Reflux for Dummies

I had heart burn almost the entire time I was pregnant.

It started at 6.5 weeks. I was on vacation, and really thought that I may have caught some sort of Mexican fire breathing disease while on our cruise.

After that? I started sleeping in the big comfy chair in our living room. Sitting up like the elephant man. For the next thirty weeks.

No amount of Tums Smoothies could tame the fire breathing dragon living in my uterus (but those things taste like candy and sometimes I still eat them because they don't have very many calories and my thighs are YOUGE and don't really fit in pants).

So I'd like to think karma is biting Olivia in the ass with this whole reflux thing. And normally I'd be really excited to see someone Get Theirs. You know, like when someone rides your ass for 20 miles, passes you, then gets pulled over. Stuff like that.

Knowing what it feels like to have a burning in your chest and throat as soon as you lay down? Makes it so sad to watch your baby writhe in pain while eating or trying to sleep. Many desperate visits to the pediatrician with little to no sympathy left me shaking my fists at the heavens and swearing like a trucker.

And threatening to shove a bottle of Mylanta directly up the pediatrician's ass.

It is possible that you have landed on my blog via Google (and Oh.My.Sweet.Baby.Jesus people come here from the CRAZIEST google searches. I need to do an entire post on that soon - an example? Big Clown Underwear). Perhaps you have searched for one of the following:

-My Baybee Breathes Fire: HALP!
-Why Does My Baby Have Reflux, Does God Hate Me?
-Is It Weird To Be Sexually Attracted to My Pharmacist?
-Will I Ever Sleep Again, If Not Can I Main Line Coffee Straight From My BUNN?
-Mylanta is Bullshit
-My Pediatrician is Useless
-Silent Reflux Is A Stupid Name Because It Makes Babies Scream
-I'm Getting Drunk, Who's With Me?
-Why Can't Dr. Google Prescribe Me Some Prevacid?

I did all sorts of desperate Google searches and found all kinds of really great information. And since I have so many important things that I don't feel like doing, I will sum it up for all you lazy whores out there...

Reflux doesn't necessarily mean ungodly amounts of spit up.

Olivia has silent reflux. She rarely spits up. Instead, the acid comes up her throat and then she swallows it. Because she loves to burn her throat twice?

So. If your baby arches her back and cries while eating (and for hours after), and refuses to sleep laying flat, but doesn't spit up? Be suspicious.

You know how you barf in your mouth sometimes? Olivia would kind of do that, make a sour face, then scream her freaking head off.

Get Thee to a Pediatric Gastroenterologist!

Much to my disappointment, I've found that doctors aren't really brilliant and caring. I mean, if you expect to go to your pediatrician and encounter some person who agonizes all night long over your babies issues? You're stupid. I know this, because I am stupid.

Your pediatrician is probably useless.

Pediatricians know the basics about reflux. They can give you limited solutions, and then will most likely give up, claiming that they've done everything and that it will pass when your baby starts to sit up or eat solids. OR TURNS ONE. And you will just have to deal with the crying (your baby's and yours) until it passes. (Vodka, anyone?)

My experience with my pediatrician ended when I was told to let my 3 month old cry it out because there were no other treatment options outside of Zantac or Pepcid. I had been asking for a prescription for something like Prevacid or Prilosec for over a month and was repeatedly told NO. "NO! Those aren't any more effective than Zantac!" Sensing my rage and fearing for his very life, he then made a call to a pediatric gastroenterologist and got me an appointment the next day.

If loving the pediatric gastroenterologist is wrong? I DON'T WANT TO BE RIGHT. More on my infatuation later...


Zantac is an Asshole.

There are a few ways to treat reflux.

1. The first line of defense: Mylanta and Rice Cereal. The Mylanta is supposed to coat your baby's throat, the rice cereal is supposed to hold the food down.

(Psh. Whatever. I'd like to know if this ever worked for anyone. It gave Olivia HORRIBLE stomach cramps.)

2. Next! Zantac or Pepcid.

These types of drugs are H2 blockers - they are supposed to block the acid from shooting up your baby's throat and causing Screamapalooza.

I've found that this is a temporary solution to a somewhat permanent (in the short term) problem. They are really weight sensitive and need to be increased with weight gain. And they tend to become less effective when your baby takes them for an extended period of time.

Olivia was on Pepcid for a week with ZERO improvement. We switched to Zantac, because we love futility, and that worked for a week, then quit working. Then we'd up the dose, which would sort of work for a week, then stop working. When we finally quit using Zantac, her dose had quadrupled over a month. Stoopid.

3. FINALLY! Prevacid or Prilosec.

Mmmm...the good stuff. Like tasting Grey Goose after living on the $3 bottom shelf vodka.

These are Proton Pump Inhibitors. They mean business. They stop the production of stomach acid altogether. Which makes sense, right? Just shut that shit down! Nip it in the BUD!

We've been giving Olivia Prevacid for a few weeks now, and things for her have dramatically improved. We did have to up her dose once already, but she has gone from eating 13 ounces of formula per day, to 18-20. And she almost never screams and arches while/after eating.

We have also been trying to transition her to sleeping on her back. And I'd write about that now, but I think that it would be better with pictures, which I don't have because I am too busy and important to have taken them already. Plus it's so much more fun to write blogs with impossibly long sentences.

(She was also switched to Nutramigen AA Lipil formula - AKA The Lexus of Formula - and that helped too. More about that later, too, because if this post gets any longer, people will probably come set my house on fire.)

**Next post will finish this up, and will have lots of linky goodness.**

Daycare, Because She Asked So Very Nicely.

I'm not sure if many of you know this, and maybe this will knock your sox off, but I had a baby and then went back to work 9 weeks later!

Crazy!

Since this blog has taken a turn toward the Mommy Blog category, it does seem kind of unusual that I didn't post about my return to the land of the gainfully employed.

Do you know why?
Because it all went down without incident. That's why.
But someone asked for me to write about this to ease her anxiety about her upcoming return to work. And since she asked so nicely...

The expected thing to feel, I think, is misery upon return to work.

You are supposed to cry the entire drive, and run to the restroom periodically throughout the day to wipe your snot and reapply mascara.

You should call the daycare provider no less than four thousand times to check on your baybee.

Your drive home should be no slower than fifteen miles above the speed limit (because the speed limit is lame anyway and doesn't apply to new mommies returning to work).

I really wasn't miserable about returning to work. Was I excited? HELL NO! I was not excited at all. But the fact of the matter is this: We love my paycheck, and since I have to work to get said paycheck, then I need to go to work. There is no option in my mind. So it was kind of inevitable - like going back to school in the fall, or getting a urinary tract infection after drinking too much pop.

Don't get me wrong here. I am not one of those If I Won The Lottery I Would Still Be Doing This Same Job type of people.

Because you know what? If I won the lottery? I'd be on my big fat ass, in Hawaii, drinking something alcoholic out of a coconut and watching the baby play in the sand while a handsome muscular man fed me fresh grapes.

So. Anyway. I have to work and I don't feel bad about that. I don't aspire to stay at home, ever. Which tempts me to go off on a tangent about the way that people address each other regarding the work/stay at home choice. But that is way over done and so I will skip it.
(You are welcome.)

(But I can't promise that I won't write about Jon and Kate.)
(Seriously, Jon Gosselin. You are a douche.)
(And: Team Kate!)

On my first day back to work, I was lucky enough to have my lovely mommy come to my home and watch Olivia. So I suppose having her there made the transition much easier. I simply handed Olivia to her grandma and went merrily about the rest of my day.

The first time I took her to the sitter (we decided against the daycare center because of all of the reflux issues she was having), it was all very uneventful. The sitter picked her up, and Olivia smiled at her, and I left feeling pretty OK about the whole thing.

Work ZOOMED by. When I walked into the office, my first thought was, "OMFG, I have no idea what I am supposed to do." It took that entire first week to get back in the groove. But much like Stella, I did get my groove back, and fell into a comfortable routine with baby, sitter, work, baby, husband, zzzzzzzzzz. Rinse, repeat, until I've wished away my entire week for the weekend.

I don't really feel guilty for saying that it is nice to have my hour lunch break every day. It is nice to return emails and phone calls without feeling guilty about everything I would be putting off at home to do those things.

Do I miss Olivia? Well. Does a bear shit in the woods?
(Yes, a bear does shit in the woods. And yes, I do miss Olivia.)

I suppose I could sit here every day at beat myself up over all of the time that I miss with Olivia when I am at work. But I simply choose a different way of thinking. I think of all of the fun things that we can afford to do for and with Olivia because of my work. And the big fat college fund we will have for her some day. And the big fat retirement fund. And the awesome medical insurance. The ability to take vacations, and have girls day out, and whatever else we want to do.

Without worrying about money.

So, since you asked so nicely, I will tell you my opinion: it is only as bad as you make it.


**insert clever segue here**

Thank you for the sleep advice! Don't you fret - I plan a lengthy post of woe and heartache. And PHOTOS!
As soon as I load the 360 pictures on my camera onto the computer.
Olivia might be, like, 7 by then. But at least you will know what happened!

Need Sleep Advice

Warning: this post will suck and only serves the purpose of me asking for advice for Back Sleep Bootcamp starting tomorrow. I could have posted it earlier, but I am a busy whore.

Olivia is on Prevacid and hasn't had any reflux pain episodes in two weeks (YAY!). She is not comfortable in her car seat anymore - this morning I went in her room to find that she scooted her head all the way down by the butt part of the seat. And I was all "I'm totally the Mother of the Goddamned Year." She twists and fusses in the car seat now.

But for special added fun? She isn't a fan of sleeping flat, either. She will sleep on her side for an hour and a half, which is just fine for naps. But my ass does not want to get up every hour at night. I've gotten used to her sleeping through the night.

Here's what I need, Internet friends:

If you were in a similar situation - a carseat/bouncy/swing sleeper transitioning to side or back sleep, how did you handle it? If you have any advice or tips, I'd love to hear them. The Internet is always way smarter than I.

I am kind of following the Baby Whisperer method. We are still using shush pat, but if it doesn't work, I bust out my Happiest Baby on the Block moves. If she cries after she's laying down, I try to calm her in the crib and only pick her up if she is really upset. She is a stellar night sleeper - 11-12 hours every night - but her naps are kind of rocky. Some days good, some days bad.

I am off Thursday and Friday this week and am hoping to focus on the back/side sleep all weekend. Cold Turkey Carseatless, if you will.

Halp!


**Edited to add stuff**

The elevation of the mattress has been a colossal fail thus far. She is a wiggly sleeper and ends up scooting all the way down. We even have one of those little Snuggle Nest things, and she scoots down that, too.

I'm not opposed to belly sleep, but Olivia is. She hates being on her belly and since she's learned to roll over, she's all "screw this" and just rolls to her back. Believe me, I've tried, because she has great neck control.

I do not strap her in the carseat, because she requires a swaddle for sleep and that doesn't work. And why do the SwaddleMe's even have that butt hole? USELESS!

The Happiest Baby on the Block

This book could also be called: The Most Sane Mommy on the Block

Seriously? This book should be required reading before you are allowed to leave the hospital with a baby.

I'm pretty sure that I was vaguely aware that babies cried sometimes. That is, babies other than mine. My baybee was never going to cry. And if she did? I would need to just pick her up and that would calm her. Other people's babies cried and fussed all day and night, but not mine.

Anyways.

The reality is that I had no idea how to calm a baby. I had no idea that babies, after the first few weeks, need help calming and falling asleep. I didn't understand what people meant when they said that the first six weeks suck. It wasn't until I started referring to Olivia as an Asshole in casual conversation that I truly understood the suck that was the first six weeks.

I spent a lot of time rocking, bouncing, pacing the floors. Begging. Reasoning with my 5 week old...PLEASE JUST SLEEP, GAWD!

At the recommendation of my pediatrician, I turned to my best friend in the entire world: Google. The 5 S's search hooked me up with this:



I read the book in one day. I watched some You Tube videos of the method and some interviews with the author, Dr. Harvey Karp.
And then my life changed for the better.

Dr. Harvey Karp - Jennepper's Pick for Sexiest Man Alive



He does have nice teeth, doesn't he? I love him. Like fat kids love cake. More than that even.

The whole point of this book is to calm your fussy baby using The Five S's:
Swaddle
Side/Stomach
Shush
Swing
Suck

I'm sure that you've tried at least one or two of these with little to no success. ME TOOOO! But the thing is, you have to do it a certain way for it to work, and you pretty much have to do all of those things at once.

Let me describe it to you New Kids On The Block Style:

Step 1: We Can Have Lots of Fun!

Wrapped up like a delicious baby burrito, that is!
Your baby will scream at you like you are the Satan himself. Just keep going. Swaddle that screaming little shit, really really tight, and then move on to step 2.

We use the Swaddle Me blankets, because we need Velcro to keep Olivia in burrito prison. No matter how tight we swaddled a receiving blanket, screaming Houdini would bust free. Whatever you do? If you want sleep? Make that swaddle tight.

Step 2: There's So Much We Can Do!
While laying on our side/stomach!
After you strap your baby into its straight jacket, turn her over on her side - all the way on her side, almost so her belly is leaning forward. When Olivia was little, I could do this standing up using one arm. Now that she is a 10 pound heifer (ha!), I put my thighs together and lay her down with her butt against my belly and her legs on my side.

Step 3: It's Just You And Me

Or so your baby will think since you will now shush in her ear so loud that it's impossible for her to hear anything else! You shush as loud as she is crying. You get get softer as she calms down, but keep it up for as long as it takes for her to be completely calm for a significant period of time.

Step 4: I Can Give You More

So this lyric doesn't really follow the method, but too bad because I'm too far in to back out.
The next S is for Swing. Sway. Shake. Stuff like that. There are a few different ways to do this. You can calm the baby with swaddle, side, shush, then plop them in a swing on the fastest speed. Or you can shush and sway.

Or, my favorite, you can jiggle the baby's head. Really light and quick, like you had too much caffeine. Or, as Dr. Karp says, "like jell-o on a plate."
Now that you think I'm crazy, here's a YouTube video I found. And interview with Dr. Karp, where he demonstrates this entire thing...



Step 5: Don't You Know That The Time Has Arrived

For you to suck it!
Or, more accurately, for your baby to suck it.
Once you have the baby all calm and jell-o-on-a-plate-y, you can give them a pacifier, finger, or delightful nipple to suck on.

Here is another video that I found, and I thought these people were funny. Plus, they actually calm a crying baby, and not some well-behaved fame whore like on the talk show in the first video.



So. Do this.
Live it, love it, and dream about it when you actually GET SOME SLEEP.


The happiest baby on my block:

This post is brought to you by: obligation.

Or: In which I brain fart in your general direkshun.

Or: Things I was thinking about when Olivia woke up at 2:30, 3:30, and 4:30 a.m.

A wise man once said, "Happy Wife, Happy Life."

And I know what you're thinking - there's no such thing as a wise man.

But I read this book one time, and I bet you won't believe this, but in this book there were THREE wise men! In the same place at the same time!

And if you think that is crazy, get a load of this: these guys knew enough to get gifts when a baby was born!

Now, I'm not sure if the author(s) left the part out about how the wives of these three wise men actually did the shopping because seriously? Don't the women always have to do the shopping? Because I never see men in Bath and Body Works around Christmastime picking out hand soaps for their mothers. Or scouring the aisles at Target trying to find baby registry items.

(Seriously, Target? What is UP with your registry? It blows. And it pains me to say that because I love you, Target. I do. But your registry (and your return policy) blows a big fat fatty.)

Another possibility is that they knew they needed to bring gifts for the baby but didn't have time to shop, so they totally regifted at the last minute. "Hmmm...what should I bring? I have that old frankencense from Aunt Edith, I suppose I could just take that."

There are so many more believable things in this book, like a talking fire bush and a dude who lived inside a fish for three days.

But a man who brings baby gifts? I'm not buying that.

(It is quite possible that I will post a real, not ridiculous entry somewhat soon.)
(Possible but not definite.)

3 Months: Every Little Thing She Does is Magic

Three months.
Three of them.
Holy hell, my baybee is getting huge. YOOOUGE!

(OK, so she weighs 9.5 pounds and is 23 inches long. That is YOOOUGE to me.)



We decided to do pictures at 3, 6, 9, and 12 months. And while I would love to hire a fancy photographer, I can't justify paying that much money. So we went to Portrait Innovations.


Olivia was in a spectacular mood the day of her 3 month pictures. She spent the entire morning examining her "fancy" socks and smiling at everything I said to her.

I LOVE MY SOCKS!!!!!!! MY MOM IS HILARIOUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As you can imagine, I was very excited about the bevvy of smiles that morning, because pictures! Proof of baby glee!

Even though you can guess what happened, I will continue.

First of all, we got to our appointment ten minutes early. Then had to wait 45 minutes past our scheduled time. I spent the entire time making fun of one of the photographers because you could see a solid two inches of her buttcrack due to one serious sag. And then guess which photographer we got?

Yes. We got Cracky McButtcrackerson.

I was willing to forgive her for her butt crack transgressions. I mean, who hasn't sported the plumber crack at one time or another? So what if she leaves the house knowing that she will need to be bending and moving all day and still chooses to wear pants that show her butt crack? I am forgiving.

The shoot started off promising. Not quite a smile, but close. Maybe she just needs to get warmed up?


Cracky McButtcrackerson was wearing on my nerves. She was a total one trick pony. She kept making some weird noise in Olivia's face in an attempt to make her smile. This was totally not working. And instead of, you know, trying different things? As you would expect a child photographer to do? She just KEPT MAKING THE SAME NOISE.

That in itself was not the problem. The problem is that, since she couldn't make Olivia smile, she decided that Olivia was grumpy.

"Oh, grumpy baby! Just give me one smile! Come on, grumpy! *weird mouth noise* Wow, you are such a grumpy baby! Don't you know how to smile yet? *weird mouth noise* You are just like my niece, she is a little terror, too. *weird mouth noise*"

Nobody calls mah babybee grumpy. Especially after she was a perfect angel while we waited 45 minutes for this awesome shoot. And how she wasn't crying despite the ass crack she just witnessed, which is more than I can say for her parents.

At this point, I decided to try to make her smile.
It looks like I was vaguely amusing...


By the end of the shoot, Olivia was all: Done. Me and my jean skirt are out like the fat kid in dodgeball.

As soon as I picked her up from the pillow, she did about 10 huge smiles and then fell asleep.

Ah, well. I hated that lady, too, so I can't blame her.

At three months, Olivia is adorable (natch) and fun. Every single thing she does is a big huge colossal giant deal. Like no kid ever in the history of kids has ever done any of these things with such skill...

She grabs her toes? OMFG!

She swats at a toy? She is SO SMART!

She plays with her hands? Gimme the camera!

She coos and imitates our voices? She is going to talk in, like, a week!

She rolls over? Genius!

She is still a smile snob. You must adequately entertain her, and then sometimes after she smiles, she gets Very Serious and looks like she is judging you (she probably is).
Yesterday we were watching a Mr. T documentary (as sad as it sounds) and I repeated the T to Olivia: "Don't gimme no jibba jabba!" She found this to be hilarious.

Then, as if she realized that her mother is a flaming moron, she cocked one eyebrow and stared at me.

Get used to it, kid.

My child is a genius.

This morning, I was busy drinking coffee and tricking Olivia into tummy time by playing the Baby Einstein Baby Beethoven video.

It was a typical morning of trying on 50 things that don't fit and finally settling on a loose dress while shaking my fist at the heavens and cursing the deliciousness of mini Nilla wafers.
(Seriously. I must shove them in my face like a squirrel storing nuts.)

Olivia, apparently tired of the same routine, decided to go ahead and ROLL OVER!

Normal tummy time demeanor: I hate you with the fire of a thousand burning suns!!!

(But oh my god, look at those jeans. Look at them!)

Not even Baby Beethoven could keep her on her tummy today. I watched her get all worked up and hoist herself over onto her back, then smile like she conquered the world.

Post roll: I am smarter than you, and also? Wholeheartedly reject the idea of smiling for the camera.

Clearly destined for big things, mah baybee.

Dear 21 Year Old Metabolism,

I never appreciated you.

You were so kind. You always kept right on moving. Even when I drank alcohol 6 days a week sophomore year in college. And when I went to Taco Bell or Perkins for the Fourthmeal after the bar closed.

No, I never appreciated you. Not even when I was zipping up my teeny tiny Abercrombie jeans and cursing you for making me "fat."

It is really true that you never appreciate what you've got until it's gone.

A couple weeks ago, I was joking with a coworker about how I spend half of my day walking back and forth from the copier. And he said, "that's good - it will help you lose those couple extra pounds."

And I was all: seriously? And he was all: seriously.

Last week, I was wearing shorts and sitting cross legged on the floor while nibbling on Olivia's feet. And I got totally confused, because who put egg cartons on my legs? And why?

Then I realized. Cellulite. Like, scary cellulite. Like, will not be able to wear shorts in public places for fear of scaring small children.

Yesterday, I accidentally made a phone call with my thighs. They are evolving into a totally independent life form, capable of making phone calls and imitating thunder. God forbid I wear corduroys for fear of starting some unstoppable forest fire.

There is nothing like 29 year old post pregnancy metabolism to make a girl wax nostalgic over you, dear, sweet 21 year old metabolism. I find it hard to believe that I would still have such a problem with my Pizza Hut midsection if you were still around.

I sincerely miss you. Because hearing, "You look great," and "You look great...for just having a baby" are not on the same level of flattering, if you know what I mean.

Please, please come back. And bring your friends: 21 year old energy and 21 year old natural muscle tone. We could have so much fun together, eating whatever we want and just generally being smug.

I love you. I miss you. You have the nicest hair.

All My Heart,
Jennepper

Play Doh and Birth.

Read Part One here. Read Part Two Here.

The last time I woke up from my delicious drug-induced slumber, the room was very full of The Serious.

But.

I was completely unable to care because my body was very full of The Tired.

When I got past the paranoia that this pregnancy wouldn't result in an actual baby (around 25 weeks), I decided that I would be one of those women who goes past her due date. I like to think that these women are running a Ritz Carlton type uterus, and I fancied myself to be running just that sort of operation.



I figured I would go two weeks past my due date, then be induced. I'm not positive where such delusions came from. Probably because I was a bit hot and bothered thinking about two extra weeks of full-pay short term disability before my due date.



As it turns out, though, I was actually running the Motel 6 type of uterus. Just the type of place where prostitutes work and drug deals happen, or where sleazy men take their mistresses on their lunch breaks. And the longer my pregnancy went, the more I believed that medical professionals were calling Child Protective Services to remove my baby as soon as possible because I was clearly unfit to gestate any longer.



Laying in my hospital bed (higher than Snoop Dog), I fully expected to wake up to find that I had been cut open. The mood in the room was downright depressing.



Much to my surprise, I woke up at 6:45 a.m. to find that I was not cut open. I was actually 10 centimeters dilated and ready to push. No C-Section. No Drama. Just game time.



Since I was ready to push close to 7, it was shift change time. Buh-bye weird nurse! Hello Jill!



Jill was my new nurse, and she Meant Business. Being that I am generally incapable of bullshit, I always appreciate someone who doesn't dick around. Especially around my Lady Business. I do not tolerate dicking around near my Lady Business.



By 7:30, Jill had me all ready to go, and said, "It is 7:30. We will have this baby by 8."

I had no choice but to comply. She Meant Business.



At around the same time, my epidural pump thingamajiggy ran out. I asked for more, naturally. Before it came, I started to feel my contractions and that was just totally not fun at all. You people who choose to have no drugs? YOU BE CRAZY.



Luckily, I still couldn't feel anything below the belly button, so my legs and Lady Business were blissfully numb. And eventually I pulled my tongue out of the anaesthesiologist's ear long enough for him to refill my pump, making my contractions barely noticeable.



Now right here is where I reveal how clueless I am: I didn't know that you waited for your contractions to push. I guess I just thought you pushed all willy nilly whenever you felt like it? And so while Jill was inspecting my Lady Business, I mentioned to Mark that I could feel a contraction a little bit. And Jill was all YOU HAVE TO PUSH ASSHOLE!



(She didn't call me an asshole. She could have, though. I get it. I am one usually.)



Pushing was easy for me. And I know that someone out there had a 10 pound baby and is having a very deep belly laugh over my ignorance. But I didn't think it was that big of a deal. Jill watched my contractions on the monitor, told me when to push, told me when to ease up or push harder. Mark stayed near my face and tried to avoid the sight of blood and guts.



And poop.



Half way through pushing, Jill asked if I wanted to bring out the mirror. Something I had no interest in using. And for some reason I was possessed to say yes.



um...



If you don't like to hear about poop, then you'll be happy to scroll on down a few paragraphs past the following picture and never think about my poop again. But if you read this blog, then I bet you enjoy poop stories. And I would never want to deprive you of any oversharing about my private parts or bodily fluids.


My Poop Story: Let Me Tell You It.


It took Jill a few minutes to wrangle the mirror out of the storage room and wheel it over.

The first few seconds? Kind of cool. I could see the head, and it had hair, and I was totally not phased by the sheer size of my ever lovin' vag. I was OK with that. My Lady Business - she is a resilient thing.

But then. THEN. I made the mistake of shifting my gaze about an inch lower.

I figured there would be poop involved. As long as I didn't have to clean it up, I didn't care. If Mark happened to see it? That was his problem. Whatever. I had bigger things to worry about - what to have for dinner, brushing my teeth, holding my child, checking my email. A little poop was close to the last thing I cared about.

I didn't consider the possibility of seeing the poop when I agreed to the mirror. And I've had three months to think about how to properly describe the horror of the reflection I saw in The Mirror of Doom.



You know how you had Play-Doh when you were little? And after you ate enough to be full of its salty goodness, you wanted to actually make stuff with it? And for Christmas or your birthday, you got one of those machines that made it into shapes? Like this:

Let's say you were to move the blue thing over a notch, so it was on the round part. Then, you squished out some brown Play-Doh. THEN, you took a knife, and cut the string of Play-Doh off? And then all that would be left was a wall of brown Play-Doh ready to be squished out?

It was like that. Except, instead of Play-Doh and a fun colorful accesory, it was my butt and poop. All nice and neatly wiped off by my good nursefriend Jill and ready to continue squishing out on the next push.

So about twenty seconds after I looked in the mirror, I said, "Yeaaahhh...I've seen enough."

By that time, the doctors were there, those lazy bastards. The nurses do all the work, and the doctors come in and steal all the delivery glory. I was informed that I needed one more good push to finish the job...

At 7:57 a.m., Olivia Audrey became real, and not just some alien in my abdomen. Jill was right - we had that baby by 8.

As soon as she came out, she SCREAMED. Wholly dissatisfied with her eviction from her cozy Motel 6 room I suspect. Both doctors said at the same time, "OH! She's tiny!" Then to Mark, "Do you want to cut the..." interrupted by a loud and clear "NO." That is a big negatory on the cutting the cord thing.

My memory is a little fuzzy at this point because things happened really fast...

I sat up and looked between my knees and could see little feet flying around.

I remember thinking that it felt really weird to be able to bend at the waist without having a baby in my throat.

Someone asked Mark if he was OK, but I didn't look at him to see what was happening because I just kept waiting to see the baby's face.

And I was really nervous to see the baby, afraid that I would hold her wrong, or I would say the wrong thing, or have the wrong reaction.

I cracked some jokes about something that I can't recall.

And then she was on my chest, staring straight into my eyes, and screaming. And I was all, "Oh hai..." and "You have your daddy's chin!" I checked out her fingers, and her feet, and I kissed her forehead on a place that looked clean.

It felt like a really big moment - like I knew that every single thing would be different forever - but I couldn't get my mind all around it. Even writing about it now, I can see it in my mind like a photograph. I think it is one of those images I will never ever forget. No other moment at the hosptial sticks out to me like that very first time I met her.

To say that I felt like a mom right then would be a lie. I didn't really feel like she was mine. Holding her felt totally foreign.

I thought she was the most beautiful, perfect baby I had ever seen. I was amazed by every move she made - she was so tiny and so adorable. I was happy to finally have her here.

But mostly I felt awkward - there were doctors and nurses constantly hovering and checking and doing their jobs but being a total pain in my ass. And then she had to go under the lights for jaundice, and we barely got to see her. And breastfeeding was NOT going well, and I had to pump with something that they must have borrowed from a local dairy farmer.

I don't think it really felt "right" until after those first few days at home. And once we started to get to know each other, then I started to feel like I couldn't remember my life at all before Olivia. And I didn't want to. And all the fertility treatments and pregnancy problems seemed really trivial.

To finish up the birth info: I did end up with a second degree Lady Business tear. I believe the doctors exact words were, "You have a second degree tear that goes up into your vagina. It's going to hurt." And it was weird because Dr. Captain Obvious had forgotten his cape. Mark said he happened to catch a glimpse of things when he walked over to see Olivia, and it looked like there was red paint everywhere.

It took a couple hours for my epi to completely go away. I was deathly afraid to poop, but it wasn't bad at all (Colace = my best friend, forevah). I bled like someone tried to kill me via the vagina, and having ice packs between my legs was completely satisfying. Pain pills were consumed like candy when offered. Overall, my recovery was pretty easy.

That's it. I'm sure I forgot some things, but that is Olivia's birth story for the most part. Now she is three months old and is ripping through her 0-3 month clothes like The Incredible Hulk.

Mother's Day and Other Such Nonsense

Oh my god, let's just say it: I haven't written the rest of the birth story.

I have, however, found a photo that compares Play-Doh to poop in a wonderful, colorful illustration of just how very disgusting things can get while you are in labor.

While you are brimming with anticipation for that post, I will distract you with this one.

*Jazz Hands*

Because you know how sometimes? You sign a contract and say you will do something? For example - and this is purely hypothetical, of course - let's say you are contractually obligated to update your blog a certain amount of times per week, except your life is SO DREADFULLY BORING yet still RIDICULOUSLY BUSY? And then you don't update your blog? Then you get a reminder to update your goddamned blog already asshole?

Yeah. So here I am. Updating my goddamned blog.

*Jazz Hands*

(Because there will never, ever, be enough jazz hands. It's like Cow Bell.)

(Coincidentally, this is exactly what I am going to look like if I don't wax soon. It is very urgent, friends.)

So anyway. It's about to be Mother's Day. And one might expect me to find that Mother's Day is, like, totally awesome now that I have a squishy baybee.

Exhibit A: Squishy Baybee




Here is my Mothers Day post from last year. And lucky for you I was still blogging at Redbook then so you will be able to enjoy twice the amount of complaining!

You.are.welcome.

It is important to note that Asian Bird Flu was number one last year. May must be a boring month for the media? That they blow a new flu out of proportion every year? Come on - at least pick a new epidemic! The flu is so last year.

(May I suggest a topic: the staggering amount of morons who have babies every day and shouldn't, and how nobody cares because OHMYGOD OCTOMOM and JON AND KATE ARE BREAKING UP, STUPID INFERTILES!)

(I just read through this and I swear, I need to stay on topic. This is ridiculous with parenthesis and randomness. My most sincere apologies.)

OK. Mother's Day. Not really a fan. Just like I don't like Valentine's Day and Sweetest Day: They are just holidays that seem to be created for the purpose of selling cards, flowers and candy.

Call me crazy, but I'd rather get a nice gift or a surprise on a random day. Just to, oh...I don't know...celebrate my general fabulousness?

We will buy gifts for our moms. I will (gladly) take anything free from any restaurant because I have a dirty love affair with food. I will blow raspberries on Olivia's belly to make her smile so that we can get a good picture.

I won't be bitter like I was last year, and the year before. And the year before.

I will remember all my friends who don't get to mock mother's day, and who will probably stay at home and cry (or try not to). And I will keep my fingers crossed that you get some good news soon.

I won't ask every woman I see if they are a mother. Because you never know what someone is going through. And nothing is worse than having just gotten your period/having a failed fertility procedure/having a miscarriage and venturing out for some comfort food, just to be slapped in the face by a seemingly innocent question.

I will appreciate how lucky I am.

But I better get a good gift.
(I'm looking at you, Mark.)