18 months

Last May, Maggie Mason of the Mighty Empire wrote a little something that hit me like a ton of bricks. Not the kind of bricks that knock you flat on your ass but the kind of bricks that destroy the old way of thinking in order to make room for something better. In those few powerful sentences, Maggie made it all ok.

Well ladies, this is how long it took me to take off all the baby weight.
Sixteen months. I did not wear my jeans out of the hospital, I did not lose the
“fat face” the minute I gave birth, I was not able to eat whatever I wanted just
because I was breast feeding, and I could not climb back on a tread mill right
after Hank was born. I needed quite a while to heal.

To a certain extent, I feel like I had resigned myself to the idea that I would never return to my old body...never return to that magic number. I've seen so many friends swell with pregnancy and then shrink. All of this took effort, certainly, but not the kind of effort it seemed to require of me (I wrote about it here). Since moving into this house 4 months ago, I've weighed myself only once. The scale was banished from my presence until this morning. I got on three times just to make sure it was true.

18 months. That is how long it took me to take off all the baby weight.

You'd think I would be happier...the victor in the battle of the baby weight bulge, but somehow I am still sad. I'm sad because it shouldn't matter, either way. I'm sad because there are women reading this...at this very second...who are struggling to find comfort in their postpartum body. I can't help but feel a collective pain with those women. Yes, I hit the magic number, but my body has changed. It is an overwhelming experience, especially for people who have endured long and courageous struggles with weight, body image, and sometimes very serious eating disorders.

But even as I struggle under that enormous strain, I remember what Maggie Mason said, "Good job making that baby, girl!" And then I wake up next to my loving, handsome, supportive husband and curl up for one last snuggle before we start the day. And before I head out the door for work, I listen to Eva tell me a story about her latest adventure with nanny Anna and Elmo. And somehow, my world seems just as it should be.

Such sweet madness from Stephanie Hatzenbuehler on Vimeo.

One year ago

A labor story

I woke up Sunday morning in a fog of exhaustion, the sort that feels like the flu. I was achy and tired and very much wanted to spend the rest of the day wrapped up on the couch. My doula, Linsday, called with plans for us to walk around Mackworth Island, something she did the morning she went into labor with her daughter. So we walked and I felt more refreshed, more energized, and a whole hell of a lot less grumpy (which still made me about as pleasant as an enema of lemon juice). We went back to her house where I got a call from my mother the prude informing us that her plane would arrive in Portland at 6:15pm. I told her I was in labor as a joke like I'd done about 4,ooo times before. She giggled and we made plans to go for another walk after she arrived. Ferris and I spent another few hours hanging out in the park with our friends and then went home to rest.

5:00pm: Back on the couch and watching last week's Grey's Anatomy.

5:10pm: I feel a pop in my lower belly which feels like a really huge fart bubble trying to make its way through a really small tube. I get a small cramp, look at Ferris, and we decide I might have a serious gas issue. What's new? I get up from the couch, take a few steps, and start to leak slowly, then not so slowly. My water has broken! Sweet. Lots of dancing and screaming and running into the bathroom to shave my legs.

5:45pm: All important personnel have been notified and we prepare to head to the hospital. We make a note that the water leaking from my business is a strange green color, indicating meconium (baby poop). Not a huge deal, but not so pleasant to think that my baby had taken a huge dump in my belly.

6:30pm: I'm all strapped in and ready to go. Ferris runs to the airport to get my mom who refuses to trust that I am at the hospital. Perfect timing, Grandma. They arrive at the hospital just as cramps become contractions. Lindsay (doula) and Kitty (MD) walk me around the hospital where I stop periodically to ride the waves which feel like strong period cramps.

7:30pm: Back in the room and starting to dilate. Contractions getting stronger. Decide to get in the tub. Loved the tub for about 30 minutes until I could no longer manage the pain. The waves come faster and with wicked fury. I stand on the side of the bed where I sway and squat to manage the pain.

12:00am: The contractions are no longer manageable. We all do our best to cope, which looked like me flopped over the side of the bed, Lindsay rubbing and moaning with me, and Ferris rubbing my butt. That's right, and it feels good. I start to feel like I'm losing control. I get checked, 8 cm. I made it to transition with only 2cm to go, but I can't manage the pain so I ask for an epidural. Epidural comes, and I am satisfied with my work. I went as far as I could go and knew I needed some help. Time for all of us to rest.

2:00am: I am fully dilated. Hooray! Kitty decides to wait one more hour to let the baby descend before pushing.

3:00am: Start to push. Love it. Can't get enough of it.

4:00am: Still pushing. Very little progress. Amp up the pitocin and turn down the epidural.

5:00am: Feeling more pain and trying to use it. Doctors keep leaving the room to conference. The baby is up-side-down and must turn or I will need a c-section. I find some deep well of courage and refuse to stop until I've given 150%.

5:30am: I stand on the bed and squat. I grunt. I get on all fours and push like I'm taking the biggest poop of my life. I sway and moan and call up every bit of strength I can muster. My mother the prude leaves the room to say a prayer. The baby turns. The doctors are relieved. I am in pain and start to throw up.

6:00am: Laying completely on my left side with Ferris holding my left leg and Lindsay holding my right, we start pushing with unimaginable intensity and momentum. The baby doesn't want to come, but we are all determined. Everyone cheers me on. I continue to push and scream and grunt. I am in pain. I am tired. I will bring this baby into the world, so help me.

6:41am: She is born.

Eva is taken away by special baby doctors who stick tubes down her throat and nose to get the poop out before she takes her first breath. She is marinated in her own poop, covered from head to toe. How appropriate for a daughter of mine. I hear her whimper, then cry. She is well and soon in my arms. Her father is immediately by my side with tears streaming down his face. It is the first time I've seen him cry. Two have become three.

Quickly becoming professionals at the waiting

Update: Continued prodromal (not real) contractions which have now started to chip away at my ribs making it nearly impossible to sleep, sit, stand, sneeze, breathe, etc. Not cool. More real contractions, on and off, with an emphasis on the off. My mother the prude is arriving tomorrow, which I'm actually looking forward to. Ultrasound testing on Monday morning where my mother the prude plans to bribe the tech into telling her the gender of the baby. If there are any problems within my 5 star uterus, immediate induction. If everything is still ok, scheduled induction for Tuesday night. I'll write much more later about how fun it was to make that decision.

Meanwhile, I thought it would be fun to take a closer look into the wonder that will be my child's genetics. We're all looking forward to making fun of his/her really, really bad hair. Poor kid doesn't stand a chance.

You know he's a great husband when...

He understands the extent to which his farts have the ability to send you into some kind of toxic shock, so he wakes up several times during the night to leave the room when he needs to...um...get the job done. True love.