throughout my entire pregnancy). I have two major fears here: one, that they will successfully recruit more psychotic lowlifes to join their camp over the next week or so. It could happen.

And two, the fear that most keeps me up at night: that once their camp is finally raided by the cops and they're sent on their way, that the campground itself will be utterly trashed. And by this, I mean the dreaded puckered navel.

Like this.

I hate that I am worried about this. I should happily accept any and all changes that my body needs to make in order to grow and birth my beautiful children. I should embrace whatever form my belly button takes once this is all over, because whatever it ends up costing me is a small price to pay for the privilege of carrying two successful pregnancies to term.

But ... I'm worried about it.

Because it sucks sitting here helpless, eating healthy and working out and controlling my weight gain and moisturizing-moisturizing-moisturizing and still seeing these asshole dickhead stretch marks taking dumps and then setting their dumps on fire on my lovely abdomen.

Why do I call this an indignity?

Because it looks like shit. My cute, round, adorable 9-months-pregnant belly looks like shit. Even Audrey had to agree with that: as I was getting dressed the other day, she pointed at the stretch mark encampment and said "Mommy ... big poopoo mess."


Ice cold, Audrey. Ice cold.

I didn't want to even include a picture in this post, but I feel like I ought to, for the sake of full disclosure:

This is in rather favorable lighting that doesn't quite capture exactly how RED and ANGRY the stretch mark hobo camp looks most of the time. 
Honestly, they look like wounds. Actual injuries.
It's brutal.

But you know what? There ain't a damn thing I can do about it except what I've already been doing, so I'm not going to worry about it anymore. It's out of my hands. If Mr. Stretch Mark and his lunatic squad want to burn everything down and salt the earth so nothing shall ever grow there again, that's just how it goes.

And you know what else? 

Once this is all over ... I'm still gonna wear a f***ing bikini.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Stuntin' like I'm 9 months pregnant

I may be large, awkward, and unwieldy. I may have what is essentially a giant watermelon hung from my spine and dangling between my legs (or at least it certainly feels that way).

But don't you for one second think that I'm not still capable of stunts that would make even the Flying Wallendas blanche!

This guy ain't got nothin on me.

Here are the stunning feats of acrobatics that I am still able to perform, and their difficulty ratings. Prepare to be impressed:

Maneuver: Use my ab muscles to pull in and lift my entire uterus
Difficulty: 8.5

As my uterus grows and my belly hangs off me like a piece of overripe fruit, exercising full control over the abdominal wall becomes more and more difficult. Non-pregnant me can easily flex all the abs and pull the belly in to a flat and hard state. Pregnant me, however? Not so easy.

But in the right circumstances, I can still do it. Obviously not pull the belly in to flatness, since that is literally impossible given the size of my uterus compared to the size of my body, but still ... a heck of a lot flatter than it is right now. I call this move the Belly Lift, and it involves flexing all my abs at once and using them to lift my enormous uterus up and in.

I have shown this stunt to many people, and the response has been almost universally the same: "Do that again." [I do it again] "Gross."

So yes, it is impressive. I am available for parties, but not for much longer.

And before you even ask, OF COURSE I MADE VIDEOS AND TURNED THEM INTO GIFS. Who do you think I am, some kind of amateur?!?!

"Do that again."


Maneuver: Drop into a full lunge to pick something up off the floor while holding Audrey
Difficulty: 8.8

According the the bathroom scale that Audrey insists on weighing herself on several times a week, my little 22-month-old weighs 27.4 pounds.

According to that same bathroom scale, my weight gain thus far this pregnancy is between 26-29 pounds (depending on the time of day and how many Chipotle burritos I have eaten that week).

Getting out my trusty calculator, this means that I can drop into a low enough lunge to reach whatever critical item has been dropped onto the floor while holding at least 54 pounds of extra weight. And then I can stand all the way back up afterwards. I can do this as many as one times in a row.

That being said, I don't think I will be performing this stunt any more from here on out. There's simply too much risk that I will get down and then not be able to get back up, and I'll either have to toss Audrey at the ground, fall over, or call for help from a ridiculous position.

"But why did you start kneeling on the floor?"

Maneuver: Prop my leg up at chest height in the shower to shave
Difficulty: 9.1

Yes, I do still shave my legs. And I haven't even changed my technique! I still lift my leg up and rest my toesies on the chest-height ledge in the shower to do it.

Except on days where my sciatic back pain is acting up really badly.

You can tell those days because my right leg will be smooth.

Only my right leg.

Maneuver: While holding Audrey, pick up her binkie with my foot and transfer it into my other hand
Difficulty: 9.2

I don't think the title on this one makes it clear just exactly how incredible this feat is. So let me describe it further: I hold the 27.4 pound Audrey in my right arm, resting her weight on my hip while my giant belly hangs off my front.

I balance this precarious tower on my right foot only.

I take all weight off my left foot and use my long, monkey-like toes to grab Audrey's binkie, which she has dropped onto the floor.

I then bend my left leg at the knee until my left hand can reach the binkie that is gripped in my toe-fingers.

And I give the binkie back to Audrey.

And she doesn't thank me, because she has no concept of how incredible it is that I was able to do this.


Maneuver: Sit down on the floor in the middle of a room (i.e. not near anything I can use to pull myself up) and then return to my feet again without help
Difficulty: 9.9

This maneuver is so difficult that it's risky to even attempt it without a spotter. You may find yourself stuck on the floor, having to crawl over to a counter or railing to pull yourself back to your feet.

I have only dared attempt it a couple of times in the recent past, because I know the risks.

Here is my technique, starting from a criss-cross-applesauce seated position:
-- untangle legs and roll forward onto hands and knees
-- open knees to at least shoulder width apart
-- shift weight towards hands and then tuck feet under you
-- walk hands in towards feet, moving more and more weight onto feet
-- straighten legs slowly, either with hands still on the floor or transferred to your knees (depending on flexibility). Don't be a hero and try to stand up all at once
-- once legs are mostly straight, begin rolling body up one vertebrae at a time until you have reached a standing position

Congratulations! You have successfully stood up from a seated position on the floor!!! 

Maneuver: Put on underwear while standing up
Difficulty: 10

Lol just kidding. I cannot do this.