Category Archives: Post partum

New Baby Assvice

I was thinking of this this morning.  I don’t know why.  Maybe because sometimes my b00bies feel like they are having a milk let-down, even though that makes no sense.  I have some advice for brand new moms.  Because I just KNOW nobody is offering any to you.

1.  If you are trying to breastfeed and anyone tells you to supplement and acts as though your baby’s life depends on it please do the following: nod, smile, and call a lactation consultant.  Don’t worry about the fee, it will pay itself back in lack of formula expenses tenfold.  It seems that nobody trusts your b00bs the way an LC does.  Not your doctor, not your baby’s doctor.  Thank me later.

2. Wait a week.  Whatever it is that’s driving you bazanas, or worrying you sick… just try to stay chill and wait a week.  It may just change.  Unless it is something about which you should call the doctor.  Then just call the doctor.

3. Call the doctor.  Don’t worry about bothering him or her.  Just make the call when you are worried.  It will make you feel better.

4.  If somebody gives you annoying advice on the street (this may just be for New York moms.  Does this happen elsewhere?)  Smile and say either, “Thanks for letting me know,”  or  “Thanks, I’ve got it under control.”  Remember, they are trying to be helpful and have no idea how mad they just made you.  Or you could just bonk them on the head.

5. Don’t forget to love your honey.  You are both tired and easily annoyed right now.  Remember why you chose her (or him) to have this baby with in the first place.  And go on a date as soon as you are able.  Nurture that love, honey.  You’ll be glad you did.

I don’t know why I’m getting all preachy.  Perhaps because it is Sunday?  Or because I don’t feel like I have anything real to write about?  Maybe I just want you to ignore that last post?  Who knows?

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Filed under b00b food, nothing at all, Post partum

Pelvic Floor Bootcamp Part 3 – uh, 6?

This is a TMI post people, so if you aren’t interested in my nether regions, for god’s sake, click away.

I love PT.

I feel a hell of a lot better.

I was considering a subtitle to the already-too-long title: “I Should Have Waxed”

Since I’ve been extremely busy doing I’m not sure what, I will give you a run-down of what I’ve learned.

  • The right way to do Kegels is easier than the wrong way.  It really isn’t that much work.  One just needs to know which muscles to flex.
  • The way one learns which muscles to flex is by biofeedback, for which they need to stick very sticky wire sensor thingies on to your perineum.  And around your, well, the hole that’s not your vagina.  Yeah.  So I should have waxed.  Then I thought about it for a minute.  And it is January, people.  I’m not waxing until the flowers are up on my classroom wall.   So I didn’t wax. Biofeedback is cool because you can visualize when you are doing the right thing.  In my session today I called it my vagina’s Wii Fit.
  • I’m totally out of shape.
  • One needs to sit up straight, lest one put too much pressure on one’s pelvic floor.
  • I need to work my transluteal abdominal muscles.  Those are the ones going horizontally across the bottom of your belly.  When you pull your belly button up and in, as in yoga, you actually lift up the entire pelvic floor, as well.  This makes it stronger. So my PT told me to flex my transluteals every time I lift, push, pull and something else I forget.  Which is pretty much all day, since I’m always lifting Trucker.  It is funny to try belly button up and in while peeing.  Try it.  See what happens.
  • I’m out of shape.
  • If you pee “just in case” it makes your body misread cues for urges, so you train yourself to feel the need to go when your bladder is less-full.  So don’t do that.
  • I think I might actually want to join a gym when my PT is over.  I’ve never liked gyms.  But I like getting a work-out at PT.  And my vagina really likes the bootylicious sweat pants Nelly bought for her.

That’s the run-down.  It feels great to be more in touch with my body and I feel a lot better.  I’m grateful to you guys for telling me what was wrong.  Kiss, kiss, kiss.

In closing, I want to congratulate  ohchicken on her insightful realization into her current state of mind.

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Filed under Post partum

If I Could Live One Year Over…

On New Year’s Day (Happy New Year, my peeps!) I was chowing down on some serious black-eyed peas with some seriously wonderful people.  My dear dear friend and cook of said BEPs, Nethermede, asked this question of her pork-imbibing and vegetarian guests: “If you had to choose between waking up tomorrow and completely skipping the year 2010, or going back and having to relive one of the past ten years, what would you do?  And if you chose to relive, which year would it be?”  Having two small and adorable children whose lives I would not like to miss even a day of, I chose to relive.  But which year?  Hmmm.

I need to do one of those decade run-downs just to be sure I made the right choice.  This is really more for me than for you, but read on, dear reader.  And see if you can guess which year I chose off the top of my head.

2000  All I remember is that this was my first year teaching.  I’d been with my honey for one year.  I was in grad school at night.  The day I spent pretty much in tears much of the time.  My weekends were spent lesson planning.  I’m hoping most of those former first graders figured out how to read.  I certainly didn’t do much to help them.  The poor dears.

2001 I moved up to teaching second grade.  I was feeling very confident that first week.  On the fourth day of school, the twin towers fell.  It was the day I became an adult.  I spent the afternoon sitting with other teachers hunched over a radio, as the children innocently danced to “Take Me Out the the Ball Game.”  We waited, smelling the cloud of heavy smoke that blew straight to Brooklyn, we waited to see whose parents would not show up to get their kids.

2002 Umm. Err.  Can I maybe remember one thing that happened in 2002? Ah!  I finished my masters degree in education.  And I think I may have foolishly resolved to try to get pregnant when I turned 33.  Hah.  So funny.  Hooo.  My belly hurts from the laughter.

2003 I think my honey started to try to get pregnant.  I won’t say much about this, since she does not like me to blog about her.  I will say only that we spent way too much time and money on our donor choice.  Waaay too much.

2004 My honey tries to get pregnant.  We give up on the known donor, shipping fresh sperm from wherever he was at the time in his crazy academic job search, to the much more reliable, yet far more expensive sperm bank.

We bought our apartment!  Our first home!  That was huge.

2005 New Year’s Day, we found out that my honey was pregnant.  On the last try we did at home.  The day that worked was either on the first or third night in our new home. I was beginning to think it was my fault, somehow, that she wasn’t getting pregnant.  But she did.  And she immediately got very very tired.  This was my year of adjusting to being a non-gestational parent.  I took close notes on what I would or would not want to do in my own pregnancy.  I did my best to support her. I tried to cook her healthy food and ended up bringing her Wendy’s hamburgers because it was all she could hold down.  I was extremely happy and a little jealous.  On August 16, I became a mother.  Three weeks earlier than we expected.  By c-section.  And he was so little and so good and so very very cute.  My little sack of sugar.  My Cakie boy.  The rest of that year was a blur.  Lots of diapers and strange attempts at helping the Boobah sleep.

2006 My little sack of sugar’s first year.  I had been dying to try to get pregnant.  Now all I was trying to do was keep my eyes open.  I decided to wait until a few months after he turned one to start TTC, so the baby would be born around the time he turned two. [Chuckle.]  I honestly don’t remember exactly when I started trying.  But mind you, I’d been charting my temperature since my honey first started TTC.  Yeah, for reals.

2007 This was the real TTC year.  I did TTC for a year and a half.  But this was the year of desperation. This was the year in which many of the weeks were spent waiting.  This was the year I began to blog (hi, y’all!)  This was the year I gave up on trying at home and gave up on limiting my attempts to only one year.  This was the year in which I almost gave up.  And it was the year I found out it had finally worked.  I guess you can read all about it on this here blog.  On Halloween, we saw a ghost on the pregnancy test.  Trucker decided to finally show up. I was pregnant!  And I was a little more happy to be done with trying than I was to be having a baby.  It is true.  I admit it.

2008 The year of my pregnancy.  I was all glowy and happy.  I looked fabulous.  I felt great.  (Though I couldn’t eat candy for much of the year, which is just not me, I tell you.) People were lifting things for me and opening doors for me.  I didn’t have to TTC anymore.  I had lots to blog about.  I only had one child.  Until, July 11, that is.  On that day, my due date, Trucker showed up.  My water broke right after my mom told him via the phone to my belly to be born.  And again, the rest of the year is a blur.

2009  I have two kids.  I don’t have much to blog about.  I went back to work.  Though I didn’t want to do it, I’m so glad I did.  I started teaching third grade in September and I love it.  That’s all, folks.

So which year did I choose?  Can you guess?

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Filed under blogitty blog blog, IUI, Labor & Birth, my second son, Post partum, TTC

Pelvic Floor Boot Camp Part II, “Drop and Give Me 30!”

Hee hee.

My PT is so nice and funny.  It is hard for me to picture her as a drill sargent.

I went to my second PT appointment.  This time I did not have my period.  (Whew.)  Of course that meant that she did have to do the internal exam.  And she actually used the phrase “everything from the waist down” which sent TTC willies down my spine just from the memory of those early morning dates with Dr. Mug and his magic wand.  Oye.

Apparently I have been doing (and saying) my pelvic floor exercises all wrong for all this time.  Ok, well according to my handy-dandy online dictionary, I have been pronouncing Kegels (KAY-gels) correctly.  But if what I’ve been saying right is what I have been doing wrong, then I need to change my Kegels to KEE-gels, as my PT calls them.  My Kaygels have involved my leg muscles, my abs, my butt cheeks, and possibly my biceps.  My PT called me a teacher who cheats.  I’m not allowed to use anything but “these mucles” she said, as she pointed them out in the internal exam.  “Oh. Only those guys?”  I replied.  “You can’t even use your eyebrows,”  she smiled.  “Only those guys… er, girls, then.”  “Yes, just these girls.  Try again using only the girls. That’s a Keegel.”

So I have to do 30 Keegels a day.  Prolapsing is scary.  Scary I tell you.  And  I need to up my fiber intake because I need to never, er, strain, if you know what I mean. It makes me prolapse.  Which is scary.  I feel a little like an old lady.  And I guess I am technically middle-aged for those who only intend to live to be 76.  I have to do these four things to keep from straining: 1) Add oil to my diet. Olive oil on the salad.  Check. 2) Eat more fiber.  I bought some flax seeds.  I just need to figure out how to grind them.  My PT mixes Fiber 1 with Lucky Charms.  See, I told you she’s nice and funny.  She said the marshmallows make up for the Fiber 1 yuck. 3) Drink more water.  I don’t need to do that.  I already drink plenty.  And 4) Exercise.  Get this: the crunches I’ve been doing recently are not so good for me.  They are similar to straining in a bad prolapsy way.  So I don’t have to do crunches anymore! Woo!  She’s going to teach me other stuff for my abs. She told me to do yoga.  So I have to do yoga.  She told me to.  Now I really need to sit down and figure out how to go.  And she’s friends with my prenatal yoga teacher.  Hence, I love her.

Boot camp is nice and cushy so far.  I guess I should go do some Keegels now.  Harumph.

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Filed under Post partum, Uncategorized

That Tiny Sweatband, or Pelvic Floor Boot Camp, Part 1

I’ll admit that I procrastinated a great deal in scheduling my pelvic floor boot camp appointment.  I mean,  what’s going to happen?  Should I get an early-December bikini wax for the occasion?  Will she make me (gasp) exercise?  Does she have teeny tiny barbells?  What?

It took me at least two weeks to call the place.  Then another week to have my appointment.

It finally happened.  On Wednesday.  After I worked my second night of food coop shifts in a row.  At 7:30.  To you yet-to-have-babies people, 7:30 sounds like a normal time.  But to those-of-us-who-are-awakened-at-five-am-on-a-regular-basis, it may as well be three in the morning.  By the time I arrived at the PT office, I was pooped.  Everyone at the office was pooped.  I was the last appointment.  I asked if I could use the ladies room.  And guess what?   Just guess.  Who shows up when you least want her around?  Who pops in for a surprise when you’ve tried to wish her away?  Who?  You know.  AF.  There she was.  Laughing at me hard.  Why?  Why does it matter, you say, when I’m not TTC?  Because I was trapped in a physical therapy place.  I had no protection with me.  I was just about to do a a little pelvic floor work out.  I even brought my tiny sweatband. 😉  I couldn’t leave to go buy some protection.  I was trapped.  Why? Why, you silly lesbian, do you insist on not paying attention to when your period is due?  Because you obsessed over it for over two years, maybe?

When my very nice physical therapist finally escorted me into her office, I had to tell her of my dilemma.  She did have pads there.  So that was good.  She asked me a whole bunch of questions about pee.  Somehow one just doesn’t obsess over one’s pee the way one might obsess over, say, follicle size, or possible pregnancy symptoms.  So I maybe fudged my way through some of the answers.

She couldn’t do an internal, so that was also good.  I just wasn’t in the mood.  She poked my belly and smooshed my legs and asked me if it hurt.  Uh, yeah.  Then she asked me if I was active before I gave birth.  I told her about all my yoga.  And she asked me if I’d would like to get back to doing that.  Hells, yeah.  I would.  It was the kind of question that was obvious, but when she said it out loud and I answered her out loud, I realized how much truth there was to it.  I love being with my babies, so I haven’t figrued out how to fit in the yoga.  I need to fit in the yoga.  Even if it is at 7:30 pm.  I need to do it.

All in all, the first boot camp session wasn’t all that bad.  I need to go at least seven more times.  I’ll keep you posted.  I’m sure you’re dying to know every last detail.

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Filed under Post partum, TTC

Supersonic Commode

I finally had my appointment with the urogynecologist yesterday.

I had to answer a lot of questions about pee.  I guess anyone with “uro” in their job title must talk about pee a great deal.  I had to cough had over a pad on the floor while unclothed.  I had to pee “in the commode in the corner” to make a urine sample to make sure I didn’t have an infection.  Little did I know the secret powers on the innocent-looking commode.  I peed in the cup.  Then something started printing out in the corner of the room.  It was my stats!  The commode measured how long I peed, how fast I peed and how much I peed.  I felt like a professional peer.    I could be on a team for the NPL — not to be confused with the NFL or the NHL.  It all felt a little silly.

 

Basically, it boils down to this:  I’m sagging on the inside.  She said from giving birth and “regular wear and tear” (giggle).  So I can do one or several of three things:  1.  Go to a physical therapist and really learn how to do some massive pelvic floor workouts.  I called it “Pelvic Floor Boot Camp.”  2.  I could have a pessary (?)  a little support that I put in there to hold things together.  3.  I could have surgery.  Part of me would just like to have the surgery and get it all over with.  The problem is, the recovery time is three weeks.  I can’t take three weeks off from work. And I don’t really want to miss three weeks of summer.  So I decided to go to boot camp.  If it doesn’t work, I’ll consider the surgery at the end of the school year.

Man, that toilet was cool.

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Filed under Post partum, teaching

The Eighth Dwarf: Weepy

I get weepy when I’m tired.

With me getting all manic at night, then Trucker getting all manic at 5 am, I’ve been tired a lot lately.

For example, this morning I could not hold back my tears as I watched the ridiculously precious “Baby Signing Time”  DVD, in which the over-the-top Rachel teaches sign language to babies via song.  The song “Tiny Hands,” complete with lots of footage of babies made me burst into tears.  Babies grow up.  How sad and happy.  Waah.  My recently-baby sons probably thought I was a loon.

This afternoon, I took my class to see a Mexican Dance show.  We get to study Mexico in third grade, you know.  I turned to look at my students.  My children — especially the ones from Mexico —  were completely engaged, leaning forward, smiling at each other.  The girl next to me whispered, “My grandmother is from Veracruz!” as the white-dressed dancers tippy-toed on to the stage with candles on their heads to dance “La Bruja.”  Waterworks.  I can’t keep it together.  They must be so excited to finally see their culture represented at school.  And how can I include all of my kids from Bangladesh and the one from Yemen and the one from Pakistan, if the only other country we’ll get to study is China?

Later, it was in the doctor’s office.  I finally got to the urogynocologist.  I’ll blog about that tomorrow.  I was crying in her office before she actually arrived.  Crying because for fifteen months I thought I’d have to live with this annoying pelvic floor situation.  I thought it was something I’d have to live with.  I felt a little foolish and a lot grateful.  So I cried again.

And now, I think I really ought to go to bed so I can get some teaching done tomorrow, teaching instead of sniffling.

 

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Filed under Post partum, teaching