Puzzle Pieces: Part 2

     In most things in life, admitting that you have a problem is the hard part.  As humans, we rarely like to accept our faults. We don't like feeling like we are to blame when things go south in our lives. This is not the case when it comes to infertility. After trying for a long span of time to conceive, you can't wait to figure out which part of your reproductive system is to blame for all of your troubles. You become more than willing to consider any issue that you discover that could possibly be the culprit for your current crappy, frustrating and usually downright heartbreaking situation.

     Maybe I'm not ovulating, maybe it's faulty sperm, maybe it's consistently poor timing, maybe it's a physical blockage of some kind; the possibilities are endless. Around the two year mark of TTC, I had quelled my thermometer obsession and had become more comfortable checking cervical fluid and cervix position than I would wish on my worst enemy. I was now completely immersed in my obsession of fixating on my charts and looking at the charts of other women to identify clues and patterns. I was the Nancy Drew of infertility.

     Through charting, I was able to narrow my problem down to a hormone imbalance. I believe that I was suffering from low progesterone, the hormone that directly effects the Luteal phase of one's cycle. I scoured the internet for other women who had this same pattern in their charts. I searched for any clue indicating what had helped them. As I researched this issue a little more in depth, some interesting solutions popped up. I read about suppositories for every hole of your body, different foods to eat in bulk and various supplements that claimed to combat this issue.

     Again, let me reiterate that I am not a doctor or a fertility specialist of any kind. Please do not take my experience as a substitute for treatment or consultation with your own health care provider. This story is simply my personal experience.

     The solution that I found to be the most promising and most feasible for myself was natural progesterone cream. These creams, which are made from a variety of fruits, herbs and spices are most commonly made out of wild yam and mimic the progesterone created by your own body naturally. Many are sold online and can be purchased for around fifteen dollars a tube.

     My doctor had no concerns with me using one, but you will need to be careful and research what brand you decide to use. Some are synthetic and some are natural. Some are formulated for issues related to menopause or PMS more than fertility and I chose to avoid those simply because nothing is pure anything so I felt more comfortable using a product that was intended for use during pregnancy than one that was not. There are natural progesterone creams formulated specifically for fertility and it is best to stick with one of those in my opinion.

     You will also find progesterone pills on the market as well as women who swear by them. I found however, that progesterone cream is better than a progesterone pill because it is believed that when progesterone is taken orally much of it gets broken down in your liver. As a result it is more difficult to get an effective dose orally. By applying cream directly to your skin, more of the hormone gets into your system.

     It is imperative that you chart religiously if you are going to use progesterone cream. The reason for this is that progesterone is also effective in keeping one from ovulating if taken or used during the Follicular phase of one's cycle. In fact, this is how most birth control pills work. They protect you in two distinct ways. They are high in progesterone early in your cycle to prevent you from ovulating while being high in estrogen late in your cycle to prevent an egg, if released and fertilized from implanting. That is why your birth control pills come in a cool little pack with a pill marked specifically for each day of your cycle rather than just in a bottle floating loosely around. It is necessary that you take specific pills at specific points of your cycle for the pills to be effective.

     For this reason, you MUST chart while using progesterone cream. If you start using the product before you have actually ovulated, you can prevent ovulation from taking place at all and will therefore have zero percent chance of getting pregnant that month. You must watch your chart, look for your temperature spike and then begin to apply your cream only after you have absolutely confirmed ovulation.

     There are specific locations on your body that you should apply this cream. They are places in which your capillaries are dense and close to the skin. These include your face, neck, upper chest, breasts, inner arms, and the palms of your hands. It is important to rotate the location that you use for each application as well to prevent saturation. You will also want to avoid applying it to the fattiest areas of your body because fat will store the hormone rather than allowing it to proceed into your bloodstream.

     I found that between working, running around all day and just the regular craziness of life it was very easy to lose track of where my next dose was supposed to go. I began keeping track on my phone to ensure that I was not repeating the same spot over and over again. You must apply this cream twice per day to ensure that you are getting a constant delivery of the hormone as would be the case if your body was producing it naturally.

     During treatment, your chart is also important to indicate for you when it is okay to stop using progesterone cream. You should discontinue use only when you have confirmed that you are NOT pregnant. This can happen in two different ways. Usually, your period will start and your temperature will drop as usual albeit, a few days later than normal at which point it is okay to immediately stop using progesterone cream for that cycle. Sometimes however, using the cream can cause your temperature to remain high which mimics the chart of a pregnant woman. After eighteen days of a consistently elevated temperature you can take a home pregnancy test and if it comes back negative it is okay to discontinue use of the cream. It is not unheard of by any means to have a late positive pregnancy test, meaning after eighteen days of an elevated temperature, but it is not common. In most cases you can get an accurate answer by day eighteen.

     It took me 3 months to get my dosage to the correct level where I was no longer seeing any spotting before my period. Three months after that, I conceived little Archer. I can't say if it was the progesterone cream or not, but I can tell you that using it, I had the most normalized charts of my life and was able to conceive, both of which had not occurred in the many, many months prior.

     When you do find out that you are pregnant do not stop usage of your progesterone cream. While opinions vary regarding how long into a pregnancy you should supplement, I chose to begin tapering my dose after the 16^th week of pregnancy, when the placenta takes over progesterone production. While pregnant do not skip even a day. Always keep an extra tube on hand so that you will not run out. Stopping progesterone cream without weaning will cause a sudden drop in progesterone levels and could cause a miscarriage. While pregnant, I did inform my doctor and nurses that I was using progesterone cream and none of them expressed any concern about me doing so.

     There are an endless number of factors that can cause a couple to experience unexplained infertility. Low progesterone is only one. I share my story not to imply that every problem is as easy to identify or that every fix is as easy to obtain. I share this story as an example of why you need to be your own advocate when it comes to your healthcare. Doctor's are the experts of medicine and treatments, but you are the expert of your body. Don't be afraid to educate yourself and take charge of your fertility. I want to empower you to do your own charting and your own investigating. Don't feel like you are only at the mercy of a doctor or an invasive medical test or treatment to achieve your goal. It is your body and you have more control over it than you think.

Puzzle Pieces: Part 1

     “What is wrong with me?” This is a question that I forlornly asked myself over and over again during the 30 months that I tried to conceive my son. It is a common lament for anyone who finds him or herself in this frustrating position in their life. When dealing with infertility for any span of time, you begin to feel a total loss of control over your own body and your own life. You feel like there are no answers to be had. That is, until the day comes when you gleefully learn that there is, in fact something wrong with you!!!! This sounds like it should be bad news and in any other situation it would be. But not after having unexplained infertility. I was thrilled to discover a real problem because with problems come solutions and I love a puzzle.

     I will begin this post by stating the obvious. I am not a doctor or a specialist in fertility in any way, shape or form. I am not an expert in this field by any measure. So please do not take my words or recommendations ahead of those provided to you by your health care provider. I am merely sharing my experience, in hopes that it can possibly point someone out there with similar symptoms in a direction that may provide them with some answers too. This is simply what helped me.

     Anytime anyone asks me what finally worked for Jim and I, I always give the same answer. “Charting.” I completely attribute my eventual success at achieving and maintaining pregnancy to charting. It made all of the difference. Often, people are expecting to hear something different. They want to hear about a pill or cream or supplement that was the magic key for us and the truth is, while I did end up coming across a miracle cure for myself, it not only wouldn't work for everyone but it could also have the exact opposite effect if you are suffering from a different issue than I do. That is why charting is always my suggestion. While charting won't necessarily get you pregnant, it can give you an excellent picture of what is going on inside of your body and allow you to identify your own personal obstacles to getting there.

     A word of warning... I'm about to get into some big girl topics, so dad, this may be a post to skip...

     In early spring after two full years of trying to conceive, I started to recognize a worrisome pattern standing out in my chart. My periods, that had never been even a day late and were usually a few days early started to signal a huge problem. I had always assumed that as soon as I saw any blood, that would indicate my period starting. However, this is not the case. When charting you learn that in fact, your period starts and your new cycle begins only after a temperature drop. It doesn't matter how much blood you are seeing, if your temperature remains high, then that blood is not a period. It is called spotting and it is a big problem. Here comes a little biology lesson...

     After ovulation, your temperature will spike and remain elevated throughout your Luteal phase. The Luteal phase is that tricky time between ovulation and the start of your next period. Those are the two or so weeks that just pass silently by under the radar of daily life for most women, but become a battleground for those of us trying to conceive. Most women think of their cycle as a whole. A unit of time between periods. But it actually is not. It's actually two distinct phases of one larger unit, and both have very different jobs.

     The first half of your cycle is known as the Follicular phase, which is when your body prepares to release an egg. Your hormones are all working toward that end. Everything is gearing up for the really big O and the only O that actually matters two years into trying to get pregnant... ovulation. This phase varies even in an individual woman and is the reason that your cycle is rarely exactly the same number of days long each month. A lot of different life factors can throw this phase off by a day or even a number of days. These include stress, travel, diet, exercise, illness and about a million other things. You can even have false hormone spikes where your body attempts but fails to release an egg for one reason or another and your hormones will again drop back to your baseline only for them to make another attempt a few days later. It is often a largely unpredictable phase.

     Once an egg is released, you have graduated to the second phase, the Luteal phase which is pretty much a set amount of time for each individual woman every month and usually ranges from 13 to 15 days for most healthy women. For the most part, this phase stays the same length from month to month. You may lose or gain a day over time, but for the most part you can predict the length of this phase. It doesn't usually change. During this phase, the egg has that set number of days to become fertilized, make the long journey to the endometrium and implant there. At that point... Ta Da!!!! A pregnancy. If the egg is not fertilized or is fertilized but fails to implant, then a hormone change occurs signaling for a normal period to begin and you end up with yet another big fat negative on your home pregnancy test.

     A problem develops however, if that Luteal phase is too short. You're pretty much okay with 12 or more days and it isn't unheard of get pregnant with as short as a 10 day Luteal phase (although it is far from ideal.) But less than that and you have a timing issue in your uterus because it takes on average at least 10 to 12 days for the egg to even arrive at an appropriate landing site to implant. They are small and move slowly with a lot of ground to cover to get where they need to be. If you begin to lose blood before that, then the egg doesn't have an adequate surface on which to implant and will be lost during menstruation.

     I studied my chart closely and realized with horror that I was consistently looking at an eight to nine day Luteal phase depending on the month. These ovaries, that had done so well in college and life in general, were now too impatient to give me an extra damn day or two?! I am late for ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING! How could I consistently be early for this???! But, at least I finally had a possible answer to the question that I had been asking for so long. What is going wrong?

     Luteal Phase disorders are usually related to progesterone. Estrogen rules the beginning, Follicular phase of your cycle, but progesterone calls the shots in the Luteal Phase. Generally, your progesterone levels start to drop as your body signals that fertilization has not occurred. As it drops, it lets your period know that it is okay to start flowing. There is no egg to nurture. Your work here is done, thanks for the help, you can go. Issues arise if this signal happens too early, before an egg even has a chance to become fertilized and implant. Low progesterone levels are a primary cause for the spotting that I was seeing month after month.

     This hormone deficiency can cause a number of issues including recurrent early miscarriage, endometriosis, obesity, depression, low thyroid, PCOS, irregular or consistently low basal body temperature and fibrocystic breasts among many other things.

     You may be wondering if a doctor can test you for low progesterone to avoid having to chart. The answer to that is yes they can, but their testing is remarkably inaccurate. This is because the majority of doctors use a basic equation to determine at what point you are in your cycle. This formula utilizes a four week month, and a twenty eight day cycle, with ovulation occurring on the fifteenth day. Progesterone levels peak around the seventh day after ovulation. So this is the ideal day to test ones progesterone levels. The problem is that most women are not typical and do not have a standard twenty eight day cycle. Even those who do may not ovulate on the fifteenth day and thus, will not be ready for progesterone testing seven days later. Unless you chart, you will not know when the optimum time is for you to be tested. I noticed that even if you do chart, doctors cannot always accommodate scheduling you on that exact day and you will again be forced to sacrifice the accuracy of your test results.

     I was able to determine from my chart however, that progesterone was at least a part of my issue and as month after month passed by with the same concerning pattern I was fairly certain that this was a huge problem and a major piece to my infertility puzzle.

     Armed with that information, I began to research my options for solving this problem. To my delight, there was a relatively quick, easy and inexpensive fix that I could do within the privacy of my own home that could get my Luteal phase back on track. Finally, I felt like I had a real plan but I was going to need my chart now more than ever...

Adventures in Pumping

     With the precision of a surgeon I carefully pull each small part from my sterile plastic bag as I need it to assemble my pump. The amazing little machine that is small enough for me to carry discreetly to work each day and allows me to provide nutrition for my son even while I am away from him all day at work. A long tube, a funnel, a connecting elbow, a small, yellow plastic doo dad, whose function is a complete mystery to me, a small white membrane that attaches to said yellow mystery part and creates the suction necessary to collect that invaluable milk. Everything that I need.  Then, almost in slow motion I watch with terror as the small yellow whose-a-what slips silently through my fingers and lands with a soft thud on my thirty year old office carpet that I know has not been vacuumed in at least a year. It arrogantly rolls under my office chair and rests in the filth of the hundred year old building that houses my office space. “Shit!” can be heard up and down the halls of our fine establishment as I, a successful yet currently topless professional find myself scrambling under my chair to locate my yellow whats-it along with any shred of dignity that may also be discarded under there.

     Breast pumping at work. It's as glamorous as it sounds. When I decided that I wanted to try and attempt to breastfeed my son, I pictured the experience of pumping in a very romanticized way. In my mind, there I would be, relaxing during two different periods of my work day, with my feet up, maybe even reading a book or sneaking in a cat nap. I imagined myself letting the oxytocin wash over me, as I basked in the glow of new motherhood. Maybe I would wear a crown of flowers or something.

     The actual act of pumping at work it turns out, looks a bit different. Significantly less ethereal. Instead of a relaxing book in front of me, I generally flash a computer screen or paperwork for insurance or the social security department. Instead of bathing in oxytocin, I am usually covered in sweat because for some reason my office is always an oven regardless of the temperature outside. Relaxing is generally the last thing on the menu. Yesterday while pumping, I wrote two letters, one to a client's employer and the other to a suboxone clinic, completed paperwork for an upcoming disability hearing and contacted three new clients to schedule their intake appointments. Today, I am writing this blog post in between fielding phone calls and clearing up a billing mistake.

     I hear horror stories from other women about where they are forced to pump at work and my heart goes out to them. I am told stories of being forced into communal spaces and just hoping that no one walks in on you, or pumping in bathrooms or in their cars. Legally, employers are required to provide adequate space for a woman to pump but the truth is, “adequate” is a bit of a subjective term. It is sad that in the year 2016, with all that we know of the benefits of breastfeeding that employers have yet to catch up. I am very fortunate. I have the ideal pumping situation and I know what a shit show it becomes even in a perfect environment. I can't imagine the circus that pumping in sub par conditions must be.

     I always pump while sitting at my desk which allows me to still be relatively productive. I have anxiety and I don't do well with idle time so I am happy to be working while pumping. This facilitates some rather unfortunate incidents, however. I can't tell you how many times I go to pull a form out to fax or have a client sign and see splotches of dried breast milk on them. I pray that no one ever asks why their forms are smeared. I guess I'll just say it's coffee... That's what they usually tell me when I get smeared forms to fill out from them. Who knows what it actually is...

     Phone calls are interesting as well. More than once I have had people on the other end of the phone ask me “what is that sound?” as we are talking. I usually say that the rhythmic suction noise is a copy machine. People must assume that I make millions of copies per day on the slowest copy machine on Earth. Social work, what can I say, I need a lot of copies of things...

     Sometimes I forget my appointment book on the small table next to my chair. I see a frantic text message or call asking for my next available appointment and my heart sinks as I see my book so close yet so far away. With the agility of a carnival acrobat I slowly step over the electric cord that drapes from my pump to the wall and carefully steady my hoses as I reach over to my small side table and feel my fingertips lightly brush the edge of my appointment book. “Not quite close enough.” I then proceed to plan B and gingerly lift my pump up to carry it the extra inch that will allow me enough slack to reach my book. At least at these moments I have some time to plan my steps carefully.

     Once, I sat at my pump on my break, an open chart in front of me, waiting eagerly for my phone to ring announcing the peer to peer review that I had scheduled for a client. This is a conversation that I am forced to have every few months with a doctor working for the insurance company where I must beg to be allowed to continue services longer than they would like to pay for. It's a nerve wracking and important call. Right on time, I heard my phone start ringing... All the way across the room on my side table. “Shit.” My shoulders slump right along with my sinking heart. If you miss a peer to peer review call it is a nightmare getting the doctor back on the phone so I leap like a gazelle over my extension cord praying that everything stays in place throughout the journey.

     Every once in a while I get caught up doing something and realize halfway through my break that I forgot to pump at all. This leads to a mad dash of setting up my machine, always with disastrous results. One time after a hasty set up, with my mind on a million other things, I forgot to attach one of my bottles. The funny thing about breast milk is that it is the exact same temperature as your body, so you can get an amazing amount on you before you realize it. Thankfully, the lack of bottle also effected my pumps ability to create adequate suction and function properly so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Not like the day that I was involved in an especially heated conversation with a lawyer who was giving one of my client's a very hard time. I didn't notice that one of my bottles was overflowing until I had an enormous puddle of milk in my lap.  This is an unpleasant experience for the obvious reason of looking like you peed yourself for the rest of the day (and when you explain that it is actually breast milk people aren't really that relieved. Some seem to prefer that it was urine, oddly enough.) But it also means that you've wasted all of that good milk which will make any nursing mother want to cry into her soiled pants.

     Sometimes pumping at work can be frustrating, like when I just need to fax something to be able to be done with a task but I can't because I'm topless and tied to a desk. It sounds like more fun than it is. Usually, I use the same pump parts for both of my sessions in a day, I just clean them in between. I always put them away however, because I have sessions in between and I feel like pump parts are private. They seem along the same lines as a new tampon or bra to me. I know that as an adult, client's are aware that I use all of these things, but it is different knowing that someone uses something and actually seeing it strewn about. I also care less about another woman seeing these things than a man. The gig is already up with other woman. Usually my system works perfectly and I maintain some of what modesty I have left. Other times things go awry and it is absolutely mortifying.

     On one such mortifying occasion I was sitting in a session with a young veteran. He was very sweet and really struggling with severe PTSD as the result of the experiences that he had while being deployed overseas. He was such a gentleman and very, very respectful of everyone that he came into contact with, especially women.

     Sitting in his session after a particularly busy pumping break, I glanced behind me and my eyes grew wide with horror...   “Oh my God. I forgot to put my pumping stuff away!” I silently screamed.  There, central on my desk, sprawled out vulgarly like a prostitute in a brothel laying on a couch were all of my pump parts. Funnels, hoses, membranes, weird pumping bra with the nipple holes cut out and all. And the worst part, were the full bottles of milk just sitting there going bad by the second. I could hear the clock ticking in my mind and while logically, I knew that they would be fine until the end of the session, I like all women lose logic when it comes to full bottles of perfectly good breast milk. I did the only thing that I could. I stood up and calmly walked over to my desk, silently throwing a small towel over my pump parts while praying that he had not seen them. Then, as nonchalantly as I could muster with sweat dripping down my back, I picked up each little milk bottle while still talking about therapy stuff and placed it tenderly in it's little cooler. I was grateful that my shy soldier was likely too much of a gentleman to call any attention.

      As I write this blog post today, I am accompanied by my trusty pump and while I am so very grateful for the opportunity that it provides to me to be able to both work and provide nutrition to my little one, I maintain respect for the fact that it can F-up my day any time it chooses or feels that I am neglecting it's unique gifts. So today, I bow to the breast pump gods and thank them that thus far today, my pump is functioning perfectly and I am not wearing my own milk. For any pumping mommy, that is the mark of a good day!

Wearing clouds

 

     7:15am. I wake up to the alarm on my phone, turned down to it's absolute lowest volume while still allowing me to hear it and the soft, rhythmic breathing of my only son laying next to me. I kiss his soft, chubby cheek and with the agility of a ninja begin to levitate up, off of the bed and silently touch one toe lightly to the floor, followed quickly by nine others. I hug myself tightly and with steps jerky and uncoordinated from still being partly asleep, I walk around the bed and over to my closet. The cold from the uninsulated little nook hits my face as I open the door and I have only a brief moment to make a huge decision before the cold makes me pee my pants. It is the biggest decision of my day and I dread it every morning. Maternity pants or real pants. What should I do? The struggle is real.

     Maternity pants during pregnancy are absolutely amazing. They stretch and move with you like a second skin. It's like they defy gravity by staying up without ever touching you. Yet putting them on feels like a big, safe hug. The sensation is impossible to describe.

     I remember the first time I put my legs into the most amazing invention ever created. It was Christmas day. I got pregnant in early October, so by the holidays I was still trying to stuff my tiny baby and fat ass into my old skinny jeans, using a hair elastic to tie my button to the button hole of my pants. It looked as good as it sounds and it felt even better but I had nothing else to compare it to so it was good enough for me. By the end of the night however, I was dying to take off my pants and breathe again so I went into the bathroom at my parent's house where we were celebrating and put on a pair of the new maternity pants that I had just opened earlier that day. My mind was blown. I never looked back. The feeling that I had when I put this beautiful, soft, stretchy band over my belly was what I imagine a heroine user feels the first time they shoot up. I would be chasing this dragon for the next year of my life.

Hi. My name is Stacey and I am a maternity pant addict.

     Maternity pants are also wonderful after giving birth, especially when you gave birth through a slice in your abdomen. After having a baby through c section, I was terrified to have anything even touch my incision. I treated the hideous mesh panties that the hospital gives you like they were spun of pure gold, carefully washing them by hand every night. I cherished them so much that my dear husband actually went back to the hospital for me to get me more when mine started falling apart. I even bought a box on Amazon when I decided that these were the only underwear that I would ever wear ever again. Thankfully, I did eventually come to my senses and acknowledged that disposable underwear were in fact, not my future and I forced myself to put on real underwear. But I just couldn't shake the maternity pant bug.

     In part, I blame nursing for my unhealthy attachment to this article of clothing. In situations where

my shirt required bottom access to feed Archer, it was nice having pants that went up to my boobs to cover my belly from societies judging eyes and to avoid scarring small children. They give a nice sense of modesty even though one of your boobs is completely out in the middle of Target.

     As wonderful as maternity pants are early on, they start to feel more and more pathetic as the days pass by. For me, I could no longer justify them with a straight face after eight sensational, liberating months.  I told myself many times that “Today is the last day, tomorrow I'm wearing real pants.” But there was always some excuse. It's cold and I want to be able to wear my high boots that don't look right under pants. It's icy and I don't want to carry the baby in heels but all of my regular pants are too long for flats. It's too hard to roll around on the floor with Archer in jeans. On and on and on. Yet as the brisk winter wind slapped at my face and chilled my bones I promised myself that as soon as the spring arrived, so would my real clothes. I was going to step up my game and wear actual pants.

     So, as the Spring weather broke and the sun was finally upon us for two weeks straight... I woke up in the morning, walked over to my closet... And still couldn't face real pants. So I wore dresses. I don't know why, but even dresses and heels feel more comfortable to me than pants. I freaking hate pants so much. I don't know where this hate came from but to be honest, as all therapist's do... I blame my family. I come from a long line of people who hate pants. Growing up, we were all rarely dressed from the waist down in my family while in the comfort of our own home. Ever since I was a kid the minute I got home from school my pants came off. In every home movie of me as a kid, there I am running around in underpants. It wasn't in an exhibitionist way or anything. It was just a comfort thing. We all hate pants. Hell, I married a man who hates pants. I still live in a house where no one ever wears pants. My three year old nephew is now carrying the torch proudly. It is rare to see him at home wearing pants. It's just not our thing. A pair of tighty whities unencumbered by pants should be at the front and center of our family crest.

     It's difficult to get yourself back after having a baby. The last thing you want is anything pressing up against your abdomen. So in the beginning, it is just a matter of not being able to stand being the slightest bit MORE uncomfortable than you already are. As a matter of fact, all areas of your outward appearance suffer greatly after having a baby. Hair styling is difficult due to time restrictions. You only get small pockets of time when an infant is asleep and does not need to be entertained, changed or fed. I exclusively nursed Archer which meant feedings on demand around the clock to make sure that I could get my milk supply up to where it needed to be, so for the first few months that is basically all I did. Applying make-up also takes time and focus, two thing that are in very short supply when you are a new mommy. So it wasn't until I returned to work that I actually forced myself to stop pretending that I was an extra on The Walking Dead and actually made myself look presentable, human and alive.

     When I was a lady of leisure, getting ready was an hour and a half ordeal and something that I actually really enjoyed. I liked taking my time and relaxing while getting ready, maybe listening to music or watching television as I fixed my hair and make-up. Now, like everything else in my life it is a daily challenge to just complete the task in the time that it takes my son to take a nap or play in his pack-n-play before he suffers a level five meltdown. It is like putting on eyeliner next to a ticking time bomb. I have streamlined my getting ready routine so that I can be completely ready for any event head to toe, full make-up and hair in forty-five minutes. Honestly, I end up looking exactly the same now as I did then, just significantly less relaxed.

     I've also made other attempts to get myself together after having a baby. One was my hair. I noticed that I stopped styling my hair; a realization that hit me on Thanksgiving this year. Never has a holiday passed before that I didn't bother doing something with my hair. But this year, I wore it up in a bun. It was just too hard to watch the baby and do anything else.  I needed to make a change and force myself out of this hair rut so, I cut it all off. I always said that I wouldn't be one of those women who have a baby and chop off their hair, but guess what, it turns out that I am. I'm exactly that woman. Six short months and all conviction went right out of the window. My goal was to get it cut short enough that I couldn't pull it back and would be forced to style it everyday and it worked. Other than Saturdays for swim class, I style my hair almost every single day. As a mom, we all need to pat ourselves on the back for small victories like that. “Ha! Look at me, not looking like a cave woman today. Well done!”

     Slowly I started to feel myself morphing into a combination of my old and new selves. Old in that I again can leave my home without looking homeless and new in that the new version of me is a mommy with bigger concerns than if I have vomit on my shirt or not. Slowly, I started to incorporate actual pants into my repertoire and I have to admit, it feels good once I'm out and about... But not as good as those maternity pants felt.

     I am far from recovered. I know that it is a process. In fact, I relapsed this weekend. With the return of the cold air and sprinkling of delicate snowflakes hanging on to the fresh blades of spring grass on the ground, I gave in to my own need for comfort and I rocked my maternity pants once again. But after a three day binge, I am now back on track and typing this blog while sitting uncomfortably in real pants... At least until I get home.

Old Mrs. Tesauro

     Age has never been something that bothered me. I don't feel old and I don't think that I particularly act or look old. I have never felt compelled to lie about my age or been bothered when people try to guess it. An older gentleman I used to treat once tried to guess my age. He guessed 40 and I just laughed, hoping that it was due to his 80 year old eyesight. But I can honestly say that age has never been anything other than a number to me.

     The first time in my life that this stability was shaken was when I had been trying to get pregnant for a few months. I found myself starting to do some light research into ways to speed up the process and came across some information that I had known, but had never really given a great deal of thought to. How much harder it is to get pregnant the older you get. I knew this was a thing. But I didn't really know that it was a thing for me. I looked pretty good for being in my thirties and I was pretty sure that Jim's sperm was into older ladies anyway. No worries on my part about that.

     But unfortunately, facts are facts. From a biological standpoint, your early twenties are actually the best time of your lifespan to conceive. This is the time in your life when ovulation is the most predictable and your eggs are at their freshest. In medical terms they are referred to as “ripe” meaning primed for fertilization. This is the decade when it is the easiest to get, stay and be pregnant more than at any other time in your life. The risk of complications is also at it's lowest in your twenties. In my twenties however, having babies was the absolute last thing on my mind. I spent these years focused on me, me, me and I loved every second of it. I went out to bars at night and focused on school and building my career in the day. I got my bachelors degree and then went on to get my masters, which included working full time, a full course load in school and a 22 hour per week internship. I was running 12 to 18 hours per day, seven days a week by the end. No room for babies. After graduation I went into private practice and focused on building my business. I spent my time and money on myself and felt no guilt about it whatsoever.

     But the clock relentlessly ticked on and by your thirties your eggs, which are all still the same eggs that you were born with are now more mature as well. Not to mention, the easy eggs are long gone by now. The eggs that were the most likely to “ripen” are released first, so by the time you hit your thirties those nice ripe eggs are just a distant memory that you probably wasted with some loser you would never dream of having kids with anyway. It was during this period of my life that I decided to start my family. Jim and I decided to have a baby when I was 31 years old. As the years passed however, I began cursing those years where I so carefully took my birth control for fear of getting knocked up.

     The first half of your thirties are actually easier in which to conceive than the second half. After age thirty-five you start to see the most dramatic drop off in fertility rates. A healthy thirty year old woman has around a twenty percent chance of getting pregnant each month. By age forty however, that percentage drops to only five percent. This is also when a woman runs a much higher risks of complications like gestational diabetes and Down syndrome. Another fun fact is that age thirty-five classifies you as a “high risk” pregnancy. Fertility treatments also become less effective at age thirty-five. So as the years passed me by, I began for the first time in my life to fixate on an age that I dreaded. Thirty-five. Every time I thought of that age I turned into that dramatic gopher meme. What if I hit thirty-five?????!!!

     Well, I haven't yet. Hopefully I do get to see thirty-five. It is much less scary now. I finally got pregnant at thirty-three. But during my pregnancy, I had another brush with the evil age monster. At my first doctor appointment, I was informed that they were planning “to watch me a little bit closer than usual” due to the difficulty that I had experienced conceiving and because I was “approaching the age of a geriatric pregnancy.” Yep. That's a real term and they will call you it right to your face. I turned into Ralphie when Santa told him he would shoot his eye out with a BB gun. A geriatric pregnancy? Well, of course I looked it up and what do you know? At age thirty-five the medical term becomes a geriatric pregnancy. There does seem to be a push however, to stop using that term for the description of a fossil who has decided that she wants a baby even while she has one thirty-five year old foot in the grave already. The medical profession is trying to be more sensitive since it is so much more common now for women to put off having kids until later in life than was common for past generations. But, my doctor did not get that memo, so that was that.

     I was fortunate, my little guy was healthy and I avoided the complications that could have been. I had my little Bean around two weeks after turning thirty-four. It doesn't bother me that I am an older mom. I'm always tired, but to be honest, I was always tired before I had Archer so I don't know how much I can blame him for that. Plus, I think that experience is pretty common for every mom, young or old. Most moms with young children who are my age are on their second or third child. A considerable number of girls that I graduated with have tweens, some even have teenagers. A few friends who are only a few years older than me are even young grandmothers. I fully expect to be older than most of the other mothers in Archer's class at school. I am older by at least ten years than the other mothers in the online groups for first time moms of which I am a member. I see the other moms in swimming class and at doctor appointments and I'm usually one of the oldest in the room but I find that I often feel good about having a few extra years under my belt. I overhear them talking about issues with their boyfriends or trying to find a babysitter so they can study for an exam and I am glad to be at a place in my life where homework is no longer an obstacle in my day.

     Being a little longer in the tooth, I am more financially stable, I am in a healthy and strong relationship and I don't let the little things bother me as much as I think I would have as a younger mom. I left most of my selfish traits in my past where they belong. I got the bars and the late nights out and about out of my system. I have zero interest in sitting my fat ass on a tiny bar stool anymore. The low cut, bedazzled party tops are restricted to old pictures. Now the only time my boobs are even remotely visible in public is when I have a baby attached to one. I don't mind for a second that I spend very little of my money or time on myself. In fact, I love it.

     Of course I do the math from time to time. I am almost exactly 34 years older than my son. When he is ten, I'll be forty-four. When he is twenty-one, I'll be fifty-five. When he is the age that I am now, I will be sixty-eight. We don't often see our seventies in my family, so I assume that when he is few years older than I am now, I'll probably be dead. I think about what age I will be when he graduates high school, when he graduates college. I wonder what age I'll be when I become a grandmother and honestly, I'm fine with all of it. To me age has again reverted to just a number.

     The only thing that does bother me is that there is probably very little chance of Archer ever being a big brother. As I always tell the people who ask, I would love to have another baby but I will never try to get pregnant again. I don't think that what is left of my sanity could take it and with ongoing frequent night feedings my temperatures now would be pretty much worthless. So charting would be out. I feel immensely grateful for getting the chance to be a mommy, even if only this once. But I would be lying if I said that the thought of another set of little feet running around behind Archer's wasn't enticing. After a c section it is recommended that you wait at least 18 months to become pregnant again. This means that if Jim and I do end up blessed with a second baby, I will definitely be past the thirty-fifth birthday mark, da, da, daaaaaaaaa... Which is scary but not so scary that I wouldn't be thrilled.

     I have a sister and I really can't imagine my life without her. Not as a child and not as an adult. A sibling is a very important person in one's life. They are at once your best friend, the person that you have always and will always hope to measure up against and the one who when all else fails you know that you can turn to when the shit really hits the fan, or explodes Matrix style out of a diaper. A sister is truly the original ride or die bitch. I would hate for Archer to miss out on that.

     But even if Archer does end up as an only child, he will never be at a loss for friends. My cousin's daughter, my sister's kids and my soon to be arriving new niece or nephew will always be close by for a play date or a sleepover and for this I am eternally grateful. I grew up very close to my own cousins so I know how special that relationship can be.

     It would be wonderful to reap the benefits of being a younger mom, but that ship has absolutely already sailed, docked and is resting somewhere far from where I will ever be. But being a more mature mom certainly is not without it's charms. My boobs may hang to my knees now and I may need to explain to people as we get older that no, I am not Archer's grandma, but in this case more than any that I have ever experienced, it's better late than never.

Days Gone By

 

     This past weekend was a very good one. I attended an absolutely beautiful baby shower on Saturday with my little man as my plus one and enjoyed my niece Tori's baptism on Sunday, complete with a delicious Italian dinner following the service. Little Tori was the vision of a perfect baby doll. I just wanted to squeeze her. It was a weekend filled with friends, family and babies. As I found myself laying on the floor of my sister's home playing with my nephew Roman, now three years old and three little babies, one being my son all under a year old my thoughts, as they always do, drifted back to the time that I spent trying to get here. The days when a weekend like this would have consisted largely of holding back tears and trying to look happy when I was anything but.

     Not that I wasn't happy for whatever milestone I was celebrating in someone's life. I was genuinely happy for them. I never begrudged them anything that they were enjoying. That happiness was absolutely overshadowed however, by the intense sense of loss that I was feeling at that time. It is particularly stinging to celebrate the exact milestones in other people's lives that you wish for so much in your own. At times I would joke at baby showers about how little I knew about babies or what they needed, sometimes even making remarks that I wasn't sure if I wanted kids. Anything to give the impression that I was okay. Anything to get through the day.

     This weekend I thought back to the countless months when I would be certain that this was the month, only to get halfway through my work day and find out that no, it's not. I remembered that sinking feeling in my stomach and the hours that would follow when I would google relentlessly if it was possible to have this or that occur and still be pregnant. You find those small glimmers of hope, where a woman would write that she had her period for the whole first trimester of her pregnancy and you find yourself praying that you could also be a medical anomaly like her. You hold on to each and every small possibility until they have all been exhausted yet again.

     I remember one of the many days that I had been certain that I was pregnant. I was sure of it. I had so many symptoms and according to my chart our timing was perfect. On my first bathroom break of the day at work, I learned that in fact, I was not. As always, this realization yet again completely crushed me. I returned to my office and sobbed. In my next session, I sat with a client who has a very difficult family dynamic, in particular with her sister who she feels is far too involved with her children, often to the point where my client feels that they are being spoiled by their aunt. “It's not my fault that she never had a family of her own,” my client remarked in a huff. The statement cut me like a knife. My mind immediately jumped to my own nephew, who was the absolute brightest spot of my existence. Was this my fate? To eventually be the aunt clinging to her nephew, who the rest of the family views as a burden? The relative who is invited to holidays and birthdays out of obligation and pity? My heart broke for that faceless aunt out there who I had never met. Maybe it was her choice to not have her own family and maybe it was a choice that was made for her. Either way, I felt for her and identified with her in a way that made me very sad for both of us.

     Since starting this blog, I have had a remarkable number of people reach out to me to share with me their own struggles with infertility. My heart breaks for each and every one of them in a way that only someone who has been there can really experience. I have also been asked by a few people why I waited so long to share my story. Some have suggested that it could have been therapeutic to share the journey as I was living it. The truth is, infertility is a very difficult topic to share. Unless someone has also experienced it, I think it is a difficult conversation to have. There are just so many landmines. There is very little that you can say that will not be hurtful or offensive regardless of your good intentions. This isn't anyone's fault. It just is what it is. It is a very raw, vulnerable position to find oneself in and usually, the advice or condolences of others is far from comforting or helpful and borders on or absolutely straddles mean and hurtful. As I've discussed in previous blogs, advice is always bad and most of the other common responses feel like a blow off, so it's a tough interaction to navigate. It's also not super comfortable having people know that you are actively struggling with infertility because it impacts the way that they interact with you so severely that it can end up isolating you even more.

     So, to answer the question of why now for this blog, my answer is simply this: It was far too painful at the time to write about. I was grieving at that time and that grief was all encompassing. It was for everything that mothers experience that I was going to miss out on. I grieved this little soul that I dreamed about night after night. In fact, I have never mourned anything in my life like I mourned for a baby that I had never held. I didn't know that my heart could ache so fully. I grieved that not only would I never have children of my own but also that this meant that I would never enjoy grandchildren. I watched my parents with my nephew and the immense joy that he brought into their lives and I grieved that Jim and I would never get to experience that. I fixated on the fact that I was going to spend my days watching the people around me have their children and expand their families and that I would perpetually relive the experience of each birth over and over again while my own arms remained empty. These are the thoughts that run through the mind of someone desperately trying to conceive month after month. These are the feelings that rest in their souls. These are the feelings that are so difficult to share with others because at the end of the day, there is no sufficient answer.  No real comfort to be had. 

     There have been many times in my life I have wanted for things that were beyond my reach. I've failed at countless endeavors over the course of my life but nothing ever felt like infertility felt. It was different than anything I have ever experienced. I have dealt with depression at different times in my life. That inescapable darkness that rests over your mind and soul that you just can't shake. I was fortunate however, that my depressions have always passed relatively quickly compared to most.  While a unique experience for everyone, infertility felt different to me. For me, it felt like more of a direct punch to my heart. It knocked the wind out of me and dropped me to my knees over and over again. It followed me from month to month like a lion stalks it's prey. Just as I would begin feeling hopeful, like I had figured out the problem, it would knock me down again. I never considered starting a blog about it because in that moment there wasn't anything about that feeling that I wanted to share. It wasn't funny or interesting or witty. It was sheer pain. It was a gnawing agony that sat on my heart and tormented my soul from within. I carried it on my shoulders and within my thoughts day and night and at no point did I feel like translating it onto the page for others to experience. All of my thoughts centered on fixing whatever was wrong with me. That was the only thing that motivated me at all. A blog written during that time of my life would have been significantly different in tone and not something that I would have wished to inflict on anyone.

     My intention is that this blog can offer some hope to anyone feeling hopeless. One thing that I noticed often in my own search for answers is that I rarely ever read success stories. Usually people would post until one day, they just vanished. I assume some became pregnant and migrated to the pregnancy blogs and chat rooms but there were never any answers to what finally worked for them.  Nothing that could offer any hope.  This was true in particular for someone like me, who was trying to conceive without a great deal of medical intervention. My hope is that I can say, I was there and now I'm here and you will be too. Just keep trying. It does happen. Pay attention to your body, read up on the signs of different issues, chart, chart, chart and stay hopeful even when you feel like all is lost.

     Looking back from the place where I sit now I can appreciate the experiences that I have had and their significance in my life. I would be lying if I said that I am glad that I experienced those 30 months of unexplained infertility. They were the hardest of my life and not something that I ever plan on doing again. But I will say that through that experience, I believe that I am a more patient, attentive and appreciative mother than I would have been otherwise. I can laugh off poop explosions, I can shrug off sleepless nights and I can see the bigger picture in experiences that I think I would have found very challenging had I lived them a few years ago instead. I realize how close I was to never getting to have these experiences and I never let myself forget that.

 

     Sitting on the floor yesterday, surrounded by babies, all I felt was gratitude. Gratitude that I could appreciate and enjoy this moment in my life, for the little man looking up at me with love in his eyes and for the opportunity to share my experiences with others now, when they can possible provide hope to someone else who is having a low day and needs a reminder that their turn is coming too.

Archer

“Archer.”

“Arthur?”
“No, Archer. A-R-C-H-E-R. Archer.”
“Ohhhhh! Archer... That's different.”

     I have had this conversation about a thousand times over the past year. I adore my son's name. I have since the moment I first typed it onto my “baby names list” on the notepad of my phone forever ago. I love everything about it. I love the way it sounds, I love the way it looks written out, I love how it looks on his wall... I love it. What I don't always love is the reaction that other people have to it.

     Don't get me wrong, I have had a handful of people who have told me that they love it too. Interestingly, the name is a much bigger hit with men than it is with women. Maybe that's because it's a manly name, or maybe it's because men as a whole just really don't care what I've named my kid and they are just doing what men always do, which is say whatever to just shut me up. Regardless, I'm fine with it either way and I also don't mind the usual “that's different” reaction that I get now that Archer is actually here. The things that surprised me were the reactions that I got before my little bean arrived.

     In the months during my pregnancy before Archer was born but after we had announced that we were finally expecting, I loved answering the questions that people had for me. I was so excited to finally be pregnant that very little could have offended me in the beginning. The questions were always the same.

 “When are you due?”

“July third.”
“Do you know what you're having?”
“It's a little boy.” (Insert an image of me absolutely bursting at the seams with excitement.)
“Boys are great!!! Do you have any names picked out yet?”
“A few, but my favorite so far is Archer.”
“Arthur?”
“No, Archer. A-R-C-H-E-R. Archer.”
Blank expression
“Oh, Archer. Have you ever considered Arthur?”

     I was amazed that people would actually suggest different names other than the one that I had already stated outwardly was my favorite and they were always very common names that were suggested. Which is fine. Common names are nice too, but it isn't like they were names that I had never heard before, something unique that I may not have already considered. They were names that I had heard a million times over my 34 years on this planet. If I liked them they would probably already be on the list. I actually had people suggest the name “John” to me. Not that John isn't a perfectly lovely name, but it's clearly one that I already knew was an option so if it wasn't already on my list, that probably wasn't by accident. “How about Matthew?” They would say. “Richard?” The most common names in the history of man.  “Why not Michael or Joseph?” Usually I would just say that I was hoping for a name that he at least wouldn't have to share with 3 other kids in his class in school every year.

     After a while, and after getting some absolutely insulting responses, I began being as rude back with my answers. “How about Ralph?” they would say. “Isn't that another word for vomiting?” I would ask back. Or if they would make a face like they didn't like the name Archer, when they gave their suggestion I would squish my face up like they did and say “Oh no, I hate that name. That's an awful name.” Or I would laugh really, really hard at their suggestion and say, “Are you serious?” I won't lie, it felt good.

     I had one friend tell me, just out of the blue one day that her mother hated the name Archer when she told her that I was considering it. Pregnancy Tourette's shot right back at her, “Well I hate what she named her kid too, so I guess we're even.” She just looked at me. God, how I miss pregnancy Tourette's.

     When my husband and I first started thinking of baby names we didn't know if our little bean was going to have an innie or an outie, so we considered all names equally. We have a nice Italian last name, so I felt compelled to give my baby a strong Italian first name. This was easy with our choice of a little girl's name. We both agreed on Cecilia immediately. For a boy we considered Salvatore, a family name or Nicola or Nicholas. All nice names, but none caught my ear quite like Archer.

     Jim was afraid that people would think that we had named our son after the television character, Sterling Archer. This is a cartoon, which is geared to adults about an international spy who has as much of an interest in women and alcohol as he does in espionage. It was his one, single reason for taking it off of my list every time the conversation came up. While a huge fan of the show, he didn't want people to think that our first born had been named after a raunchy cartoon, which I completely understood. But the truth is, that is where I first heard the name and immediately feel in love with it. So, month after month I kept bringing it up as an option and Jim kept taking it off of the list.

     I tried to love other names. I liked the name Gage a lot, I liked Greyson and Ridley. I liked Ian, which is Jim's middle name but nothing could compete with Archer in my mind. If I were a boy I would have been named Jason Robert, so I considered that as a name, since my bean and I also shared a due date, but I always came back to Archer. To me, it sounded noble. It's a name that I think would look as perfectly in place sewn onto a jersey as on a fancy nameplate on a successful lawyer's desk. I think it sounds fun, yet professional. I can picture calling a little boy Archer or a grown man. It was perfect.

     Some people would hear my name choice, and without missing a beat follow up with, “What about a family name? Do you have any family names that you like?” The truth is, no I hadn't considered any family names because we aren't super creative with that in my family. We have a lot of men named Thomas and Larry and my husband's family is worse. There are about a hundred James Tesauro's out there in the world. Hence, why Jim did not see a James Junior in his future. This suggestion did clue me in on a technique that I later used to dodge rude comments, however. I started answering the “do you have any names picked out” question by saying “Archer Stanley, after my father,” which cut down on the criticism and suggesting of other names significantly because people assumed that I meant Archer was after my father.

     The truth is, Stanley is actually my father's name and baby Archer's middle name. This was an absolute no brainer. Jim and I both see my father as the absolute gold standard of fathers and just men in general in this world, and couldn't think of a better namesake for our little boy. Nothing warms my heart more than seeing my father carry my son around and proudly introduce him by his first and middle names. It makes my day every time.

     Eventually, I wore Jim down as I always do and found myself making wall decorations spelling out my little love's name. To this day I love writing it in cards and on gift tags for him. It really is a great name. When I look at him, I can't imagine him with a different name. He just looks like an Archer to me. When people tell me their baby names, I always just say, “That's cute.” Doesn't matter what the name is. It could “King Lenard Poopy Face” and I would nod politely and say, “That's cute.” You want to know why? Because it's not my kid. I hold absolutely no stock whatsoever in what they are named. I'll call them whatever you want me to call them. I guess that's all I wanted in return. “That's cute.” I didn't ask for an opinion. You asked me a question and I simply answered it. No opinion necessary.

      I'm not sure why anyone felt like I wanted their opinion on names. I certainly never asked. It was always them who asked me if I had thought of any names yet. I continuously told myself that I needed to just say that I didn't have any idea yet. But what can I say? I was excited. My cousin had the right idea. She and her husband just told people that it was going to be a surprise after their daughter was born. That was a great plan. I wish I had thought to do that.

     Happily, people do start keeping their opinions of the name to themselves after the baby finally gets here. Now when I say his name, they usually ask me to repeat it once or twice, but other than telling me how “different” it is, they tend to keep their thoughts to themselves and for that I am eternally grateful.

     We still struggle at times, however. In the fall, I took little Archer to the polls with me to teach him about voting in the local elections. Walking up to the building, we were swarmed by a pack of old ladies who all made over my handsome guy. As usual, I repeated his name three or four times before just giving in and letting them call him “Carter.” It is what it is...

     I write this post not to complain or vent, but to... well, actually yes. I write this post to both complain and vent, but also to inform. If someone is having a baby and asks for your opinion on names, then by all means, be honest and give your opinion. But if you are the one to ask what name someone is considering, just follow it up with a pleasant, “That's cute,” or “That's nice,” or whatever variation of that sentiment that you prefer. At the end of the day, naming your child is a very personal thing and a huge decision for new parents. Consider how badly you would feel if they threw out a name that they really loved because you made them second guess themselves. They could regret that choice forever. In the end, I think the negative comments from others were the very thing that demonstrated to me just how much I loved the name Archer, regardless of whether anyone else liked it or not. So I guess I owe all of those people a “thank you” on some level. A big, one finger thank you anyway.

That time I got cut in half

     “Twenty nine hours of labor and an hour of pushing, then I ended up with a c section anyway.” That's my birth story. Every mother has one. Her own personal war story. We all love telling our's. Usually mine is greeted with an “oh my!” followed promptly by my listener's own tale of blood, sweat and whatever else shot out of her body on that blessed day. Together we validate to each other what a shit show the best days of our lives started out to be. It is a conversation that always leaves me feeling happy and grateful for my little man and proud of myself and what my body could accomplish. That is, until the day when a woman didn't have that reaction to my story. Instead, I was greeted with a passive aggressive, “and you shouldn't feel badly at all that you didn't get to experience actual childbirth.” Actual. Said it just like that. Just as bitchy as you're imagining. I refrained from my knee jerk reaction of slapping her right in her stupid mouth partly because I know society would frown upon that reaction and partly out of sheer confusion. What the hell did that mean? Was that a thing? Was I supposed to feel badly about this? Twenty nine hours of the most excruciating pain of my life and an hour of pushing with every bit of strength that I had left in my body only to end up being tied down like I was in a horror movie and cut in half, with my pain medication wearing off as they were sewing me up... This I was supposed to be ashamed of? She proceeded to tell me that she had completely natural childbirth with her son, a 6 pound peanut who was born three hours after she signed into the hospital. I guess that was to educate me on what actual childbirth is like. Well no then I guess, because mine certainly wasn't like that at all...

     I immediately got online to explore. Was this a common sentiment? To my surprise, it is! There is a whole world of women out there making themselves feel guilty for not having a vaginal delivery. A lot of feeling like failures, in spite of growing a human being inside your body, carrying and nurturing it and bringing it into this world. I see no failure there but astoundingly, many people do. I was shocked.

     Trust me, having a cesarean section was absolutely not a part of my original birth plan. I have never been big on doctors or hospitals. I have never been a fan of medical intervention period. Prior to getting pregnant, I attended exactly 3 doctor appointments per year, one for my yearly tune up and 2 to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned. That was it. I have been fortunate enough to be healthy and stubborn enough to allow most issues that maybe even should have been looked at to sort themselves out. The fewer doctors I see, the better. But I noticed a slight change in this attitude when I became pregnant. Now, my decision to let things work themselves out seemed irresponsible. If something went wrong, it wasn't just myself who would suffer anymore. Now this poor little bean could be stuck paying for a bad choice that I had made. The stakes became much, much higher in my mind.

     Starting about halfway through my pregnancy, I began to read and watch everything that I could find on the subject of childbirth. As I educated myself I found that my previous belief of less is more when it comes to medical interventions were well founded, especially when it came to childbirth. I gravitated to documentaries and journals that advocated for completely natural childbirth and it's countless related benefits. I decided that I wanted to try to have my baby through completely natural childbirth. This was in part due to my research and in part because I have a weird spine phobia and the thought of having a needle stuck in there made my toes curl. As I would share my plan with the mothers around me, they were very supportive but I could see that look in their eyes. It's like when you are a tourist talking about how nice an area is and the locals just roll their eyes. They had lived it. Looking back, I'm not even sure how some of them didn't just outright laugh in my face at times.

     I planned to use hypnobirthing techniques. I was going to relax my baby out. I visualized a perfect labor and delivery every night before falling asleep. I became very paranoid the closer I got to my my due date because my doctor continuously push for me to be induced even though I repeatedly informed him that I wanted to go into labor naturally. I wanted Bean to be ready. No undercooked babies here. I myself had been two weeks late. I was comfortable and didn't mind being pregnant. We were fine right where we were. I decided that no mater what, I was going to wait and labor at home as long as I could possibly stand to do so. Even if it meant having my baby in the bathtub. I was hopeful that by the time I got to the hospital it would be too late for an epidural which would take that option off of the table.

     I worked right up until my due date... And then I worked on my due date... And then I worked the week after my due date... And then I worked the following week. Finally, my doctor informed me of the increased risks of going past two weeks overdue. Not trusting him, I did some research of my own and found that he was actually exactly right. So I gave in and found myself waddling over to the hospital in tears to be induced. Five minutes in and my birth plan was already out the window. They began inducing me with a mild medication, to see if my body would respond to a small nudge. Within a few hours my water broke on it's own and I found satisfaction in the idea that maybe I wasn't rushing little bean too much. Maybe he was on his way out anyway.

     Since my water was now broke however, the risk of infection significantly increased and we could no longer rely on small nudges. The dreaded pitocin was attached to my IV. I had demonized this medications and to be honest, I was completely correct to do so. It is the devil's nectar. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. My contractions, which had been noticeable, but completely manageable immediately became frighteningly intense. I imagine it is what the sensation would be to be ripped completely in half starting at the base of your spine. And they were on top of each other. No break to regain sanity in between. At that moment I heard a voice from my past. A kind and very brave woman who I respect greatly for her strength and courage. Also a mother, we had discussed my fear of spines and she had responded honestly with, “at that point you won't care if they want to stick it in your eyeball, you are going to want the epidural.” God was she ever right. They could have told me that the anesthesiologist wasn't there and that Jim was going to have to administer it and I would have gladly given him a go. It was that bad.

     Epidurals are not like in the movies. It takes a long time from when you ask and are ready for it to when the medication is actually in your room and being administered. It also doesn't last very long and usually gets less effective each time you get it, which is fun over the course of an almost 30 hour hellscape. I've never experienced pain like that in my life. I remember somewhere around 16 hours in the doctor cheerfully informing me that he expected the baby in “about another 8 hours.” I prayed that he was making some kind of sick joke. He was wrong, it was another 13.

     Finally, I was 9 centimeters dilated and the doctor decided to let me try pushing. So for an hour straight, in between throwing up I pushed with all of my might and made zero progress. My little bean was planted. He wasn't going anywhere. They gave me another hour to wait and see if I dilated more, but when they went to check me again and I hadn't made any progress, they threw out the other C word that made me cringe.

     “Well, I think we are at the point where we should consider a c section. We could wait another hour, but that isn't a guarantee that anything will change. We may end up having this same discussion an hour from now,” my doctor explained. So, scared and exhausted I was wheeled into an operating room and my arms and legs were tied down while a huge curtain was placed a few inches under my neck to block my view. I remember being so tired that I didn't know how I was going to remain conscious, until I heard the sweetest sound that has ever crossed my ears. A tiny, precious cry that sent energy coursing through my entire body and soul. “He's perfect” I heard Jim say as he stretched to look around the curtain.

     I remember seeing Archer's little face for the first time when they brought him around to me and fell I madly in love immediately. The nurse was very helpful and let us do as much skin to skin contact as was possible. She allowed Archer to attempt to latch on to eat which was intended to help with the nursing process later. Then they wheeled him out of the room to do whatever they do to newborn babies. I am grateful that my epidural didn't run out until after Archer and Jim had left the room and the doctors were sewing me up. I am grateful that my beautiful first moments with my son were not interrupted by the unbearable pain that followed. One of my biggest fears about having a c section included the recovery time and the fact that I wouldn't immediately get to hold my baby. I was correct on both counts. The recovery sucks and I didn't get to hold Archer for two hours after he was born. This didn't effect our ability to bond or his ability to nurse at all however, so it was really only an inconvenience at the time.

     I don't know what it is like to go into the hospital in a rush after your labor starts on its own and go through a natural labor and delivery. I imagine that woman who do experience this type of childbirth feel scared, excited, immense pain and unimaginable joy. These are all of the same things that I felt during my decidedly unnatural labor and delivery and in that I feel absolutely no shame or guilt.

     Sometimes I wonder what I'll tell my son when the time comes for the “where do babies come from?” question. He is a little boy so he will probably be thrilled that he burst into this world in the most bloody, gruesome way possible. I still wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been induced and I still wonder if it would have made any difference if I had been allowed to wait until my body was ready for me to start pushing. But then I look at my son, who has the most perfectly round head that I have ever seen.  I remember how solid that eight pound bean had felt in my arms after he was born and the truth is, I feel perfectly fine that I didn't end up having to push him out. Because in the end, there is no gold star or trophy either way. Your reward if you are very, very lucky is a healthy baby who you get to take home and love for the rest of your life and that is more than enough for me.

Bump

      Being pregnant is an interesting, beautiful experience. It's such a special time in one's life that it is difficult to describe. Sometimes it's funny, often it's uncomfortable and inconvenient but more than anything it is simply amazing. Imagine taking all of your life's hopes, dreams, fears and all of the love in your entire being and smashing it into one, basketball sized globe. Now cover that globe in hot sauce and swallow it whole. That's what it's like being pregnant. Lighting that globe on fire and peeing it out is like delivery. But that's another story for another day.

     I loved my baby bump. I loved that huge belly, filled with such precious cargo. When you struggle with infertility one of the many things that you grieve is that you will never get to see yourself pregnant. You wonder... What would I look like with a belly? What would that feel like?  Would my husband think I look cute pregnant? You wonder what it would feel like to have a little person kick you from within. You mourn these experiences and grieve the loss of those events. You never expect that your chance will ever come.

     But then the day came when I knew that I would in fact get to experience those wonderful sensations for myself and immediately, there was no hiding it. I was one of those women who show immediately. I feel like I looked three months pregnant for about six months before I even conceived. What can I say, I'm an emotional eater.

     That Halloween Jim and I dressed like scary clowns. Halloween is my favorite holiday so of course I had made my costume months in advance, never expecting that I would need to accommodate a baby bump, not to mention the two huge boulders that had sprung out of my bra practically overnight. Getting dressed to go out was the equivalent of stuffing sausage while the rest of my night consisted of dodging shots at the bar and keeping my boobs under control. It was an edge of your seat kind of night all around. A lot of moving parts. A lot to go wrong. But all went well and I took it in stride because honestly, I was just so grateful to be off of the bench and in the game finally.

     That was sort of the theme of my entire pregnancy. Just grateful to be there. Because I struggled for so long, I never feared the weight gain or the physical side effects of pregnancy. It's hard to complain about something that you have been actively pursuing for years and fully expected to never have the opportunity to experience.

     Because I had a belly right away and so early in my pregnancy people asked me constantly if I thought I could be having twins. Early on this idea was a charming, exciting conversation. Twins?! How fun!! Especially since we were pretty sure this was going to be our only pregnancy, how cool would it be to end up with a two for one?! The further along I got into my pregnancy however, the question became more than a little irritating. Pregnancy Tourette's kicked in quite a few times in my last trimester while answering this repeated question. On a particularly bloated day nearing my due date I found myself snap at an older woman who asked me this question about three times per week, “you know what, it makes me feel really f-ing good to answer that question every f-ing day,” I remarked that sunny, June afternoon. She just kind of looked at me and I just walked away, a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction brewing in my soul. It was the last time she asked me about my pregnancy. Probably for the best. I can't imagine my answers getting more appropriate with time.

     Over the months I kept thinking that there was no way I could get any bigger, but bigger and bigger and bigger I got. There were plenty of upsides to getting bigger though. Of course, it meant my little bean was growing. Wonderful news. But I also loved how nice everyone was when they saw that huge belly come lumbering in their direction. Complete strangers smiled and asked me about my baby. They wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl, and when he was due. Did I have any names picked out? The usual questions. I felt myself glowing every time I answered them. I liked how excited everyone got to discuss a new baby. A new life on this Earth. I think the sight of a pregnant belly gives a feeling of hope. Unless of course you are actively trying to conceive. Then it is less hopey and more ragey. But for the most part I think it gives people hope for the future and at a very core level hope for the continuation of the species. I think we are programed to like pregnant bellies for this reason.

     The bigger I got the more fantastic things I discovered. Number one and still champion among these are maternity pants. I loved them then and to be completely honest, I still rock the pregnancy pants. One, it is nice for breastfeeding, because they go up so high. That way when I lift my shirt up to nurse Archer my whole flabby belly doesn't have to greet society in addition to my boob. And two, they feel like they were woven by God's own hands, made from the wool of his personal lamb.

     Another fun part of finding yourself in a delicate position is pregnancy brain. I remember one night, sick to death of wearing high heels I went to Target to buy flats. That's the only thing that I needed. Comfortable shoes. I spent a great deal time trying on shoes until found a pair that I loved. I put my old shoes back on and walked around the rest of the store picking up a few loose ends. Then I went through the check out and drove home, supremely happy with my purchase. I got home, told Jim how much I loved the shoes that I had found and decided to show them to him. No shoes. Not in my bag, not in my car. I looked on the receipt and nope, I didn't buy shoes. Just picked them out and apparently laid them down somewhere in the store and left. Pregnancy brain is fun because you feel like you live in a riddle. You know there is some sense to it all, but damned if you can find it with both hands.

     I hear a lot of women complain about people touching their pregnant bellies and while I completely get it, I have to say that it never really bothered me unless it was a creepy man. I had many female clients who would touch my belly but that never bothered me. I was excited and it felt good to know that they were excited for me too. It felt supportive more than invasive. I would get mad however, when a guy would see me struggling with a door and my big belly and not help. Unfortunately that happened often also.

     I took pictures of my growing belly every month. Of course, I looked on Pinterest first and saw all of the cute ways that pregos around the world were document their respective bellies. I liked and pined all of them, and then proceeded to take the crappiest, most half assed pictures of my entire life. I'm not sure why, but I suspect complete laziness. Usually when I took the pictures I didn't even have make up on so I would cut my head off. They ended up sort of looking like a police line up of whales that held up a bank. But they served the purpose. Documentation that regardless of how my belly looks now, it's still flatter than that.

     I liked to dress to show off my belly, partly because I was just so happy to have it and partly because I think bellies are cute. Even pregnant though, I think everyone wants to think that they are smaller than they actually are. It felt so good to stuff myself into a size small shirt and prance around thinking, “look, I'm not that big” as it's tensile seams held on for dear life.

     My size was only partly Archer's fault. I would treat myself to ice cream after every doctors appointment. It was my reward for staying within my healthy weight expectation for the month. How's that pregnancy logic for you? Weight under control? Perfect, I'll take a cookie dough blizzard with chocolate ice cream please.

     I loved feeling like I was more able to protect my little bean when he was in my belly. The thought of him walking around in the world separate from me scared me to death. I was not one of those women who can't wait to have their babies and hold them. I was the exact opposite. The closer it got to my due date the scarier it got for me that I would not be able to shield him from the world like I could during pregnancy. He must have been afraid too because he was two weeks late when I was finally talked into being induced.

     I loved resting my hands on my big belly during sessions and laying on my side at night in bed at first feeling and then later seeing my babies strong little movements just under my skin. I loved everything inside of that belly so much that it would have been impossible to do anything other than flaunt it. And then, all of the sudden it got to the point where it was crazy big. Scary big. By the time I waddled up to the hospital to be induced I felt like my belly was in an orbit all it's own. Thirty hours later, it was empty and my belly was just a belly again. Still big, but without it's special little passenger inside. I fully anticipated that I would leave the hospital with very little belly. Spoiler alert, that's not at all how that works. Seven months later and I still have a belly that I enjoy resting my hands on. When I lay in bed my little bean lays next to me, kicking my belly from the outside now. I hold his little feet and rub his chubby elbows and remind myself that these were the little bumps that I felt for all of those months. I still worry about keeping him safe but I am learning to accept that letting go is just a part of being a mommy. Preparing this little person for independence in this often unpredictable world around him is a big part of my job for the next eighteen years. But I will always cherish the nine months that he and I shared as one entity. He may have left my belly, but he will be in my heart for all of eternity.