There is a First Time for Everything

I just did something I have never done in my 33 years. I declined a legitimate job offer. The whole ordeal was a whirlwind and part of me is disgusted with myself for not jumping on the opportunity. The other part of me is patting myself on the back for going with my gut instead of my obnoxiously rational brain.

I’m trying to rationalize my decision: Its just not the right time. The baby needs me. Something doesn’t feel right. Who knows? Maybe I’m just terrified. Maybe I’m just lazy. Maybe I’m just not ready to commit to yet another thing. But really who turns down a job with a flexible schedule making more money than you asked for with a 5 minute commute time?  Who?

I do apparently. I promised myself when I left my last job, that the next job I take would be one I truly wanted and was excited about, This wasn’t it. I am fortunate that I do not have to work. So if and when I choose to return to the workplace, I want to feel “great” about it. I want the butterflies in my stomach to be from nervous excitement and not dread and doubt.

I will probably be kicking myself for a while. However when I take my girls to the beach next week or hang with my girlfriends by the pool on a weekday afternoon, I’m pretty sure I’ll be happy with my decision to say “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Plain Yogurt Sucks

About a month ago, a good friend, convinced me to participate in a 6 week Beach Body Makeover Challenge at a local gym. So for the past month, we have been working out, meeting with a personal trainer twice a week, and going to weekly nutritional counseling sessions.

Basically we paid for the privilege of having a super in shape twenty something yell at us and crack the whip as we lift weights and to have another food nazi/spin instructor take all the joy out of our meals.

The first thing the food nazi did was take away my flavored yogurt, proclaiming the evilness of artificial sweeteners. I was determined to have an open mind and try it because frankly I have a lot of weight to lose. Here’s the thing folks, plain yogurt is disgusting. I tried adding fruit. I added Truvia (the all natural no calorie sweetener). Plain yogurt still sucks.  I can accept the ban on fried foods, high caloric desserts and simple carbs. These things make sense. But nonfat, 80 calorie yogurt is evil? WTF?

Due to the lack of calories and raging hunger I clung to this one detail and let the rage motivate my workout. I have never punched a punching bag with so much fury and energy. I mean seriously I surprised myself. I was also ecstatic, that the cause of my hate and discontent was the food nazi and not my husband. Who in a strange turn of events has been nothing but supportive during this time. Well except for the initial outrage over the cost of this little experiment. Dieting makes me angry, but at least the anger is being directed somewhere productive.

Anyone have any natural diet friendly foods or recipes that they would like to share? I could uses some inspiration.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today is the 32nd anniversary of my birth. At least I think I turn 32 today. Maybe I should ask my mom. I was born in 1979, so yeah I’m pretty sure I’m 32. I’m not huge on celebrating my birthday, it’s just not a big deal to me. I don’t need a party and my love handles certainly don’t need a cake. However it does make me light up a little when someone wishes me a “Happy Birthday.” What happens when your 400 (Gross exaggeration) Facebook friends post on your wall? Well normal people are delighted. Lucky for you I’m not normal.

Facebook, twitter, and other social networking sites makes remembering and wishing someone a happy birthday virtually effortless. With every long-lost friend’s well wishes comes a little image from my memory. Mostly brief, mostly innocuous, but every once in a while you get a little flashback that makes you want to punch your younger self in the face or at the very least cringe with embarrassment.

So today I got a Facebook message from an old college friend wishing me a Happy Birthday and telling me how adorable my kids are. At first I smiled to myself and thought, “Oh how sweet.” Then I got an image of us being caught in a compromising position and how I was so horrified at who had caught us that I immediately sobered up. I don’t remember many details, but I do remember when I tried to call a cab, this old friend insisted on driving me home.

I never understood why people thought he was such a scumbag. He was always sweet to me.

Forever in our Hearts

A little while ago, I bought some new ornaments for our Christmas tree. I picked up a “Baby’s First Christmas” ornament for Little G. While I was at it, I had one inscribed in memory of Baby J. I just couldn’t let this Christmas go by without doing something to remember her.

The inevitable happened. My oldest daughter, Lady M, asked me about the ornament. I told her it was for Baby J and the she asked, “But who is that Mommy?” I asked her if she remembered that Mommy had two babies in her belly, but only Little G came home from the hospital.

Then Lady M asked me, “But why did she die?”

And I was silent. I could feel tears building up and my eyes started to burn. I was searching my brain for all the literature I had read about talking to your kids about death. Finally I just did what I always try to do which is to answer as honestly and as simply as possible.

“When there is more than one baby in a Mommy’s belly, ” I told her, “it can be dangerous and sometimes the babies don’t make it.”

M just sort of nodded. I offered to show her a picture of Baby J. M kindly declined the offer and then asked for a snack.

Preschool Curriculum Night

I discovered some things about Lady M tonight. Like a lot of children when asked about her day at school she either says, “It was good” or “I don’t remember.” On school days, she has me drop her off at car pool and never wants me to walk her inside.

According to her teacher, she is super social and loves to participate.  I was happy to learn that since I honestly had no idea what those children did all morning other than recess and snack time. So why is it that my well-adjusted kid who can’t sit still at home or keep her yap shut bother to give me some details about her day?

Well, remember how the months before your wedding you were trying to figure out how all of those different people were going to get along and terrified that your college roommate would tell your grandma all about how you really met your husband. (We met at a bar, ok? It was happy hour and the details are fuzzy). Well I carry that phobia in my daily life and apparently so does Lady M.

So what I figure is that much like my husband and I, Lady M prefers to keep her life spheres separate. She would prefer it if her worlds did not collide. Can’t say I blame her. I guess I will just have to get my info elsewhere.

The Dairy is Closed

A few nights ago I was nursing Little G before bedtime as I always do. That little bundle of joy bit into my nipple so hard I actually yelped. I was unaware that I could make that noise. I instantly reprimanded her, which does no good because she is 10 months old and what does she know. She has bit me before but never like this. We got back to business and she bit me again. Something inside of me snapped.

I stuck her in the baby cage crib, marched downstairs and fixed her a bottle of formula.  I had tried to supplement with bottles before and failed many many times. I had recently resigned myself to the fact that I would nurse Little G until I could start giving her cow’s milk after her first birthday. 

I handed my husband the bottle of formula, wished him luck, and hopped in the shower. No surprises, he failed. I went back in there, feeling refreshed. I picked her up out of the crib, sat in the rocking chair, and began to sing Mike Posner craptacular single, “Baby Please Don’t Go.” When Little G calmed down, she drank the formula and then asked (well she had a temper tantrum) for more. Finally.

We woke up the next morning and I fixed her another bottle. She took it instantly. To be honest I was expecting more of a fight. I never intended to wean Little G cold turkey. But then I thought, “What if once she nursed again, she refused a bottle again?” I couldn’t take the chance. And so for the last three days, my breast-fed baby is now drinking formula.

Here’s the thing though. My body hasn’t gotten the memo and I am beyond engorged. You’re welcome. I know you needed the visual. It hurts to move and I am so sensitive to the touch that hugging and holding my children brings tears (of pain, not joy) to my eyes

Since I can no longer complain about what a drag nursing on demand is, I can now move on to bitching about washing baby bottles. It’s all about progress people.

Well at Least I Did It

I am in a whole lot of pain right now. My shoulders, wrists, quads, glutes, and just about everything else hurts. 

“What on earth did you do to yourself this time?”

Well I’m glad you asked. I ran the Great Bay 5k yesterday. After all that training, and then the laziness, I bit the bullet and registered a few weeks ago. The date snuck up on me and I had a momentary panic attack Friday night.  Then I took a deep breath, cracked open a beer, and said to hell with it.

I woke up Saturday morning and looked out my window. As advertised, the starting line was right in front of my house. Realizing how crappy it would be to back out. I got up, fed everyone breakfast, got dressed, and pinned my number on. (Did you know they called those bibs? Well now you know.)

I went out about 5 minutes before the start time. On the way out the door, I asked Lady M if she wanted to come out on the porch and cheer for Mommy and the other runners. She said, “No thanks, I’m going to watch PBS Kids.” Well then

 There were 1000 participants of all ages, shapes, sizes, and fitness levels. The race got going and I had to resist the urge to try to keep up with the real runners. As we rounded the first corner, more and more people passed me by. The octogenarian, the family (including a little boy who couldn’t have been more than 8 years old) dressed like the Incredibles, countless parents with jogging strollers and several competitive walkers passed me by.

I was starting to feel sorry for myself. I mean I knew I was slow, but damn. Then we hit the mile mark and the clock read 12:58. I ran the first mile in 13 minutes. I realize that this is by no means competitive, but it is still faster than I ran in high school, so I was quite pleased.

I finished the race in 41 minutes and change.  There were still people behind me. SUCCESS.

To Be or Not To Be

Have you heard the term, “Helicopter Mom?” The term refers to those moms who constantly hover over their children in every setting. I am not one of those moms. You could call what I do “Lazy Parenting.” I like to think that I am giving my children is the gift of independence.

Last week during Lady M’s cooking class, while the future culinary geniuses were waiting for their creations to finish baking,  Lady M decided to take a potty break. The other kids were playing in the play area and the adults were sitting around chatting.  Another Mom taps me on the shoulder and says to me, “You might want to go check on your daughter, I think she’s having trouble in the bathroom.”

I, of course, jump up and run to the restroom. This is where my True Mom Confession rolls in. I ran because I didn’t want the other moms to think I didn’t care, not because I was concerned. Lady M has been toilet trained for -oh I don’t know- forever. Ok almost three years and as long as the toilets don’t automatically flush she is just fine on her own.

I walked in there and asked if she needed help. She asked me why everyone kept asking her that and she was just washing her hands. Apparently the other mom kept checking on her because she had been in there awhile. The poor girl was just trying to “go” to the bathroom if you catch my drift and she couldn’t because people kept interrupting.

My eldest daughter has a mean independent streak. She wants to do everything herself and is successful most of the time. When I take her to school she prefers to be dropped off at carpool and met by her teacher rather than have me park and walk her in. She doesn’t need or want me to hover.

I know this. I respect this. Most of all I am grateful for it.  So why is it that I feel judged by helicopter moms when I am not all up in my daughter’s face all the time?

How Little G Came to Be (The Final Chapter)

The local hospital was a community hospital and therefore did not have a Level 3 NICU. It was really important to me and my doctor that I not be separated from my baby so she thought it best to transfer me to the big hospital in San Francisco.  They sent a helicopter and a transport team for us. The team strapped me into the gurney, had me sign some papers, and after reviewing vitals and test results decided that transporting us was topo risky. He was concerned that the flight would be too long and stressful and having already lost one baby, they didn’t want to risk it. They unstrapped me, threw me back in the hospital bed and hooked me back up to all the monitors. It was time for Plan B.

Baby B had to be delivered and soon. They would have to perform the C-section there and then transfer the baby to another hospital with a better equipped NICU. Knowing that I wanted to stay with my baby, my doctor started calling in favors. A colleague who ended up assisting during the delivery was able to arrange for the aptly named Good Samaritan Hospital in San Jose to admit me as a post op patient, so that I could recover from the Caesarian in the same hospital that would be treating my little girl.

They wheeled me into the O.R. The crazy anesthesiologist did his thing and two teams of medical professionals were on hand, one team per baby. They delivered Baby A first. The silence upon her emergence was deafening. We named her Jayden Veronica. She is the only one of our children with a middle name.

Baby B was next and as Little G was yanked out, she let out the loudest shrillest scream ever. The relief in the room was palpable. My doctor cracked the first smile of the day. After a quick once over, they let me hold her, but just long enough for a picture. They took her into the nursery to prep for transport and started the closing process. It seemed to take forever because it did. Those stitches were meticulous. In fact every nurse and doctor who came in over the next few days to do a suture check commented on the beauty of them. It was like that was the only thing she could do to help take some of the pain of loss away from the day or at the very least not add to it.

The transport team came for the baby. They needed to take her right away, She was severely anemic and would need a blood transfusion. That night Little G took her first helicopter ride.

While I was coming down off of the spinal and waiting for my ambulance, my husband and I got to spend time with our second born daughter. We used that time to say hello and goodbye to Baby J. Her features were perfect. She was so small and had a full head of hair. If I didn’t know better I would have thought she was sleeping. I held on tight to her and told her how sorry I was and how much we would all miss her. Then I began to notice how cold she was and I felt the hole in my heart grow bigger. I sent my husband home to get Lady M who was spending time with some friends. My parents were flying the next morning.

I was moved to the other hospital to meet up with Little G. It was a rough night of no sleep, infiltrated IVs and whole lot of people trying to tell me how to mourn. I figured out that there is no polite way of telling people to “eff” off. I could mourn later. Right now I had a baby that needed me desperately and a confused little girl whose mommy didn’t come home. And so I plowed through. WHat else could I possibly do.

The next few weeks were brutal, but that’s a whole other story.

How Little G Came to Be (Part 2)

Unlike the first time around I was now back at work full-time. I also had a preschooler to contend with. Added bonus, thanks to my high risk status I was getting ultrasounds every 2 weeks by a perinatalogist. 

Because of all the extra appointments, I had to come clean with my employer much earlier than I normally would have. My boss was very supportive and accommodating even after I told him that I would not be returning to work after I had the babies.

I was tired,achy and miserable. Every symptom came earlier than it was supposed to (at least in my mind). I was experiencing Braxton hicks contractions freakishly early. All of my concerns on the matter were explained away. “You’re pregnant with twins. Things are different.” I developed gestational diabetes. That was fun.

Despite that hiccup and all the aches, pains, and nuisances the girls were doing beautifully. At about 30 weeks we started doing non-stress tests. Twice a week I was hooked up to heart monitors in a hospital bed and the twins’ heartbeats were monitored to ensure that they weren’t in distress.

One friday morning I had my checkup. My OBGYN did the usual quickie ultrasound. As she was looking around, all the color left her face and I knew. I knew that my worst nightmare was about to be realized. I knew that all the fears I had and the horrid things I read on the interwebs were happening right at that moment.

“Baby A,” she said, “has died. She has no heartbeat.” I just stared at her and my exact words were, “I have no idea what to with that information.”  After consulting with some colleagues, my OBGYN decided to monitor Baby B and see if she was strong enough to wait. If possible she wanted me to carry the other baby as along as I could. After finding a sitter for Lady M, hubby drove me to the hospital. After some tests, it was clear that Little G was in distress. It was clear that I would have to deliver that day. The question was, “Where?”

to be continued…