No, I didn't die

After three long months, yes ladies and gentlemen, I'm ready to make my triumphant return to blogging. No, I will not offer any lame excuses, because you probably wouldn't believe them and really, I've just been lazy and busy. But, I will share this tidbit of information that might explain it a little bit...

I'm pregnant.

On the first day of 2006, I peed on a pregnancy test. It was one of those high tech kinds that has the little digital read-out and I got a startling clear "pregnant" in the little window. After getting that result, I wished there had been another little stick that I could pee on and a word describing exactly how I was feeling would pop up. Maybe a "happy," or "bewildered" or just plain "insane" would have helped me clear up things. I always knew I wanted more then one child and after having such a perfect, beautiful baby I harbored the fear that I would never have another one. Like the God I learned about in my years of Southern Baptist Church would punish me for my years of never going to church and being pro-choice and pro-gay marriage by not giving me the house full of children that I've always desperately wanted. So, in that way, I was elated that luck, fate, or even God had granted me another baby. On the other hand though, I just had a baby and was slowly adjusting to my role as a mother. How could I, the women who practically flunked lamaze class and when the tiny baby was just weeks old dropped his carrier with him in it, have another one just fifteen months later? Would I survive? Would Boogey or the new Niblet even have a chance with me as a mother? I doubt I'll have an answer to these questions before the Niblet graduates college.

Don't get me wrong, this pregnancy was planned. I went off the pill when Boogey was six months old but did not expect to conceive for awhile. I was still nursing and had never even had a period. I thought that maybe when he was a year old I would get pregnant. After finding out at the doctor's appointment on January 10th that I was five weeks along, I did the math and realized I got pregnant just one week after going off my pill.

Apparently, fertility is not a problem for me.

So now, not only are my days filled with dirty diapers and chasing a fast crawler but also throwing up and once again having three or four virtual strangers regularly seeing my crotch. Life's still good, though. I have a beautiful son and now can once again experience the truly miraculous process of having a baby. My husband is ecstatic and rubs my belly while telling Boogey about all the fun things he'll do with his brother or sister. And, as cheesy as it might sound, I know that however hectic my life may be in the coming months that it will be filled with love and fun because that's just the kind of family we are.

Men and Motherhood

During the first dizzying months of motherhood, my husband became virtually useless. Sure, without his help, Boogey would've never existed, but after that it was all my show. He was used to me cleaning the house so the decor in our duplex went from bohemian chic to modern frat house. There were dust bunnies the size of my newborn lurking in the corners, Chinese take-out containers piled up in the sink and my dog was able to tunnel herself little home in our huge pile of laundry. My husband's idea of cleaning was to shove stuff where I couldn't see it and he didn't dare do any laundry because I made it very clear that he would die if he shrank my already too tight pants.

Also, I felt like the entire job of caring for Boogey was mine. My husband had never held a baby until ours was born so he was slightly scared to touch him. When he did try to take care of the baby all he did was hold him in his lap while watching Chapelle's Show. I'm still certain that Boogey's first words will be, "I'm Rick James, Bitch."

Sometimes I felt like I was suffocating. My house was disgusting and I had the incredible job of caring for a tiny new person. I came to the conclusion that men, in the arena of new motherhood, were virtually useless and I began to wish I lived with another woman. I knew that my life would never have gotten into this state if one of my best friends moved in. Cheri would make me pies with delicious homemade crust and attack the house cleaning with the rabid zeal of a high school football coach. Olivia would read me her essays while I nursed the baby and make sure I always had time to write. Haylea would fearlessly take the baby while he was screaming and tell me to go lay down. Even though I hadn't seen her for months, I began to long for Amanda because I knew her sarcastic quips would crack me up when I was feeling ready to give up.

After telling my mom this, I found out that in Korea, where she is originally from, most families do have a woman move in with them right after giving birth. Usually, it is the new mother's mom, but sometimes it is a hired person. This woman stays in the home, cooks nourishing meals does all the house cleaning, and helps with the baby while the postpartum mom recovers from childbirth. My own mother told me that she never bathed me, diapered me or cooked a thing for the first three months after I was born. This sounded like a great idea to me so I did a little research and found that this tradition is quite common in Asian and Latino societies. It seems like these cultures seem to embrace the idea that motherhood, especially in the first months, is better left to the womenfolk. To most Americans, even myself in some sense, this sounds backwards and dated and really it is. But what I think is true is that a new mom should not be expected to go at it alone and no husband, even one as dear and kind as mine, cannot understand the stresses of motherhood. I think that even a women who has never had a child(like my best friends) is still better equipped help a new mother. Maybe its a societal thing, girls are taught early to nurture and nest at home and boys to go out and forage and hunt. Who knows, but I certainly craved a women's touch.

Honestly, I know that men can and should have a role in the early days of motherhood. My husband was very supportive. He never mentioned how the house looked like a rowdy crowd of middle school boys tore through it and he brought home my favorite takeout regularly. But I just don't think that no man, at least one who has grown up in this society, can be as nurturing as another woman. This idea is slowly starting to catch on in the United States with the advent of Doulas. They are woman who are hired to come into the home and take care of the whole family unit. To read more, go to www.dona.org . So, my advice to new fathers is to hire a doula or have a female family member or friend come visit the new mom as often as possible. If this isn't plausible, I recommend you do what my husband did; shut up and keep your head down. Take it from me, one day your old wife will return and restore order.

Dude, Where's My Boobs?

After nine long months of pregnancy and one C-Section later, I was looking forward to having my old body back. Granted, I was no Giselle Bundchen, but at times I had felt pretty hot. I was zaftig with ripe round breasts, a soft inviting stomach, and a full delicious ass. I was curves all over and didn't have much trouble getting noticed at a bar.

The first time I saw myself in a mirror after having my son, I was glad that the blow was softened by a haze of percocets. My curves were gone and replaced by flab. My stomach was kind of lopsided and covered with angry red stretch marks. I didn't even dare to look my ass, especially since I was feeling sort of dizzy. But the worse were my boobs. Instead sitting pert and perky centered in my chest, they had begun to spread apart and hung limply. My nipples were splotchy looking and blistered from just one day of nursing. Before I had the baby, I thought of my breasts as being a nice accessories that, with the right bra, could make a bland outfit a little more stimulating. But thoses breasts, the breasts that used to belong in a black lace push-up bra were long gone. Now, I had two deflated looking mounds of flesh with a baby attached to them.

Things just got worse after my milk came down. It seemed like my breasts were a seperate entity; tingling and sore, alternately hard and soft. Also, they were constantly leaking. One minute I was wearing a clean, dry top and then, all of a sudden, two round wet spots appeared right over my nipples. I hated wearing the nursing pads because they were incredibly obvious and made me look like a nippleless freak.

I think the worst though, might be the nursing bras. For a girl who has about one hundred pairs of underwear and used to always coordinate them with her bras, the slim selection of nursing bras just won't do. I mean, a plain white cotton bra with no underwire, no padding, no lace or satin cannot be worn with a leopard print thong.

After six months of nursing, I have finally gotten used to my new breasts and now understand that they are more than accessories. In fact, my boobs are quite useful. When my son is crying, all I have to do is flop one out and stick him onto it. Then, poof, I have at least thirty minutes of blissful silence. They save me lots of money, too. Formula is quite expensive and Mother's Milk is free. Furthermore, since my son requires the hypoallergenic formula which runs about $25, I can almost buy a sexy bra and panty set for one can of formula.

I think, my boobs, like me have grown since giving birth. Now, they seem more mature and don't need push-up bras or oogling to have self-worth. Together, we have weathered six months of leaking, ugly nursing bras, and being sucked on every two to three hours. Now, my breasts can be appreciated for both thier beauty and usefulness and one day, when I am finished nursing, I can dress them up and take them out again.

Childbirth Class: Can I get my money back?

When my husband and I walked into the childbirth class for the first time, I had a suspicion that I might not fit in with the other Mommies-to-be. Pachelbel's Canon set to the sounds of the sea played quietly in the dimmed room and about four or five other couples were spread around the room. The leader of the class was an older lady, a kind of living Earth Mother cliche; long gray hair in a bun, a colorful tunic over a peasant print skirt and lots of Native American themed jewelry. As I waddled into the room, I noticed the others mothers seemed to be much happier to be pregnant than I was. They had serene, kind of blank looks gracing their faces and were continually rubbing their huge bellys. I, on the other hand, belched a lot and could never sit still because I was so uncomfortable.

Throughout the first class, I felt like I had wandered into a sort of New Age Hell characterized by hokey nature songs and spaced out hippies. I was extremely disappointed by this. I had hoped that pregnancy would act as an equalizer and because we were all going through the same thing, that we would all understand each other. I had really hoped that I would fit in and maybe be the popular, funny girl of the childbirth class.

The other mothers would always talk during class about how they wanted a "natural" child-birthing experience. Except me who stayed quiet and privately thought that if I could get Heroin through an IV during my labor I would gladly take it. They said things like how they wanted to remember every detail of their labor and wanted to be "warriors for their babies." Our leader the Earth Mother was very supportive of this kind of attitude and told us that "we could all find the strength within to birth our children naturally." As all this talk was going on, I was thinking; "Hello! Haven't any of you seen a newborn? And do you really want something that big roaring through your vagina with no drugs? Do you really think that breathing funny is going to help?" By the second class, I was wondering if I quit, could get some of my money back? Besides, the class was on a Wednesday night and that was when America's Next Top Model came on.

The third class the anetheseologist came in to explain how an epidural was performed. Finally, I thought, a class worth sitting through. When he asked if any of us expected to get an epidural, I raised my hand so fast that I hurt my shoulder. After a few moments, I realized I was the only one with my hand raised and that everyone was looking at me like I was the maternal counterpart to Satan. Even my husband sheepishly scooted a tiny bit away from me. So, I yawned a bit a tried to play it off like I was just stretching.

The next class, we took a tour of the OB/GYN floor. While our teacher explained how the baby would room with us, I blurted out, "Can't they sleep in the nursery at night?" Everyone looked at me like I had just announced that I liked to kill kittens. The Earth Mother turned towards me and said, "No. This hospital doesn't even have a nursery. Besides, you may not think you will, but you'll sleep better with your baby by your side." Come on, after giving birth, I'd have had this kid inside me for nine months. Wasn't I entitled to a little alone time? After my question, I hung back from the group and said to my husband, "Everyone thinks I'm going to be a horrible mother. " He just kind of shrugged and said, "Well...It was kind of an odd question."

The night that we watched videos of natural childbirth was the worst. On the video a woman sat buck naked in her living room screaming and twisting in pain while about five people, including her eight-year-old daughter stared at her vagina. I seriously almost fell off my chair. After recovering I peered around in the darkened rooms and noticed that all the other women were a bit shell-shocked. Maybe this wasn't the kind of birth they wanted. Maybe I did fit in because they looked as every bit as scared and nervous as I had been feeling all along. But, when our teacher began to talk about what a wonderful birth we had just seen, they all shook the shock off of their faces and nodded. This was when I realized that they were feeling a little like me, but were happy to lie about and to themselves.

Throughout my life, I have always been a sort of misfit. In high school and college, I didn't really fit in with the popular crowd. So I don't know why I expected to suddenly fit in perfectly with all the other pregnant ladies at lamaze. I just wasn't like these women, who were by the way, all perfectly nice. I didn't sing songs to my belly, nor did I relish every moment of my pregnancy. I didn't stop using the f-word and when my child insisted on kicking me in the ribs I didn't think it was cute. I didn't buy into the natural childbirth stuff and as anxious as I was to see and hold my baby, I knew it wasn't going to be perfect. I was a realist. After going through my pregnancy, I discovered that my inability to lie to and about myself was what has caused me never to be the most popular woman around. I also realized that this was okay. Natural childbirth or not, I loved my baby and my husband and because I didn't have any fantasies built up in my head, I wasn't disappointed by my C-section, as unnatural as you can get delivery. I was just happy to finally be able to hold my little Boogey.

Sexy Mama?

Some mothers, especially celebrities, seem to easily transition from sexy singleton to sexy mama without even wobbling in their high heels. The only difference post birth is that they've traded their cute little purses for even cuter and pricier diaper bags. Although this may seem rare, I have seen quite a few of these specimens even in my small town. I saw one such mother at Target, effortlessly pushing a stroller in her short tweed skirt and leather calf boots. Another one appeared at the library, her hair fluffy and blonde, her lipstick glossy and pink and her shirt ironed and free of spots.

I am not one of these women.

Yesterday, when I was getting ready to walk out the door with my husband and son, I took a glance in the mirror. Not a good idea. My straight brown hair, which I used to consider one of my best features was pulled haphazardly into a pony tail. One strand had been pulled out by my baby's straying hands and looked crusty. On closer inspection, (tasting it) I discovered it was coated in Gerber Organic Peaches. I of course had dark circles under my eyes and a zit reminiscent of Mount Vesuvius dotting my chin. My breasts, after six months of nursing, looked deflated and defeated under the black sweater that barely hid leftover baby fat. I had worn this sweater the past three times I had gone out but was just now noticing the crusty white spot of spit-up on my right shoulder. After a quick sniff, I discovered I smelled like a baby cocktail: Apple juice, soured breast milk, and baby powder.

The scary thing about this was that I just shrugged, and walked out the door.

Pre-Baby, I felt like I was pretty sexy. I used to be very particular about my appearance. I was the kind of girl who had mascara, a brush, three or four kinds of lip gloss, powder, a hair tie, ShoutWipes, perfume and spare pair of earrings somehow shoved into my adorable black clutch. I would try on a half dozen outfits in front of my full-length mirror debating the merits of a short skirt versus a low-cut blouse. I would try on different bras to see which one made my breasts look perkier while my now husband waited in the living room watching Comedy Central, completely devoid of any hope that we would be on time.

Now, looking a full-length mirror is as desirable as giving birth again. Also, its a good day when I wear jeans instead of yoga pants and I remembered to put my breast pads in before going out. Needless to say, the concept of sexy mamaness is completely lost on me. Before my son, I definitely had the sexiness down, and now I feel like I've pretty much got the mama part down. The problem I've found, as with many facets of my life Pre and Post Baby is merging the two. So if there are any sexy mamas out there reading this, please comment and share your secrets...

I must also add this: My husband, despite the fact that he has seen me use a breast pump, thinks I'm sexy. So that's something, right?

Surprise! You're Pregnant!

Last September, I was at a strange place in my life. I had just graduated from the University of South Carolina in the spring with a virtually useless English degree and busted my ass to get accepted to the Master of Fine Arts poetry program at the same school. I was engaged to my college boyfriend and was pretty much living with him while he finished up his degree. But, after just a few weeks of grad school, I was starting to question if I was ready to embark on three years of college to obtain another virtually useless degree. Also, I was surrounded by purple haired poets whose writing I couldn't understand much less critique. So, I decided to take a year off, work and think about what I wanted out of my life. I moved back to my hometown, and even got a job at my former high school. Well, just as I was getting used prowling the halls of the place that was the root of my teenage angst for four years, fate handed me a firecracker:

I was pregnant.

While I was smart enough to graduate cum laude from college and get accepted to a pretty exclusive graduate program, I wasn't smart enough not to get pregnant. In three weeks I quit my job, got married and moved in with my husband.

And now, here I am: stay-at-home mother and wife.

While I love my son and my husband with all my heart, more than my own life, or whatever cliched proclamation of love I'm expected to make when asked about my family, I feel like the past year has a been a drug induced hallucination. Maybe one of the nights I went out with the other grad students, someone slipped some LSD in my vodka cranberry and I'll wake in my car shaking my head about this strange trip. Or maybe not.

Before, the biggest challenge of my day was trying to find the perfect metaphor to describe the lizard on my porch. Now, its not being consumed by the ennui of motherhood. Everyday life is pretty much the same: wake up, nurse, change diaper, nurse, play, change diaper, nurse...I hope you get the picture. Yes, it is a wonderful experience and I am the happiest I've ever been. But, one thing I never realized is that happiness can be pretty damn dull.

So, here it is...my struggle to adjust to the sudden turnaround that my life took in just nine months...