You know what? I loved my epidural

I've often described BG's birth as really easy. And it was. Except for the part where we couldn't figure out how to get to the hospital because the tunnel was closed for construction. And the part where I had to wait in triage for an hour to be checked because all the doctors were in surgery, and turned out to be 8 cm already by the time anyone checked. And the part where DH almost passed out because the nurse-anesthetist couldn't get my epidural in. And the part where I had to push for 2 hours (2 HOURS PEOPLE). And the little meconium problem.

But really, I still consider it an easy birth.

The thing is, by the time they got me in a labor room (and boy, did they move fast once they realized I was already 8 cm), I was in a lot of pain. And I was scared. And I was stressed. I had been tensing up for 3 hours because I was sure that a baby was about ready to fall out of me.

The nurse asked me if I still wanted the epidural even though I was so close.

"I think so, yes," I said in my timid, polite voice.

"You think so? Or yes?"

"Yes, Yes, please."

The nurse anesthetist said she could put in a combo epidural - spinal block, and I thought she was the nicest person I had ever met. After the little incident with the nurses having to get my husband a chair and some smelling salts, I suddenly felt myself able to relax.

The nurse laughed. "Ah, good. Those are real smiles. Those other ones were fake, huh?"

The resident said, "Just let her relax and enjoy her epidural for an hour or so, and then come back." In retrospect, had I listened to that instruction, I might have had a much better time with what followed. But that's okay, you live and learn.

At the time, I remember thinking that I had no regrets about the decision. I know that the pushing would have gone faster without it. But that feeling of calm I got when suddenly I didn't hurt anymore? I wouldn't have given that away for anything.

Here, now, a year later, I second guess myself. I wonder if I could have done without it. If I should have been able to. If I was weak. I hear stories about heroic births and I wonder if I've come up on the wrong side of this issue.

But, no. Labor isn't a time to prove how tough you are. I was happy with my birth experience and thrilled with the outcome. I didn't do a thing wrong. And maybe the decision next time will be different. But if it isn't? That's okay too.

And then the pancakes stuck (or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the pancakes)

So, I've been struggling again lately with a lot of anxiety. My thoughts race and I can't concentrate and I start to feel helpless.

It's frustrating because I feel like I can't focus and so can't do the kind of meaningful work I'd like to do. It's disappointing because I thought I was past this and don't want to feel like this again. It's scary because I can't control it and I worry that it's just going to be like this forever.

I spent the past 2 days trying to do everything right. I slept. I ate. I exercised. I went out. Yesterday, I met someone for coffee, did an exercise video, cleaned my bathroom, went for a walk with the baby, danced, played, ate salad for lunch, took my vitamins and fish oil, distracted myself with crossword puzzles and massive quantities of Sporcle. I read and did every anxiety tip I could find, and at the end of the day I just felt angry. And tired. And my butt hurt.

This morning, I decided to give myself grace. I stayed in my pajamas. And I made pancakes.

Except I forgot to grease the griddle and the pancakes stuck. Behold the string of irrational thoughts.

• "This is so unfair. Why do these things always happen to me? Nothing ever goes right."
  
• "I'm such an idiot. I can't believe I forgot to grease that. I always do stuff like that."
  
• (Watch how the irrational thoughts come the target of the irrational thoughts. "Oh my gosh, I'm so whiny. And irrational. The pancakes are just stuck. Everything in my life is so good, I can't believe I'm complaining about this."
  
• (For my next trick, I will beat myself up for beating myself up.)"Oh my gosh, it's no wonder I'm depressed and anxious. I keep trashing myself. I'm such an idiot."
  
  

Pause
Or. The pancakes stuck. I have to scrape them off. They aren't pretty. They still taste okay. It's frustrating that I have to clean this all off the pan now. Of course it is.

Let's eat pancakes.

Check out where I am today

If you know me, you know I'm not good at bragging or taking credit when something good happens.  So I'm going to just try to get this all out at once.

OMGoneofmypostswascuratedonBlogHertodaysqueeeeee.

Ahem.

Go ahead on over and check out the snippet on BlogHer.   Love and glitter are always welcome.  Mostly love.

If it's your first time here?  Some of my favorite posts:

On Momnesia
On why my love is enough
My letter to PR companies
A translation guide for husbands.

Say hi and stay a  while.  I'll make the tea.  You are always, always welcome.

Those mean ol' library moms

The first activity BG and I ever went to was Baby Book Nook at our local library. She was about 8 months old, and I thought it was a Godsend.  Every Wednesday morning, a 20 minute story time targeted directly at 0-2 year olds?  She would be stimulated, entertained, and educated; I might even make friends.   Ahem.

The first time I went, I was kind of disappointed.  The librarian did a nice job, but most of the kids were older. BG didn't care about it much.  But the worst thing?  The moms were cliquey.  No one talked to me.

I was sure it was just because I had never been there before.  They just needed time to get used to me.  So I started going every week.  I got upset when I missed one because I thought that would set me back.  Even when we started swimming lessons on Wednesday mornings, I tried to go to both.  Over time, they started to nod at me when I came in.  I thought my heart would explode with joy.

Then I found my MOM's Club.  I liked them.  I went to playgroups, and sometimes that meant I missed story time.  Then we started traveling.  I missed more. Soon I hadn't gone to story time in months.

This morning, I looked at my calendar and decided to go to the library.  The way I remembered it, it was lovely.  It was another place I belonged.

Except when I walked in the door, those mommies looked at me like they'd never seen me before.   It hadn't been that long.  I remembered them.

BG sat on the floor like the good girl she is.  She stared blankly while we sang "If you're happy and you know it."  She only half smiled when I tickled her.

Then, during free play time at the end, she stood up and walked straight out the door of the meeting room.  She paused to see the fish, checked the bookshelves, then walked to the elevator. 

I hear you, sweetie.

Sleep is for the weak, blah blah blah

My 16 month old was awake from 1:00-3:30 AM last night. As she was the three nights before that.

My brain is turning into mush.

Today I managed to get her to snuggle in bed with me and sleep from 7-10 AM, so I got a little sleep. I was rewarded for my efforts by a baby who didn't think she needed a nap (she did), a hangover-like headache that lasted all day, and a nightmarish bedtime.

It's getting to the point where I would chew my own arm off to get a good night's sleep.

I know that this will pass. I know that every baby sleeps eventually. I know that I will miss the snuggles, that I should enjoy the time when she's little, that it's a brief brief moment in our life together.

But if someone tells me that one more time I may rip her head off.

I'm grouchy. I'm weepy. I'm miserable to be around. I'm completely unproductive and useless as a member of society.

I want to stomp my foot and proclaim to the world that it's JUST NOT FAIR.

I know I'm being ridiculous.

I know I will get through this.

But that doesn't mean I have to do it gracefully.

Time

I have a time problem. Two actually.

I don't have enough time to do everything.

And I don't have enough things to do with my time.

Wait, what?

When my husband gets home from work at night, he often asks me why I didn't take a nap. (Particularly when I was up all night the night before. Like I have been for a week now.) I tell him I didn't have time. He thinks that's ridiculous.

"Well, she only takes one nap now. That's only two hours."

"So, sleep for two hours."

"Well, then how am I supposed to clean? And make myself presentable? And eat?"

"Umm, put her in her high chair or playyard. (Didn't we cover this before?)"

And I get unbelievable irked. Does he have no idea what it's like being home with a toddler alone for 11 hours? Does he really believe that in those 11 hours I have time to take care of her, keep the house in decent shape AND take care of me?

Except, I think I probably do.

My days home with the toddler consist of a lot of chasing her around and stopping her from pulling things over on her head. While having my computer to twitter nearby to keep me from going absolutely stir crazy from the boredom and tedium of it. A task which twitter only minimally fulfills. 11 hours is a long time.

Is BG okay with just wandering around the house, opening drawers and flipping over trashcans all day? Probably. Although I'm sure she'd rather do something else once in a while. But for me? It's not enough. Not nearly enough.

I want to read and to write and to run. I want to take a nap during the day when I'm tired. I want to go for walks in my neighborhood, and go to playgroups and classes. I want to keep a nice house and cook and bake. I guess I probably can't do all of the above every day, but most days I don't do any of it. And it makes me feel like a failure.

When I think of what I can do in a day, somehow I only think of the two hours of naptime. I think that I need to fit all my working, playing, and sleeping into two hours of the day. So most days I make a choice, and as soon as she wakes up I regret it. "Oh, I should have slept. Now I don't have any energy to chase her." "Oh, I should have cleaned. I should have written." Some days? A nap will go by and I won't even have done a thing because I'm so tired or so overwhelmed as to be paralyzed.

Two hours a day isn't enough.

I need to reclaim the other 9.

BHBC: Why Women Need Fat

I just finished reading William Lassek and Steven Gaulin’s book Why Women Need Fat (which my husband thought for a long time was called Why women need TO BE Fat, but that’s a different discussion). I have to say, I didn’t expect to be nearly as fascinated by it as I was.

It looked to me like it was going to be just another diet book, suggesting that we overhaul the way we eat in order to lose weight, but instead it was a carefully researched work of scientific and social commentary on the role of fat in our bodies and in our culture.

The basic premise of the book is that, due to a fear of cholesterol and heart disease that arose in the 1950’s, our diets have been overrun by vegetable oils. These oils contain Omega 6 fats, which were thought to be better for us than the saturated fats found in animal products. However, what has shown to be true instead is that these fats have replaced the MORE healthy Omega 3 fats, which are particularly important to women because of the additional requirements for these fats during pregnancy and lactation.

One of the most interesting ideas in the book for me was the idea that young women store these Omega 3 fats in their hips for years before they have their first baby, then run through these stores during late pregnancy and nursing. I’ve been taking a fish oil capsule sporadically, both for my nursling’s little brain and because I’ve read that it helps with depression, but knowing that my own stores are being rapidly depleted makes me want to be more diligent about it.

The book contains suggestions on how to use these findings to your advantage in terms of weight loss, but to me that wasn’t nearly as interesting as the findings themselves.

Disclosure: I was provided with a copy of this book to facilitate my review and am being compensated for my participation in this campaign. All opinions are my own.