Did I Create A Monster - Literally?

This week, I left my local library feeling frustrated and embarrassed after my daughter had yet another public meltdown. For my part, I did everything right – from scheduling our trip after a 90-minute nap, to leaving her little brother at home for a rare mommy-daughter only outing. But when she discovered the line of toddlers waiting to play her favorite Elmo game on the library’s computers, she erupted into a full-blown fit of rage that would have made Teresa Guidice blush. She left me with no choice but to drag her home kicking and screaming. Somehow, she’d already forgotten the talk we’d had the day before about how acting out in public would guarantee her a one-way ticket to her bedroom. Something happened to my daughter around her second birthday. No longer was she my sweet, loveable travel companion who would go anywhere with me as long as I had plenty of juice and snacks. She’d somehow transformed into a miniature monster capable of mass destruction. From combing her hair to getting in the stroller, leaving the house is a battle of wills. And once we’re outside, I can only cross my fingers and hope for the best. Before I became a mom, I was hypersensitive to other little maniacs. I noticed them everywhere – on planes, in restaurants and at the grocery store. I rolled my eyes at the parents who seemed to be completely lax in their jobs as disciplinarians. How in the world could these people allow their children to act that way in public? Now that the tables have turned, I have the answer to my own question. I’m certain that my daughter goes out of her way to embarrass me at the worst possible times, and sometimes all I can do is sit back and watch. I grew up with the fear that a severe spanking was imminent if I disobeyed my parents. All I had to do was look at my younger brothers who were rubbing their sore bottoms with regret to know that the threat was real. I did my best to avoid my daddy’s wrath. But today it seems that spanking is no longer an acceptable form of punishment. The experts encourage us to talk things out and use techniques like time out instead. I’d rather not have to beat my kids into submission, but as a black girl from the South Side of Chicago, the concept of time out is completely foreign. When my two-year-old is in the middle of a crazy screaming fit, it can be very difficult to keep a cool head. And as hard as I try to talk things out, sometimes I think a quick swat on the butt seems a whole lot easier than trying to explain why jumping on the bed is dangerous for the ninety-ninth time. So do I continue to let her laugh defiantly when I put her in the corner for drawing on the sofa? Or do I smack her hand and hope it stings enough to stop her from wanting to do it again? I never imagined discipline would be this hard, but I’m sure we’ll be spending the next 18 years trying to figure it all out!

Don't Call Me, I'll Call You

A few months back, I wrote an article about the top five things you should never say to a pregnant woman. I thought I had a pretty comprehensive list, cautioning readers to avoid saying things like, “You are huge!” and “Should you be eating that?” But if I could write the article over, I would certainly add, “Is the baby here yet?” to the list.

As I approach my 42nd week of pregnancy, I’ve been overwhelmed with calls, texts and e-mails from friends and family members who think they missed out on the big announcement. I can’t tell you how tired I am of having to tell everyone that I’m still waiting. And I can’t tell you how annoying it is to have to pretend to laugh when I hear, “Oh, he’s a stubborn one!” for the 99th time.

If I sound a little annoyed, it’s because I am. I know that everyone is just excited and concerned about me, but it only makes me more anxious and concerned myself. While I’m doing my best not to obsess about when my little guy will make his debut, people’s calls force me back inside my head. They force me to wake up every morning wondering if today will be the day. They make me nervous that every bit of movement is the start of something. And worst of all, they leave me disappointed, thinking something is wrong with me because I haven’t gone into labor yet.

And even though I’ve told everyone that I’ll make sure they know the moment #2 is here, they ignore my request for space and check on me relentlessly. I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I have to appeal to everyone who has been on baby watch for the past three weeks – If you don’t hear from me, it’s because NOTHING HAS HAPPENED! No one wants this whole thing to be over more than me (and maybe my husband). So don’t worry about missing out on the news. If you’re anywhere in the tri-state area, you’ll probably hear me shouting from the rooftops when this whole ordeal is over!

Past Due!

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be in a hurry to experience tremendous pain, but believe it or not, that is exactly what’s happening. For the past couple of days, I’ve been going out of my mind trying to figure out what I can do to trigger my body into labor.

The rational me knows that due dates are totally arbitrary, and that babies rarely have any regard for what doctors and midwives think they’re going to do. However, the impatient me, who can barely sleep with anticipation, (and 30 extra pounds of baby weight) finds it very difficult to deal with the fact that my little guy is four days past the day he was projected to arrive.

It probably doesn’t help that my friends and family have been calling and texting me like crazy thinking that they’ve missed out on some big news. I’m sure it has to be a major buzz-kill to hear that I’m sitting at the playground rather than in my birthing pool. I’ve been trying to convince them to place their bets on a date to make things interesting.

I try to stay sane by telling myself that this is exactly what’s supposed to happen. One of the major reasons we decided on a home birth was to allow the labor process to happen organically. Part of that means surrendering to the process mind, body and spirit. I’m lucky enough to have the chance to have a childbirth do over, and erase all of the bad memories I had from my Pitocin-induced, botched epidural experience. I just hope that this kid’s stubbornness isn’t a sign of things to come!

What's in a Name?

I’ve been bragging to anyone who will listen about how ready I am for the arrival of #2. As my due date approaches this Friday, I’ve done all sorts of things to get ready for him and all of his tiny belongings. I’ve washed and folded the clothes, made a list of the important phone numbers and even inflated the birth pool on trial run. But as I sat down to write today, it dawned on me that there is one thing my husband and I haven’t done in preparation for our little boy – decided on a name.

We’ve received more than our fair share of suggestions from other people that have ranged from acceptable to downright ridiculous (we are not naming our son after any cars or alcoholic beverages!), but nothing has really resonated with us.

Choosing a name is an incredibly important decision. We’ve tried to look for good names that have a strong meaning, that will stand the test of time and will allow our son to make the best possible impression on the world. But finding all of those things in one name has proven to be quite a difficult task. We’ve discovered that there really aren’t a whole lot of good names out there. If it hasn’t already been taken by one of our close friends or family members, it sounds terrible with our last name or is just plain weird. So we end up going back to the same old plain names. Seriously, does the world really need another Mark, Bob or Joe?

If Baby Boy arrives before we’re able to make a decision, we’ll hopefully be inspired at first sight to come up with something that will lead him to greatness – or at least make sure he doesn’t get too many wedgies at school.

The Waiting Game

As week 38 of my pregnancy comes to a close, I don’t think it’s possible for one person to be any more uncomfortable than I am now. The anticipation of meeting my new little boy, coupled with the fact that his beautiful little head is pressing directly on my pelvis, is making me extremely anxious for our first meeting.

I’ve done everything I can think of to distract myself. I’ve washed all his clothes, organized the closets and written thank you notes for all of the shower gifts – not to mention, I have an almost two-year-old that does everything she can to make sure that she’s the center of my world at all times. Even so, I can’t help but convince myself that every Braxton-Hicks is the start of the real thing.

I know that I should be making the most of this calm before the storm. I should be sleeping, showering and writing as much as I possibly can before the new baby soaks up the little bit of energy I have left after caring for my toddler. Things are going to get really crazy around here in a couple of weeks, and I’m going to need all of my strength to deal with the things these two are going to throw my way. I have nightmares about my husband coming home to find me in the midst of a nervous breakdown induced by my pint-sized rabble-rousers.

But as nervous as I am about dealing with two in diapers, I’m just as eager to get back to some sense of normalcy – my old clothes, a glass of wine every now and then, and the ability to give myself a pedicure without having to contort my body into some uncomfortable position.

I promised myself that with this pregnancy I’d let nature take its course and allow my body to lead me through the process of childbirth. I just have to convince the neurotic, obsessive-compulsive in me to get on board. The good news is that baby boy will make his debut some time in the next couple of weeks. And when he does, he’ll have a happy mom, lots of clean clothes and dry diapers waiting for him. Until then, all I can do is wait.

Dancing With Doulas

Today was my last prenatal meeting with my awesome doulas from The Doula Project. I have to admit, I wasn’t initially sold on the idea of having strangers come in to be a part of my birthing process, but now I can’t imagine what I’d do without them. The two young ladies assigned to my birth are passionate about helping women have the most comfortable labor experience possible, and their positive energy is definitely contagious.

The purpose of this meeting was to focus on ways to deal with the pain of labor. Taja and Julia introduced me to my new favorite thing – the rebozo! This amazing piece of fabric, which is a traditional Mexican garment used to carry everything from children to groceries, opened me up (literally!) to different pain management techniques that I can employ on my big day. At first, I was a little skeptical about the power of a simple piece of cloth. I found myself giggling like a schoolgirl as Taja described some of the postures like “The Slow Dance,” but after an hour of rocking, swaying and squatting as they used the fabric to tug, pull and wrap me into various positions designed to relieve pressure from my back and pelvis, I didn’t want it to end. I can’t wait to try out some of their amazing techniques. I just hope my husband is as graceful as Julia and can manage to keep the beat!

A Tale of Two Births

“Is it safe?” “What if something happens?” “No epidural?” “Are you crazy?”
Since we’ve started sharing our plans to give birth to our second child at home, my husband and I have received tons of feedback from our friends and family. Some have offered words of encouragement, while most have questioned our sanity.

Believe me, if you had told me five years ago that I would be preparing to have my baby in my living room, I would have called you crazy. I always thought I’d have two children, I just never really thought about how they’d get here. I don’t like pain and I’m not that crazy about blood, so it’s always been a lot more pleasant to daydream about cheesy family Christmas cards and Disney vacations than what labor would be like.

The day I got that first positive pregnancy test result, I was forced to face my fears and focus on how to deal with the pain. Five months of bed rest due to an “incompetent cervix” allowed me to absorb every morsel of information in cyberspace about labor and delivery until I successfully convinced myself that I would be able to get through it. I even thought I might be able to get by without any drugs. Reality, however, would prove to be entirely different.

Near the end of my pregnancy, my doctors decided to induce my labor, kick-starting the process with Pitocin. Once things got going, it didn’t take long before I was begging for an epidural. But even after I’d pumped Charlie Sheen-like levels of pain meds into my system, even my anesthesiologist was baffled at why I continued to feel every excruciating contraction. Twelve hours later, when I was holding my beautiful baby girl, I promised myself that I would never go through anything like that again.

So this time around, we are turning our one-bedroom apartment into our own birthing center. This time, there will be no one telling me not to eat, drink or wear my favorite fuzzy slippers. This time, I’ll be able to move around and allow my body to do what comes naturally. I’ll be able to have as many visitors as I want (or not!). And I’ll feel more in control of the entire situation. By the way, I’m currently in week 38 of my pregnancy, and have cooked, cleaned and chased after an active toddler the entire time. So much for an “incompetent cervix!”

Over the past few weeks, we’ve been bombarded with deliveries of adorable toys and clothes for our little guy. But today’s delivery got me the most excited of all – our birthing kit, complete with gauze pads, bulb syringes and sterile gloves. Call us hippies, crazies or just plain foolish, but I think this time around, we’ve made the best decision for our family. I obviously have no idea what will happen on that fateful day, but somehow I think it will be great.