Pregnancy

Always Kiss Your Momma

October 8, 2019

by iwanteditall@gmail.com 1 Comment

The day Alexander was born I became a “boy mom.” (Although to be honest, I was always annoyed by the phrases “boy mom” and “girl mom” as if that made any difference to parenting. Moms with girls could have rough and tumble little girls who preferred mud pies over Easy Bake ovens; Moms with boys could have soft spoken little boys who carried a baby doll instead of Spiderman). Nonetheless, when Xander was born we unofficially met our gender quota and could relax in knowing that we would no longer be asked the intrusive question “are you going to try for a boy?”

After the delivery of each child I would stare at my sweet newborn’s face and marvel how something could fit so perfectly into my heart despite only arriving a mere hour ago. I would gently rock the new love of my life, pray obsessively over their little body and make promises that I hoped I would never break.

“Dear God thank you for this miracle that you have given us. Please help guide me to be the mother that this child deserves.”

As I kissed his sweet face I whispered, “I promise to nurture you in every way that I can. I promise to guide you as your grow into the incredible person I know you will become. I can’t promise that you will always be happy and I guarantee you will have your heart broken throughout your life, but I can promise that I will always be there for you. I promise to love you for who you are, not who I want you to be. I promise to let you make your own mistakes and choices, even when it is not what I would choose for you. I will teach you strength, compassion, truth and empathy. I promise to teach you manners, how to be respectful, how to treat girls-especially your sisters and momma….”

I remember pausing at that moment, alone with him in the middle of the night, and realizing that I would forever be the first woman he loved. For some reason it seemed more pivotal than it did with my girls. I knew that for the first few years of his life the sun would rise and set with me and as a pre-schooler he would announce “when I grow up I’m going to marry Momma.” I also knew that as the years passed this would fade and he would eventually grow to become someones boyfriend, fiancé and (God-willing) husband.

Post-delivery hospital memories are usually a blurry dream-like state for me, but this is a memory I have managed to keep clear in my mind. As tears welled in my tired eyes I made one more promise to Alexander,

“I promise to remind you to always kiss your momma.”

I realized that for the first eighteen-ish years of his life, he would need me to reassure him of my unending love for him. But as he grew and I began to feel the stinging pull of my baby boy leaving? I may be the one who needed the reassurance.

To this day, if you ask Alexander ‘what is the number one rule in this house?” He will respond with a toothless giggle, “always kiss your momma.”

It’s a ‘rule’ we practice nightly as I tuck him into bed. Still young enough to need a nightlight and his ‘Buddy’ blanket, but old enough to no longer need his mom’s lullabies and rocking chair cuddles, he will declare “always kiss your momma” before each goodnight kiss. Some nights I’ll tease him and ask “what about when you are in 3rd grade, 4th grade or 5th grade?” He will smile and say “Ill still always kiss my momma.”

“What about when you have a girlfriend?”
“Eww! I’ll still kiss my momma!”

As he leaves for school, his backpack bounces when he runs back to me on the front porch. The bus comes to a stop in front of our house and he gladly make his school mates wait as he says “I didn’t forget mom. Always kiss your momma.”

When I leave for work in the morning, I am frazzled and balancing my planner and coffee in one hand, quickly shelling out hugs, kisses and ‘you’re going to do great on your test today’ affirmations. Alexander reminds me “hey! Always kiss your momma!”

I’m not naive and I know it may not always be this easy. Someday his friends will be hangin’ around and he will be embarrassed. As a teenager he will inevitably ‘hate’ me for one reason or another and may refuse to show any form of affection as a means of retaliation (and I will have to try my damnedest to not let him know how much it hurts me). He may have an adoring girlfriend and reserve all of his affections for her. It will be during those years that I will fondly remember the memories we are creating today; the way he holds my face in his little hands, the way he giggles and the way he proudly and openly declares his love for his momma.

Someday the lap sitting, cuddles and calling me “momma” will fade into high fives and ‘hey mom”. He will likely stand taller than me, his voice will grow deep and his face will be rough with stubble while I look back and fondly remember the memories of today.

A mother’s love never dies, nor does the love a child has for his mother and I think it is important that we teach children to not be ashamed to show this love. I think as parents it should be our mission to show children, especially young boys, that affection is not a sign of weakness nor is love something that you should be ashamed of or kept hidden.

Even though this tradition began the day Xander was born, nowadays all four of my children happily follow this family “rule.” Every night I thank God for gifting me these children and my love for them does not change based on their gender. I am both a “girl mom” and a “boy mom” and I wear these badges with honor. I continue to ask for God’s guidance as I strive everyday to be the mother that they deserve. I am sure that some days I fall incredibly short of being a perfect mother, but I pray that my children never doubt my love for them and that they never stop kissing their momma.

Motherhood - Pregnancy

B- Pregnant Woman

April 7, 2013

by iwanteditall@gmail.com 0 Comments

We’ve all seen them. The man-bashing cartoons indicating that women handle sickness and illness better then men; the jokes that imply that women continue about their day regardless of their stuffy misery while men whine and whimper about a sniffle. While I’d like to say that I follow this stereotype, I am far from it. I may continue to work but rest assured, everyone will know how miserable I am.

My husband can attest to it.

Seven days of coughing, nasal congestion, and headaches is bad enough for my husband as I whimper my way through the virus. Imagine the whining my husband endures with nine months of pregnancy.

It isn’t pretty.

As of today I am 38 weeks pregnant with our third child. Our jolly green giant child. A large baby who is measuring nine pounds of chubby goodness that dances his/her way through the night, pushing on every nerve, bone, and internal organ, demanding more room. To say I am ready to meet this little one precious baby is an understatement. MJ has come home several times in the past two weeks to find me sitting uncomfortably on the couch, tears in my eyes, babbling “please make him/her come out.”

And he tries to comfort me, but after nine months of my complaints, it isn’t an easy task. The other day I found myself apologizing to him. I told him how sorry I am that he got jipped, that some husbands reap the benefits of a pregnant wife: the cooking and baking, the bigger boobs, the increased sex drive and he got none of that. Being the sweet man that he is, he just smiled and continued to rub my terribly swollen feet… but he didn’t deny anything either. It was then that I realized that I may not be the worst pregnant woman, but I’m most certainly not the best.

If given the ability to grade myself, at best, I’d say I’m a B- pregnant woman… for these reasons:

1. Morning sickness- most woman keep quiet about their pregnancy until they are over the 12 week/first trimester hump for fear of spilling the beans too soon. I, on the other hand, need those weeks to complain, whine, and throw pity parties for myself about how miserable I feel as I watch my breakfast resurface every morning simply from brushing my teeth.

2. Most woman marvel at the changes that pregnancy brings to their bodies… at least a little bit. Sure there are stretch marks and swollen ankles that are not attractive, but most woman at least take pride in the appearance of their new large breasts (and so do their husbands). I however, find this extremely annoying. When I’m pregnant, I dont look like I have a basketball under my shirt. I look like I have three under mine… two women’s basketballs resting comfortably on one man size basketball. Having double D’s is painful enough- growing to a size F is just freakin’ ridiculous.

3. Shopping- Most women love it. I hate it, even when I’m not pregnant. My chest is too big, my legs are too long, and I can’t find anything that fits the way that it should. Throw in a growing tummy and the need for a pair of pants with a 37 inch inseam and an elastic waist band and the shopping process is tortuous.

4. The sympathetic husband: I made a terrible mistake with my first pregnancy. I made my husband think I didn’t need sympathy or to ‘take it easy’. I busted my ass and didn’t complain (much). When he would ask “are you sure you should be doing that?” I retorted “Of course. I’m pregnant, not handicapped!” Big mistake. With this pregnancy, my husband literally watched from the couch as I strung up yards and yards of green plastic table clothes from our ceiling for the Wizard of Oz birthday party (which required me to stand on a ladder in all my 7 month pregnancy glory). And a “good work” compliment when he came home to find that at 8 months pregnant, I had removed all of the kitchen cabinet doors, repainted the cabinets, then re-hung the cabinet doors by myself.

6. Health: I should exercise. I should eat healthy. When I was in middle school there was a teacher that only drank water and milk throughout her pregnancy and would walk the track during lunch period. Even back then I thought to myself “wow, what a good mom.” She refused to put anything unhealthy into her body. She fought through cravings and provided her baby with the utmost nutrition. Today, I had an apple fritter for breakfast and this afternoon I had not one, but two cokes… and a few Oreos. (Hmmm.. no wonder why my baby is so freakin’ big.)

7. Rather than soaking up the last few weeks of “we are a couple/family of three/family of four” moments, I decide that my last few weeks of pregnancy is the perfect time to graduate from PA school, buy a house, change jobs, etc. Anything to distract myself from the last few weeks of pregnancy. Ultimately I end up looking back and thinking “gosh, I wish I had soaked up those last few weeks.”

But I never do.

With this being my third pregnancy and (still) planning on one more pregnancy in the future, I’m hoping that the next pregnancy will be a little bit gentler and I’ll be able to give myself at least a B+ grade…. but I’m not counting on it.

Motherhood - Pregnancy

Oh Snap: The Miracle of Life

March 16, 2013

by iwanteditall@gmail.com 0 Comments

Today, as one of my patients and I casually discussed my pregnancy (“I’m due in 5 weeks; I do not know what gender the baby is; Yes, I know my belly is huge; Don’t worry, I am only taking 8 weeks of maternity leave”) she mentioned how pregnancy truly is the ‘miracle of life’.

I kept my snarky retort to myself (knowing that she had never carried a child), smiled and said “yes, bringing a baby into the world is a miracle.”

Tonight when I got home, I looked for a “miracle of life” quote on google. Something beautiful, something poignant, something that would convey the beauty that my patient had referred to when she mentioned pregnancy.

I couldn’t find one.

Not because there was a shortage of ‘miracle of life’ quotes (trust me, there were plenty) but because all of the quotes ultimately stated that the birth of the child was the miracle, not the pregnancy.

I smiled to myself when I realized this, because that means I must not be alone in my thinking; that although pregnancy does bring magic, wonder and excitement to a mother’s heart, the true miracle is the birth of the child and that pregnancy also brings it’s fair share of unpleasanties.

Unpleasanties that are hardly considered miraculous: heartburn, insomnia, restless leg syndrome, stretch marks, morning sickness, and a post baby body consisting of saggy boobs and a stomach that looks like a deflated balloon; just to name a few.

Call me a pessimist or just a downright whiner (and I won’t argue with you), but pregnancy doesn’t suit me (unless you count weeks 22 through 28- the only weeks of pregnancy in which I think I may come close to ‘glowing’ and enjoying my, ahem, roundness).

But since this is my third pregnancy, I wasn’t surprised by any of these aforementioned unpleasanties. (I’d been through them before, survived, and would do it again in a heartbeat…and crazily enough, still plan on having one more after this one).

Until last week.

Last week I experienced a pregnancy first. With my first two pregnancies, my weight gain varied. With Lily, I stopped weighing myself after I put on 43 pounds (and was still three weeks from my due date) because I hated seeing those numbers on the scale creep up… and up… and up. With Charley, I only put on 30 pounds- and was damn proud of it. And despite the wow-this-baby-is-huge-thank-goodness-you-have-already-delivered-an-8 lb 13oz-baby comments I get from my OB, I’ve only put on 30 pounds with this pregnancy. I felt good about my weight gain…until last week.

I was exhausted and finally ready to crawl into bed. Marty was lying on the couch and I announced that I was going to get ready for bed… a long process these days.

I peed.
I laid out my bedtime medications on the kitchen counter and poured myself a small glass of water.
I washed my face
I took out my contacts.
I peed.
I put on my pajamas.
I took my medications: Tylenol for back pain, Benadryl for restless legs, Zantac for heartburn.
I had Marty rub my back for ‘just five minutes.’
I heated up a rice pack for my back.
I peed (again).

And then it happened. As I shifted my weight to the side during my third (and hopefully final) potty break before bed, I heard it.

SNAP!

I took a deep breath, hoping my husband hadn’t heard the loud crack noise through the wall and hesitantly headed out into the living room. Within the 15 steps it took to stand in front of my husband, I had tears built up in my eyes, both from humiliation and suppressed laughter.

“Marty, I have something to tell you and you can’t make fun of me.”

“What? Did you pee your pants… again?”

“No… and you know I have little bladder control these days”

“Did you blow-out the bathroom or something?”

“Shut up. No.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“I broke the toilet seat.”

(Trying to suppress his laughter) “You did what?”

“I. Broke. The. Toilet. Seat. Okay?”

As if that weren’t humiliating enough, he insisted on checking it out. Upon seeing the seat he turned to me and said “how does someone do that?! I mean, you cracked it completely in half! It’s cracked clear through!” And with a twinkle in his eye he followed with, “How much weight have you put on anyways?!” (Oh, that boy is lucky that his sly smile and twinkle in his eye is so endearing). Of course he found it a little less funny the next day when we had to make a trip to Lowe’s to replace the toilet seat.

It was in that instant that I realized, during pregnancy, the numbers on the scale don’t mean crap. You could put on 40+ pounds and watch the numbers creep higher and higher (and higher) each week or you could only put on 30 pounds and still demolish a perfectly good toilet seat. I also realized that while bringing a child into the world is a beautiful wonderful experience that truly is the ‘miracle of life,’ sometimes surviving pregnancy and all it’s humiliating moments is also miraculous.