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.

Poop Happens

I hate poop. Everything about it grosses me out. While some people use their time in The John to catch up on reading and phone calls, I try to keep my visits short, sweet and private. As a child, I held on to my poop like a precious secret while my mother attempted to coax it out of me with castor oil and assure me that everyone had to let it go at some point.

My parents were convinced that my problem was rooted in some attachment disorder and that I was afraid to let go of something that was a part of me, but I had no problem flushing things down the toilet – I often thought about flushing my younger brother whenever he broke one of my favorite toys. I’ve just always thought of pooping as one of those things that other people assume you do, but that you never actually want to get caught doing – like having sex or singing in the shower. Because once you’re caught doing it, people begin to look at you differently. You go from being the nice girl in the Marketing department or the cute guy from the bar to the disgusting pig that had too much fiber at lunch. Therefore, it’s best to make sure no one has any solid evidence that you’ve ever produced any solid waste.

Throughout my life, my contempt of crap has created a lot of inconvenient situations for me. I avoided anything in the school cafeteria that could possibly incite an embarrassing trip to the toilet, which in the eighties was just about everything. I’d witnessed too many kids being christened with embarrassing nicknames for things like dropping their books or falling out of their chairs. There was no way I was going to let a stupid bodily function force me to join their ranks.

As an adult, logging long hours at a demanding job made it almost impossible for me to delay doing the deed until I was in the comfort of my own home. Instead I opted to sneak to a restroom I’d found three floors above my office to avoid the condemnatory stares of my coworkers.

My paranoia even managed to wreak havoc on my personal life. On dates, I steered clear of spicy food so that I wouldn’t have to run out of the restaurant before the Chicken Vindaloo ran through me. I can’t even tell you how many romantic evenings I single-handedly cut short because I’d rather run home unexpectedly than respond to nature’s call at a hot guy’s house.

But my anxiety soared to a whole new level when things began to get serious with the man who is now my husband. I’d successfully gotten around pooping in his presence for months, but the more time we spent together, the more difficult it became. When we decided to move in together, I knew I would have to devise a plan to poop discretely. So I scheduled strategic trips to the toilet during times I knew he wouldn’t be home or when I had to take a shower to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally discover me in the act. I was determined to keep him thinking I was April fresh all the time until we were 80.

But it was the birth of our daughter that finally forced me to come face to face with my disdain for dooty. She was either unaware or unconcerned with my psychosis and refused to warn me when a poopy diaper was imminent (which seemed to be a pretty regular occurrence). I was up to my knees in baby boo boo and trying to control my gag reflexes. Then somewhere around three-weeks-old, things changed. All of the baby books I’d read suggested that I should be changing at least one poopy diaper a day, and it had been three days since I’d seen one. While you might think I’d be jumping for joy, I actually made myself sick with worry. Had my little girl inherited my ridiculous complex?

By day four, I was convinced something was terribly wrong. I scoured the Internet for home remedies. I pleaded with my little girl to let go of her insecurities and her bowel movement. I even promised that I wouldn’t judge her afterwards. Our pediatrician reassured us that there was nothing wrong, but I knew in my heart that it was my immature anxiety that had caused the whole thing.

On the fifth day, my daughter produced what still goes on record as the messiest diaper I’ve seen in my life (you know the kind that manages to make its way out of the diaper and up the back, completely ruining the changing pad and one of my favorite dresses in the process). My husband laughed hysterically as I blubbered a tearful prayer of thanks. Since then, I’ve had no problem getting up close and personal with my daughter’s dirty diapers, dutifully reporting the frequency and consistency at each doctor’s visit.

My daughter helped me face my fear and taught me a valuable lesson. Pooping is a natural part of everyone’s life and nothing to be ashamed of. While I’m not completely comfortable with it, I no longer feel the need to hide from my husband. In fact, our trips to the oval office have become something we can joke about – sounding a warning signal when the other should steer clear of the area. Yes, poop gross and definitely smelly, but holding on to it can be a whole lot worse.

Desperately Seeking Mommy Friends

I always knew my life would change after giving birth to my daughter. I was totally prepared to lose sleep, money and any sense of privacy, but I had no idea that I would lose most of my friends too. Unfortunately, the birth of my baby has also meant the death of my once thriving social life.

As a carefree single girl, my phone rang constantly with invitations to happy hours and bottomless brunches. I was happily unfamiliar with the funniest sketches on Saturday Night Live because I was always out somewhere, well into my second round. But since I’ve joined the mommy club, most of my drunken companions have kicked me to the curb. A couple of my tried and true pals have remained faithful, occasionally passing through my apartment on their way to something more exciting. However, most aren’t interested in talking about dirty diapers or breastfeeding, and they wouldn’t be caught dead walking down the street with a stroller – even if someone else was pushing it.

But rather than dwell on what I’d lost, I decided to find a group of mommy friends to fill the void left by my single gal pals. I thought it would be easy to do in Brooklyn, the place where hip city girls go to die. Mommy and Me everything is abundant in my neighborhood. So I eagerly signed up for yoga classes, hoping to engage in some adult conversation and allow my daughter to spend time with other kids her age.

I was disappointed to find that I didn’t fit in with the stay at home mom crowd any better than I did on the single scene. My daughter was oblivious to how uncomfortable I felt during her play dates, when the conversation turned to summer homes, nanny shares or some other topic that caused me to nod and force a dim-witted smile until someone changed the subject. These moms were housewives by choice, eagerly accepting the responsibility of keeping spotless homes and warm cookies on the table as if it were their birthright. I was awkwardly forced into my role due to downsizing and could barely afford the weekly bus trips to the yoga studio. I needed to find a place where I could talk about my sore nipples or the hair that was suddenly appearing in strange places.

Though I haven’t yet found a group of fabulous new mommy friends, I refuse to give up hope. I keep an eye out at the bookstore, the playground and even the pediatrician’s office for someone who can talk about their favorite Real Housewives cast and the best preschools in the neighborhood. Hopefully we’ll be able to enjoy ourselves on the playground and at $4 margarita night at the local watering hole. Being a mom means learning to be flexible. Besides, Saturday Night Live is really funny!

Mom's Musings

We celebrated my daughter’s first birthday this weekend, so I have to take a moment to pat us both on the back for getting through the first year of her life relatively unscathed. It’s hard to believe that the 5 lb., 9 oz. little nugget I was afraid to break now explores every inch of our house without fear, pushing past the baby gates and into forbidden territory whenever she thinks no one is looking. But I’m always looking at her – watching closely as she grows up right before our eyes. Soon, she’ll be telling me she’s at a French Club meeting when she’s really off smoking cigarettes with a boy who dropped out of school to fix cars and/or work on his music career (wait, that was me).

I finally understand why people told me to enjoy every parenting minute - because each day, your kids take a step towards independence. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it can be difficult to deal with someone needing my full attention every minute of the day, but at least I know where she is. Inevitably, my funny faces will not be enough to keep her entertained at the dinner table. I’ll soon be begging her to eat with me without her cell phone.

I know it’s been happening for hundreds of years, but I honestly believe that watching my little girl’s first steps was the most exciting thing I’ve seen in my entire life. But will I still get a kick out of things like watching her sleep after she’s been mouthing off to me?

I’d love to freeze her in time when she’s still small enough to curl up in my lap and read a bedtime story (and use the bathroom on her own, of course!). But I take comfort in the fact that after ruining my high school social life with her rules and curfews, my mother has proven to be a sensible person and one of my best friends.

The road was hard. Along with the challenges I knew I would have to face, like weight gain and lack of sleep, there were a few surprises that I could never have expected (who knew you could get tendonitis in your wrists from poor breastfeeding posture?). But I would definitely do it all over again, and look forward to watching my little nugget become a little lady.