To Cut or Not to Cut

Definitely one of those posts I'm not linking to Facebook. Definitely. Because if I haven't had backlash from some of my posts in the past, I definitely would with this one. Because I'm passionate about it.

So hello world that found me through Google, or some random fan of mine out there that regularly reads my posts - (I love you too).

Circumcision. Is it "sicion" or "cision"? Truthfully, I can't ever seem to get it right.

Just like the whole danged country of America. And no, I'm not talking about Trump vs Hillary. I'm not talking about big oil companies and the decision to make global warming a political issue, not a scientific one. I'm not talking about the Trail of Tears, or Area 51 faking the moon landing, or even Nicholas Cage. I'm talking about Circumcision. (The trick is, write it enough times, and you'll remember the spelling.)

In America we don't talk about it. We just do it.

Wife turns to husband, who is a boy, therefore the penis expert in the family, when the doctor pops the question. Husband scrunches up his face, thinks of what he looks like, and adamantly declares, "Cut it off! We don't want him looking like a damned ant-eater!"

And it is done.

Circumcision is perpetuated by tradition alone.

Over 80% of the world's men are "intact," meaning uncircumcised. Some cultures circumcise their sons due to their religious faiths. Jews and Muslims believe in circumcision. (Remember Abraham in the Bible?) I have a personal belief that if God tells you to do something, you should do it. So my circumcision argument is completely invalid for those belonging to religious faiths that would encourage them to do so. Power to you! Go with God, and keep believing! Disregard everything else I have said or will say! I, too, believe in obeying God.

As for the rest of you, though. I'm assuming you're Christian, atheist, agnostic, etc. (I don't believe I have an Eastern following, unfortunately.) Atheists and agnostics. We'll talk about science. Christians? 1 Corinthians, the Acts, Galatians, etc, etc. These books and scriptures are full of accounts of Gentiles choosing to follow Christ. (They make up the early Christian church.) They were directed that it didn't matter if they were circumcised or not! There was no reason to continue with circumcision, after that point.

(Just like they discontinued animal sacrifices, etc. The Old Testament is full of beautiful, symbolic covenants with God. You get Abraham cutting animals in half and walking between them, people rending their clothes in half, people cutting off the foreskins of their sons, etc. It was all very symbolic, and I would write about the religious concept of "cutting a covenant" which trends throughout the Law of Moses, but don't get me started, because I love it. The point is, we don't cut covenants anymore! Now we have Jesus!) (Screw it. Read THIS!)

Circumcision! Why are we still doing this?! WHO is doing it! Aside from religious persons, we have:

Americans.

And people in Africa, some who also do female genital mutilation, which we give them an extremely hard time about, without seeing the hypocrisy in our own actions... ("Boys and girls are DIFFERENT!") Yes. Their genitalia are different. Well spotted. You're still cutting 50% of the skin of it off. The tissue that forms your clitorus in utero is the same tissue that forms his foreskin. End of discussion.

Why am I talking about this? What the heck is my problem?

My problem is that I love children. I worked in Child Protection, and you'll have to forgive me, because there's a huge part of my heart that screams "Kill them now!" whenever I see adults hurting innocent children. Even the not so innocent children, too, I guess... Basically all children. I like them.

I have a son, and he is intact. My husband is intact. Did that have anything to do with our decision? Maybe his decision, but not mine.

Circumcision is a cosmetic procedure. It is optional. Frankly, my view on circumcision is the reason I chose the pediatrician I did, for my child. We were all lined up for another one, when this doctor came in to check him out as a newborn, and asked, "Are you planning on having him circumcised?" Was I too fast at replying "No!" (Did I clutch my newborn, perfect child to my bosom in feral rage, hissing, and kicking blankets at the doctor with venomous, protective fury?)

"That's great!" he replied, then doctor-ly added, "It's not a recommended procedure. Your son will be just fine without it. Science shows that there are no greater risks of infection or complications for uncircumcised boys." I fell for him right there. We changed doctors, and saw our new, pro-foreskin doctor again a few days later. (Another European pediatrician checked our son out the following day and asked the same question. She smiled when we told her we weren't planning on it. "Circumcision is really only an American thing. They don't do it anywhere in Europe.") We felt so posh.

So why do Americans do it?

Tradition. It's what Dad looks like.  -Some dads look like Michael Jackson... Do you see my point?

Women who've never even seen a foreskin spreading lies that they're disgusting. Smegma. - Bull. Girls got gunk too. The purpose of the foreskin is to keep the penile glands moist. You've got some "moist-keeping" parts too. You clean 'em. Grow up.

They look "gross." - Women, seriously, the first time you saw a penis, did you honestly think it didn't look creepy? They're not supposed to be pretty. You pee with it. You get used to them, in all their varieties.

Lowers the risk of HIV! - Tell your son to get circumcised when he's an adult, if he's going to be sexually promiscuous. I, for one, plan on my child not being at risk of HIV, because I'm planning on him having a healthy sex life. I could also opt to have him circumcised because he might be a porn star, and he'll be more appealing that way... I'm just going to leave him intact, and let him make life choices like that on his own.

ETC. Seriously - there are a ton of reasons people are using, for why they circumcise their sons. So I thought I would share some reasons why NOT to do it.

1) Removing a Foreskin is Cosmetic.

There's no medical reason to do it. It would be like plucking your baby girl's eyebrows, because you wanted her to look more "girly," or giving her implants. There's no reason to do it. Do not perform surgery on someone else who has no say on the matter, when it's not needed. "Do no harm."

2) It's Inhumane.

"Babies don't feel any of it!" Again, I say, Bull. In 1997 a group of Canadian doctors were experimenting with anesthesia, to see which would be more effective in relieving the pain of circumcision. As with studies, they needed a control group, who didn't get any pain relief. They had to call off the study, because babies were in so much pain it was unethical to continue.
The foreskin is connected to the head of the penis with the same type of tissue that connects fingernails to the nail bed. A blunt probe is shoved between the head of the penis and foreskin, while the foreskin is then clamped to begin the clotting process - 10 minutes later they can cut it off. Remember that's how Sayid tortured Sawyer in LOST - shoving bamboo shoots under Sawyer's fingernails. Now your finger is a penis, and you might start to imagine.
Is it ever right to inflict pain on someone - even if they can't remember it later? (PS - studies how that it does still negatively effect them - with rates of Depression, PTSD, anger, and more sensitivity to pain later in life. 60% of circumcised men have difficulty identifying and expressing their feelings. They're 4.5 times more likely to be diagnosed with erectile dysfunction, etc, etc.)

3) Complications

Buried penis, infection, adhesions, meatal stenosis, etc. Ask moms.
I know I've had the privilege of looking at uncircumcised babies and circumcised babies, and I can tell you that the intact penises look, frankly, happier and healthier.

4) Circumcised Penises are Harder to Clean

Foreskins are beautiful things that keep the head of the penis lusciously and comfortably moist, secure, and safe. (No scratching of the head, no having to clean poop off, etc.) The foreskin is designed to let you clean a little baby penis like you would clean a finger - water. BAM. Done. (Foreskin doesn't retract until later in life. So if those fear-mongering, never seen a foreskin in their lives, mothers tell you foreskins are hard to clean, I say, stop cleaning your ten-year-old.)

5) Nerve Endings and Pleasure

A huge driver for circumcision in America in the first place was the fear of masturbation. I'm against masturbation, frankly, but I'd hate to cut a body part off to prevent something that MIGHT happen, and that you could easily just have some conversations about instead. Talk to your kids. Don't cut off their genitalia.
Like I briefly mentioned earlier, the foreskin is made from the same tissue that the clitorus is made from, in utero. We all know that the clitorus makes women very happy. So, too, the foreskin for men, and for the same reasons.
Turns out, though, the foreskin also makes women very happy. Without going into too much detail, it keeps things better lubed, and the foreskin male technique is more satisfying for women. 85% of women who have had sex with both intact and circumcised men prefer sex with an intact man. (My bias - the other 15% probably thought the foreskin was "gross" and that he had "cooties.")
It might make you slightly uncomfortable to think about your newborn son having sex, someday, but hey. I thought reasons number one and two would have been enough to stop you.

Stop cutting your babies. Stop cutting your sons. There is no good reason. The science is out. 80% of the world has been doing it for long enough that you should see it.

Yeah, definitely not posting this one to Facebook.

#mykidistheonlyonewithaforeskininthefamily
#noneofmyfriendsareonthesamepageandidontwanttobringitupbecauseimightkillthem

"Support" Groups

This is me, complaining about Support Groups.

Like I mentioned in my previous post, I'm a part of a couple different support groups. One is for cloth diapering, another is for being a "new mom" in general. Primarily, these support groups are used for, well, what it sounds like!

"How do you wash cloth diapers with hard water?"
"Look at my baby's rash. Is this eczema?"
"What are your favorite formula brands?"
"What are your views on the 'Cry it Out' method?"
"When should my baby start walking?"
"I'm not sure how I feel about co-sleeping."
"This weird thing happened, with my post-birth body, and I need to know if I should be putting my affairs in order, or if I'm going to live."

These are questions that women have, that they really need support with, sometimes.

At times, however, people will have family issues that they bring up.

"I don't know how to tell my father-in-law that I don't like him showing up unannounced all the time."
"My ex and I are having such-and-such custody issues," etc.

These are things that women would also like to have support on.

Unfortunately, all too often, I see terrible advice given, that is not accurate and/or good support at all.

It's women telling a new mom that she should pull her son's foreskin back to clean it - WRONG.
Telling mothers to buy bamboo cloth diapers - SO WRONG. (Ugh. Forever drying time, and sticky, clinging poop. Duh.) ;)
Women telling women to put an essential oil on it. - WRONG.
"He'll be scarred for LIFE!!!" - Also WRONG.

In the middle of the night, last night, I saw more terrible advice given, and realized, real, GOOD "Support" is sometimes telling people the honest truth.

A woman posted that she wasn't sure how to "make it up" to her husband. She was on the phone, on their anniversary, and, implied, wasn't giving him attention. He felt neglected and unappreciated, got upset, and ended up throwing away the flowers he had bought her.

Advice from women in the support group?
"What a baby, throwing a temper tantrum like that."
"Tell him to stop treating you like an object, that he can just have when he wants it."
My favorite, in least helpful - "Just give him a blowjob."

It was Four AM, I'd just fed the baby, and I couldn't sleep, knowing this woman had no reasonable support at all. Because good "Support" is HONEST. I replied, mostly for the women I knew would be reading my post, after posting their own unhelpful comments.

For starters, I've been there. MANY women have, and if the gender roles were reversed, women would say that your husband was maybe being a little bit selfish and neglectful. It HURTS to feel like you're second place, and not as important, even on days that AREN'T your anniversary, when all you want is some time to be close to your spouse. He bought flowers. He was going out of his way to woo you, and wanted to be recognized for his efforts. I would say apologize sincerely. Show some empathy and understanding for his perspective. TALK to your husband. No blowjobs. Don't just "sex" him off, like an annoyance. Talk about his feelings. Don't cheapen them. Try and understand him. See if he's feeling unappreciated in general. Talk to him to see if he feels there are ways that he can better communicate his wishes, concerns, and feelings, so both of you benefit - he can feel understood, and you can too. Temper tantrums are what toddlers throw in the grocery store over unimportant things, like cereal. Throwing the flowers that you bought for your wife away is a sign of emotional distress. He's hurting. Talking is the best thing for relationships.

That was it. I combated a few of the previous comments that had driven me nuts with their insensitivity, and gave my honest opinion. TALK. (Heaven help us. Communication.)

Why is it that support groups only think about offering "support" to the person who posted the problem, rather than looking at the whole picture, and offering the best solution for all parties? Since when did the woman's husband become the villain? Why aren't we giving HIM the benefit of the doubt? Why is she supposed to be the only one who needs help? If we really want to help the situation, shouldn't we do so by actually giving advice that will help the entire situation, and not just her own emotions about herself and her own "rightness"? Is her husband not a human being also, who has his own feelings that she ought to try and relate to?

Ugh. I hate support groups. I'm tied in top number of "Likes" for that comment. Tied with the gal who suggested a blowjob. Seriously?

Sometimes I hate people.

Mom Guilt

If there's one thing I've learned, in these long nine weeks of having a baby, it's that having a baby is insanely tough. Let's just say I'm running on four hours of sleep, right now, because my baby had gas. That's right. He had the farts, and so now I have four hours of sleep. No, they weren't that loud of farts. The baby was loud. He screamed and screamed. I tried feeding him, cuddling him, changing him, singing to him, etc. The only thing that seemed to work was taking him upstairs, holding him in the fetal position in my lap and rocking him back and forth, crying. My tears, not his. We did this at one and at three o'clock. And this was just a couple nights after I bragged about him sleeping nine hours straight.

I cried because I was heart-broken for that little sweaty, red-faced boy, who was, for all the world, in agony, screaming hysterically. I loved on him, telling him over and over again that "I know." and "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." We're trying a new formula. We're trying better bottles. We're going back to using gripe water, again, despite the fact that he is no longer colicky in the evenings. I'm haunted by the sneaky, haunting suspicion that being a parent never gets easier.

So GUILT. I've been thinking about it. A lot. There are lots of things to feel guilty about:

I don't breastfeed my baby. (He was too stupid and impatient, and I was depressed, with flat nipples. TMI! Sorry! Snuck that one up on you! Ha!)
I call my son stupid. (I plan on stopping this, as soon as he shows signs of speaking English.)
I buy my son cheap Wal-Mart bottles, instead of the fancy pants bottles. (Until last night...)
I put my son in his swing while I wash the dishes and clean the house, even though he's still awake. (Instead of holding him until he sleeps.)
I put my son to sleep with blankets, and he has non-mesh, suffocating-style bumpers in his crib. (They market them that way.)
I also put him in his own room when he was two months old, instead of the recommended six. (Because I want him to die of SIDS.)
I sing my son ballads, hymns, and anti-war songs, and can count the number of times I've sung him a lullaby on my ELBOW, which has no fingers, thank you very much. He sleeps to Coldplay.
I use all-in-one, one size cloth diapers for my son instead of flats. And none of them have cute hot air balloons on them. They're solid colors, and four of them are even pink, and I don't even care. And I'm not buying him any more of them, just because they're "cute."

Yeah, you can literally find ANYTHING to judge a mom about.

The big one that's killing me is that I'm going back to work, full time, in July. I feel guilty that I'm looking forward to it. I feel guilty that I'm excited to talk to other adults every day. I feel guilty that my baby will be cared for by someone else. I fear that he'll call HER "mommy."

So, naturally, I wanted to find some support, as a working mother. I wanted to find some reassurance. I wanted to find some comfort. I'm a part of a couple "New Mom" support groups, on Facebook, but quickly found no comfort there, for the full-time working mommies of the world.

See, there's shaming, and guilt. Being a mom, I've discovered a whole new set of abbreviations, used to describe mothers who are better than me. EBF - Exclusively Breast Fed. SAHM - Stay at Home Mom. And to make it better, those dirty-rotten moms stole my "Full-Time" employee abbreviation. Because FTM doesn't mean Full Time Mom. It means Full Time MOM - another SAHM abbreviation.

I'm surrounded by SAHMs. They brag to you about their good fortune and cooking skills, how they're working out, and losing weight, and painting their ceilings, and crafting up a storm, and how they have the time to teach their twelve children the periodic table of elements by heart.

So I've made my own abbreviation, based on the pressure I feel I receive from those around me. I guess I am a NHB - Neglectful Human Being. Because I'm not even his mother, at this rate, with all my crappy "parenting." Sorry. Yes. I am going back to work full-time. Because I want to.

I'm currently looking for more NHBs. I'm looking for a bit of support, in that department, and it's hard to come by.

Because I guess I am a NHB. I read to my son, and I sing him to sleep. I rock him to sleep when he has trouble on his own. I stay up all hours of the night when he's feeling sick, and respond to the "I dropped my binkie!" cry within sixty seconds. Every time. Honestly, he's spoiled rotten.

I make sure he gets enough sunlight, and lay down next to him when he does tummy time, encouraging him on. I talk to him about all kinds of things, the future, God, and even explain historical events to him, as he listens in wide-eyed wonder. I've made him toys and clothes, spent hours researching health concerns. I take him on adventures he will never remember, and honestly, can't even see, right now, unless it's 18 inches in front of his face. I've done my best to make sure I'm not helicoptering him, but can't stand listening to his unaided cries for long. I run to him.

Is there anyone else like me out there, who works full time? Where are you?

Because being a mother, being a parent NEVER ends.

The first night home from the hospital, I had my first real wave of guilt. It was having to supplement breastfeeding with formula. My gracious, understanding mother was there, and sent me to my room to sleep. I was freaking out. I wasn't good enough. Despite all my trying, I was failing my son. I was scared that I was going to kill him. I didn't want to be a mother anymore. I had glorious Postpartum Depression. My mother came and lay beside me on the bed, after an hour or so, and talked me down, stroked my hair, and told me everything was going to be alright. My child would live. This would get easier.

After the first few days of daily crying, feeling that my life ran in three hour repeating, Groundhog Day-like, hellish intervals, my mom was still there, still talking me down and reassuring me that he was fine. That I was fine. That parenting was worth it. She showed me how to make him comfortable, how to wrap him up Aussie style. She even showed me how to play with him, a concept which was hard for me to grasp, in my heightened anxiety and sadness. My mother's calm, optimistic presence saved me.

And I was formula fed. In fact, I'm pretty sure she even put me down to sleep on my stomach. And trusted us around knives, when we were very small. And she worked. She still does. Constantly. She makes everyone else look bad, with how much she works.

This guilt thing ain't worth it. He'll survive.

Your Birth

Journal Entry written for Julian, for when he wants to know. But several people have wanted to know details as well, so I'll make it friendly and personable and post it here. :)

Julian,

You decided to come in the middle of the night. For weeks, your dad and I talked about when and where you would decide to come. We laid out bed pads in strategic places all over the house, on the off chance that my water would break while I was sitting/laying there, so we would be ready. (Sorry, we've always been paranoid types.) We also had an ongoing joke that you would be born at Cafe Rio. Thank goodness you weren't.

Honestly, my anxiety level was pretty high. Giving birth is a scary thought! When you were about early-30 week level, I was having pretty regular Braxton Hicks, and my doctor told me to go to Labor and Delivery. We ended up going twice, until the doctor told us that we could stop worrying about pre-term labor. And your vitals were always healthy as a horse, so really, we weren't too worried. (But did I mention the subchorionic hemorrhage I had in the first few weeks with you? Your dad and I pretty much mourned your loss/death twice, during that time. You didn't make this road exactly easy!)

A couple weeks before your birth, I was having those regular Braxton Hicks again. Some nights, I would have actual contractions, which would leave me bent over the couch holding my breath, or in tears. The Thursday before you were born I was at work, and actually let out an almighty cuss word while in my office, I was so caught off guard! Ouch! Your grandma came over for my lunch break and we went out for Wendy's. We were timing contractions every 6 minutes like clockwork, and they hurt, let me tell you! I told everyone at work, that day, that I thought I was having you, and they wouldn't see me tomorrow. I left early. The contractions stopped. Obviously, Friday I took a half day, and felt very sorry for myself. I was sick as a dog and just wanted you to come.

Your dad had given me a blessing several days before, as I was in a bout of anxiety about giving birth, and if I would know when it was happening. He'd said something along the lines that I would "know" when I was in labor. So early Saturday morning, I was sleeping. (Of course.) I was having a dream that I was at work, working with one of the Muslim women currently at our facility. I was trying to talk her down, as she was upset, (nothing unusual there), when a man approached me from behind. At first, I assumed it was one of her family members, but upon second glance, I realized it wasn't. (I want to say he was Maori, but honestly, I just referred to him as "some ethnic man.") My dream changed direction, as I turned to this man, as I wasn't really at work anymore. He looked at me calmly, and reassured/told me simply, "You're going into labor."

And I woke up. 3:00 AM. And I was in labor. I ran to the bathroom, still having contractions, then went back to bed. I had a couple more before trying to wake up your dad. I gently took his hand, then rubbed his arm until he blinked lazily at me. "I'm having contractions." I told him, gripping his hand through yet another one. "Oh." he said, nodding. "Okay." And promptly he fell asleep again. I had to wake him up again as I had another. "Nathan, I'm having contractions. I think I'm in labor." "Oh!" he replied a little more exuberantly. "Okay!" And he was up!

I actually wanted to take a shower, before going to the hospital, even though my contractions were regularly 2 minutes and about 30 seconds apart. Nathan continued to time them for me while I showered, and told him when they started and stopped. My previous experiences, I'd always been sitting or lying down. Walking usually helped them go away. So the fact that they were regular when I was moving around, putting on makeup, etc, only affirmed to me that this was, in fact, IT. Both showered and ready, your dad made me a peanut butter sandwich while I chugged a Gatorade.

The contractions hadn't been too bad, up to that point. In fact, I remember thinking that I might try natural labor, without an epidural. It wasn't so bad. I could do that! It was probably a product of adrenaline, however. I was on fire, throwing things together, making sure we had everything. I told Nathan that we might just sit at home, for awhile, to see if things progressed/got worse. But we didn't stay home. We got in the car as another violent contraction hit me. As we pulled out of the apartment complex, I told Nathan that maybe we should drive around for a little bit before going in, just to make sure that this was, in fact, real. We didn't drive around for a little bit, either, as we'd been on the road for about thirty seconds before I was hit with a really painful doozy, which left me telling Nathan HECK no, were we gonna drive around. We needed to get to the hospital, and I wanted an epidural!

My adrenaline really was working quite well for me, as we pulled into the hospital parking lot about a quarter after four. There was another woman there, walking slowly into Labor and Delivery with her midwife, and pacing husband. We shot past them, my contractions not slowing me down! (Well, any slower than I already was at 9 months pregnant.) We signed in at the desk, and they showed us to Triage. The nurse assigned me had been my nurse for one of my previous Labor and Delivery scares, so it was nice to see a familiar face - especially now that it was real! I threw on my gown, hugging your father through a couple more contractions, then had a seat as the nurse measured me.

4.5 centimeters dilated! (I'd only been 1.75 dilated 4 days previously.) I was having this baby FOR SURE! Gently, they escorted us to room 5. They struggled to get my IV in - took them three tries - and called for the epidural man - who became my new hero. Getting the epidural was not as bad as it sounds. It actually hurt less than my IV fiasco! Just scary in thought, and the shaking that accompanies an epidural was exciting! Nurse shift change, and then it was just a waiting game!

Jen, our new nurse, said that she thought I'd have you before 3 PM, which was exciting to me, as I had been anticipating something like an 18-hour labor. She gave me some Pitocin after the doctor came to look at me, broke my water, and reported I was only 5 centimeters dilated. They wanted to speed things up a little bit more. Unfortunately, that didn't go so great for you! My uterus was apparently already contracting pretty hard, and with the Pitocin, it was contracting VERY hard! The nurse suspected that you had your umbilical cord either in your hands, or around your neck, because every time I had a contraction, your heart rate became unstable. Their solution to this was to pump me full of drugs! CRAZY drugs! My heart rate went through the roof, but as my heart pumped faster and faster, your heart rate stabilized, and eventually, your umbilical cord situation must have sorted itself out. Needless to say, they laid off the Pitocin from then-on-out.

Feeling pretty stressed out and worried for you, (and, with my heart still pumping steadily at 114 BPM, due to the drug) I wanted to see my mommy! So we called her, and asked her to bring your dad lunch, which she did. (He'd been threatening to run off and get food, and I just wasn't feeling that! I was still scared, and didn't want to be alone!) She stayed and ate with him, until I was feeling much better. Then headed out.

And it was like we blinked, and it was time, after that! Jen came back, measured, and said it was probably time to start pushing, around 1:30 in the afternoon. It was about that time she also informed us that you had "pooped in the womb!" Basically, your meconium was leaking out of me, which put us in a little bit of a crunch to get you out. Jen calmly explained that because of this, ICU would be present at your birth to check you out and make sure you were okay, before they handed you over to me. So... PUSH!

I was not thrilled about it, and honestly, wanted to put it off for another little while, as my epidural wasn't working as strongly as it had been, in the beginning. (It was probably working just fine. I could feel contractions come and go, now, but they weren't incredibly painful at all. I was just scared!) But Jen and your dad were posed, ready, and... PUSH!

Within twenty hours after giving birth, I would have preferred giving birth again, rather than deal with the after effects of giving birth. It was kind of exhilarating! I could feel those contractions, and I could feel progress being made. Finally the doctor came in, after about 30 minutes of pushing, to help with the rest of it. Her name was Doctor Pieper - pronouced "peep-er." Yes, we thought that was inappropriately hilarious as well. But she was amazing. When I was getting tired, shaking my head "no" mid-contraction, she'd encourage me on. She was paying attention to the details, like how I was feeling. At some point they grabbed a mirror for me to watch. (Yes, I'm into that sort of thing.) It was amazing how much stronger I could push, seeing your hairy little head there. Jen eventually stepped in the way of the mirror, so I didn't actually see you born. I was a little too busy to tell her to move it.

The doctor was worried about your meconium, and gently gave me a time limit. She explained it gently. She would give me two more contractions to get you out, before she had to cut me open, with an episiotomy. They had to get you out of there, quickly. So I had two more contractions before she pulled out the knives... WHAT a motivator! You were out the very next contraction, but not without consequences. I tore pretty heavily - UP, not down - which resulted in me keeping a catheter in for an additional 24-hours to make sure I could still PEE. (I will explain no further. Not my favorite thing about giving birth, needless to say.) But you were out!

And off! They ran you over to the side of the room and started suctioning your throat, to make sure you hadn't swallowed anything. I'd told your dad, previously, that he had to follow you, to make sure you were okay. I could fend for myself. So your dad ran off to follow you, as well. Which made him miss quite a few details about his bleeding wife, who, ultimately, got thirty minutes worth of stitching, and a new syringe for the epidural to keep me through it - doctor's orders.

But you were perfect. I could hardly see you, but I could hear you crying, and could see your dad's face all lit up, glancing back at me with an expression that I could only describe as saying "He's real!" He was so excited! They wrapped you up and put you in his arms, and he brought you over so I could look at you. As soon as I was able, I stole you from him.

I could go on and write about how you were - perfect - but then this entry would never end. You really were perfect, though. You were calm. You barely fussed when you were hungry. You were content to just sit and look around, with your beautiful dark blue eyes. Honestly, it took a long time for it to sink in to me that you were a reality for me. But you are!

I'm writing this as I sit on the couch, you sleeping in your bassinet at my side, a week and a half later. You're going to wake up soon, and you're going to be wanting lunch. As usual, you will barely fuss, and I have to pay close attention to you, or I miss that essential cue that you're hungry. Because then you'll throw a fit. Which is fine. I don't mind. That and poopy diapers are the only things that make you cry. And the second it's resolved, you're doing great again. You've been a little fussy today, but I think it's the new formula we're trying. And I think you might be getting diaper rash. It was World War III when I put cream on your butt a couple hours ago. Sorry about that.

Because I worry. Constantly. My life revolves around you, now, and I worry about you. I want to make sure you're happy. I want to make sure you're healthy. I want to make sure I'm giving you every opportunity you need to succeed. I struggle making sure you get outside enough. I struggle getting frustrated when you soak through your fifth onesie for the day. But I'm trying my hardest to make sure you don't see it, because all I want for you is to see your mother as a loving face, cooing at you, telling you stories, singing "Baby Balooga" one more time, and rubbing your back as I hold you against my chest, until you fall asleep. I want you to feel happy and secure, always. Obviously, I'm not perfect, but I'm going to keep trying. Because those inquisitive eyes of yours make it all worth it.

Pregnancy on the Brain

Yesterday marked 36 weeks. Out of 40. Technically, I could go at any time. 37 weeks, my baby is considered full term. Right now, he's a preemie. Do you realize that in less than one week, they won't even call him a preemie anymore? He will be a full-term little man. 

That's kind of terrifying.

Stretch marks have happened. (And keep happening.) Heart-burn comes and... comes. Same with the nausea, and a hundred other things that are probably off topic to talk about in public. 

I never could have guessed how badly it would hurt to do little things like stand on my feet, roll over in bed, or even laugh. Julian, active, healthy boy that he is, hurts me pretty regularly. He likes pushing on my organs and shoving his backside into belly, so I'll rub him. He also likes punching, well, *cough*, my RECTUM, when I'm sitting in a position that he doesn't like, which is the ULTIMATE ache. Holy crap. It hurts, in a shocking, shocking manner. 

And if we're talking about the bad things, the anxiety is pretty terrible too. Seriously. The fact that you could blow and go into one of the most painful experiences you will ever go through in your entire life at any moment is a little suspenseful. Even if I go all the way to 41 weeks, that's still only 5 weeks away. I have a month until I'm walking through the valley of the shadow of death. And you know what? It's inevitable now. I've been to Labor and Delivery twice, already, due to regular Braxton Hicks, which potentially were threatening pre-term labor. You think that that might help the anxiety, but it doesn't at all.

I've done my best to explain to Nathan how nerve-racking all of this is. The best analogy I could come up with is asking Nathan to imagine this scenario: You're going to break your femur in the next month. You don't know when, or how this is going to happen. I might roll over in bed tonight with a nightstick and break your femur while you're sleeping. You might get hit by a car in three weeks. You might trip in the parking lot at WalMart and snap that sucker right then and there. And the best part? This is inevitable. No matter WHAT, you WILL break your femur this month. 

Feel better? It's pathetic, but... I'm scared.

But it does help that I'm officially losing my mind, in comical fashion.

Over the last month, Nathan has informed me of several late night conversations we have had. Sleep deprivation due to increased bathroom breaks and painful restlessness has led me to confused late night ramblings. I was prone to these already, mind, they're just increasing. (Years ago I actually ate a meal with immediate and extended family, and went an entire night in a completely semi-conscious state. I don't remember any of it. I only remember my mom yelling at me the next day for being rude at dinner. Probably because I was asleep...) 

Nathan often stays up to read, in bed, when I go to sleep, so he gets to hear a lot of it.

Apparently, quite regularly, I remind myself that I need to go to sleep. When I'm already asleep. I've also questioned my husband about why he is scared or upset when he has said or implied nothing of the sort. 

Just a few nights ago, I caught myself in one of my late night ramblings. With Easter around the corner, I guess I have candy on my mind. I'm not sure what started it, but I was telling Nathan ALL about Peeps. I came to my senses as I had rolled over to him, and was "squishing" a Peep with my hand, showing him how soft they can be, when you microwave them... 

And probably a week ago, Nathan tells me that I was very upset, in bed. When he asked me what was wrong, in all sincerity, I told him that I DID NOT want to go to Youth Conference. They would make me work too hard, and I didn't want to work anymore. I didn't EVER want to go to Youth Conference. They would make us build fences and buildings, and I couldn't do it. I was too tired. Nathan assured me that we wouldn't have to go.

I've giggled myself into hysteria in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, over memories of the bigfoot from A Goofy Movie. I've turned to Nathan seconds after rolling over in sleep with upset concerns about "the baby falling out of a chair." Honestly, I wish I could be there. Nathan regularly asks, "Do you remember anything from last night?" Usually no. And sometimes, only vaguely. 

It will be exciting to see what sleep deprivation does to me as a mother... 

Kind of happening too quickly, and kind of couldn't happen fast enough.