Category — Post Partum Musings

Week Three: I’m still trying to find my balance at the whole stay-at-home mom thing.

The first week at home, as I reported earlier, was really lonely and slow and weird and emotional.

Then, on Wednesday of week two, I discovered Mommy Group.

Mommy Group is hosted by the hospital where I delivered. The first group is for 0-6 month olds; the second is for 6 month to one-year olds. This means I’m slipping into the group and getting to know people just as I’m ready to “graduate” to the next group. Dammit.

Anyway, I showed up to Mommy Group early. I’m particular about punctuality. Always have been. I plan my entire day around arriving early or on time for appointments. This, apparently, is not good practice with moms (or doctors, or hair stylists, or walking buddies, or movies, or dinner dates, or phone calls) because nobody else ever bothers to be on time to anything. This royally annoys me.

Moving on.

I sat on the floor with the girls on a blanket and waited. After a while, other moms with their (singleton) babies started filtering in. We discussed our concerns, observations, struggles, anecdotes. Afterward, most of us went out to lunch. And the whole time, all I could think was braaaainnnnss peeeeople. After being cooped up in the house for a week and a half, I was high on the presence of other adults.

It was like a drug. I needed more.

Through the end of the week and all this week, I kept myself busy. Grocery shopping. Walking. Visiting with other moms. Most embarrassing? I actually went to see Kate from “Jon and Kate Plus 8″ sign her book. I don’t even like her. At all. And yet, here she is in all her spiky-haired glory, taking up space on my camera phone.

But after several days of errands, car rides, meet-ups and missed nap times, the babies couldn’t take anymore. Several epic, sleep-deprived baby meltdowns later, I canceled tomorrow’s mom coffee date. I realized that, shit, I’ve been running all over the place for my own good, not necessarily for my daughters’ entertainment.

My apologies in advance, and I know I’ll regret saying this, and obviously no offense if you currently or previous or plan to have spit-up in your hair for potentially days on end — but I’m scared of turning into a mom who has spit-up in her hair for days on end. Do you know what I mean? I just have this image of Roseanne Barr with corn-chip toenails and hammer toes and a bad perm that I’d really like to avoid.

(Okay, so I’ve actually gone to work with spit-up in my hair. Whatev.)

This is all so new to me and kinda sorta daunting. Being a mom. Being relied on by a crying child who will not be comforted unless I come in to hold her or nurse her.

Maybe . . . maybe . . . what I’m scared of is raising my own babies. I generally feel pretty good about trusting my gut when it comes to being with the girls and doing the right things for them. But that innate self-doubting mechanism kicks in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing trying to raise two babies at the same time. Seriously? Me? The girl who never wanted to get married or have kids?

But at the end of week three, I’m starting to feel okay. Don’t get me wrong — the finances are not a good thing. But emotionally, I feel like this is a new life, a new job, a new purpose. I’m recognizing things about the girls’ behaviors and personalities that I’d wouldn’t so easily see if I were away now. I suspect things will just get more challenging as we start on solid foods (ugh, in the next week or two) and the girls get mobile and vocal. But for now, I’m feeling better and more comfortable with being an at-home mama.

After one week of staying at home with the babies, I feel, in (mostly) no particular order . . .

Guilt. I think this has been my overarching emotion this week, creeping up unexpectedly throughout the day. The first couple of days were the worst. I cleaned, did laundry, made mental to-do lists, over-played with the girls, searched for jobs.

After just two days, I broke down to Chris about my feelings of guilt. I felt — no, feel – horrible about not bringing in money. It makes me feel useless and guilty, like I’m not contributing in any significant or tangible way to the house. And frankly, when it comes down to it, I’m not. Is it great that I get to stay home? Uh, YES. Is it helpful? In a practical sense, not really. Without income, there’s no house to come home to.

Fear. Maybe paralyzing terror is more like it. I just realized that there are only a couple more paychecks coming in during the next month, and then we’re kaput on my end. Scary.

Separately, there’s the very physical fear of being home alone and vulnerable. What would I do if someone busted down the door — and I was nursing? What would happen if I took the girls out on a walk and some maniac attacked us at the lonely end of the park? What if we went out to run errands and I got in a car accident?

Loneliness. Toward the end of the week, I really just started feeling lonely. The girls are wonderful and amazing and beautiful, but having that many one-sided conversations with two infants can start to weigh on a body. I can see how so many women just become insulated in their homes. You feel lonely, you start to get paranoid, so you stay inside with the doors locked and chained. Plus, the thought of getting presentable for the public and packing up two babies just seems overwhelming.

Disbelief. I can’t believe I’m actually a stay-at-home mom. It feels like maternity leave again, except a lot harder.

Also, and honestly, I can’t even believe I feel this way at all. All of these conflicting emotions. The almost-painful love and tenderness I feel toward my babies. I never liked kids, really. And now I feel this way? To the point of quitting my job? I just can’t believe it.

Gratitude. Toward my husband, who is eternally supportive and optimistic. Thank you. I remind myself constantly of the women who would love more than anything to be able to stay home with their babies.

Toward my mom, whose feedback has been nothing short of amazing.

Relief. I have these horrible flashbacks of the look on Elise’s face when I left them that one day at daycare — that look on that innocent, wide-eyed face. “Ama, where are you going?” I left her there in that too-small swing with those indifferent strangers. My eyes were blinded with tears. My heart broke — no, ripped, burned and withered. That look. Good god, I’ll never forget that look on her face. If only to never see that unknowing look again, I would live under a bridge if I had to.

Finally. Finally. I don’t have to worry about who is taking care of my babies and how.

Rainy morning. The lack of sunlight in the windows meant the girls slept in. Althea was up first, mumbling and sucking her fingers to get our attention. Elise slept soundly by her side. I decided to forgo efficiency and nurse them one at a time, spending a rare few moments with them one on one.

I know and have read of twin mamas who feel a quiet and occasional resentment at having two babies to care for. If we had “just one” to care for, we could casually feed her, gazing down at one set of eyes, taking our sweet time to enjoy just one little body snuggled against our skin. If we had just one baby, oh! the free time we’d have to change only one dirty diaper, soothe only one crying infant, wash only one set of clothes, bathe only one wiggly little baby. Our child would be playing and babbling and sitting up and walking on time because we’d have enough time to devote to helping her learn and grow as an individual. With just one baby, we wouldn’t feel the guilt of cooing at one while the other stares at us expectantly, waiting for mom to pay attention to them, too. 

We’d go out more often without help because it’d be logistically possible to wander around the park or go grocery shopping with just one baby. We’d have a free spot in the backseat because there would be just one car seat. If we’d carried just one baby during our pregnancies, maybe, just maybe, we’d have a shot at wearing a bikini again in this lifetime. 

Do I have to quit my job? The cost of childcare for two is beyond our means. 

Althea’s little body breathing against mine. I nursed her casually, speaking to her softly and telling her how special she is, just on her own. How much I love just her.

I passed off Althea to Daddy so I could spend easy, slow alone time with Elise too. I love you, just you. These moments are rare.

I know it’s possible to love two babies with the same unending devotion at the same time. But how do we twin moms make sure that each baby knows how valuable they are as just one person?

We took the girls to the county fair today.

You don’t understand. I LOVE THE FAIR. I love it so much, only capitalized letters can possibly capture my love affair with fairs. Polish sausages with onions and peppers. Foot-long corn dogs. Multi-colored cotton candy in bags. Deep fried things on sticks. Airbrushed hats. Embroidery while-u-wait. Mechanical bulls. Teeny-boppers dressed skankily. Toothless rednecks with mullets. Carnies. The Zipper.

Yes, I love love love the fair.

Last year at this time, the girls were tiny balls of cells embedding themselves in my uterine lining. I didn’t know. I mean, I suspected. I kind of knew. But I didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get pregnant again right away (I’d miscarried just two months earlier). So I drank a few beers at the Budweiser tent. Chris and I rode my beloved Zipper and the Egg Beater. I smoked. I smoked a lot, with the abandon of a woman who secretly suspects she’s pregnant but is so self-indulgent she hasn’t given up cigarettes just yet.

Tomorrow, Monday, marks one year since I found out I was pregnant. I woke up feeling hopeful. Maybe a little scared and guilty too. I had a stash of early pregnancy tests ready, two days before my period was even due. With the early spring sun streaming in the bathroom window, I ripped open the foil packet to my First Response Early Pregnancy Test. No need to read the directions — I was a pro already, having spent entirely too much time Googling pregnancy test result photos. Piss piss piss. I set the test down, went about my business, peeking out of the corner of my eye for that second pink line.

And there it was. Faint as hell, but there it was.

I often think about my past. The way I’ve treated my family. The dangerous situations I’ve put myself in. All the horrible things I’ve done and said to the people I love most. Sometimes, the guilt and shame make me want to stab my ears with steak knives. Honestly, that bad.

So, while stuffing my face with a pretzel dog at the fair today, I glanced at these two (two!) little beings who trust me and their father more than anyone else in the whole wide world and I wonder what the fuck I’ve done in my miserable life that has given me this incredible privilege of raising two (two!) painfully beautiful little people.

Happy first year together, little people.

Okay, I am NOT EVEN saying that I look like this naked, but . . .

Seeing these photos of a naked, post-partum Naomi Watts kinda makes me feel better. You can see the fold of baby belly skin and how her stomach kind of protrudes outward. Her boobs also look especially maternal. Apparently, she had a baby in December. Oh, and she’s 40. She looks beautiful.

See, even celebrities can’t always undo the effects of mamahood right away! Embrace it, bitches!

Have you ever been to a chiropractor? Me neither. Well, not until now. And I love her. 

Starting at about 24 or 25 weeks into my twins pregnancy, I started having . . . issues with mobility. Basically, I sucked at walking. My coworkers commented that I was already waddling, and my perinatologist mentioned that I looked as big as a full-term singleton pregnancy. I started having nasty pain in my pelvis due to a separation of the pubic bone. Within weeks, my back started giving out. Etc.

As the pregnancy progressed, it got bad. Really bad. Chris often had to help me get dressed, get into bed, get off the couch, walk to the bathroom. He even had to help me pick up my foot to get my leg into the car. (On a related note, my husband is freakin’ amazing. What a man, to help his practically invalid wife pick up her freakin’ foot to get into a car. Thanks, babe.)

I assumed that it would get better after delivery. Wrong. The pain continued, just in different ways. My hips/pelvis/legs/knees/feet never learned how to cooperate with that whole walking thing. My back spasmed and ached every time I tried to get up from a seated position such that I was often bent at the waist, still compensating for a front-heavy weight that was no longer there. The weirdest thing was that my feet would fall asleep when I laid on my back in bed.

At my six-week post-partum visit at the OB, I rattled off my list of physical maladies to the nurse. She gave me the name of a chiropractor who has lots of experience with pregnant and post-partum ladies. 

A potential cure for the horrible pain? I called and made an appointment that same day.

Dr. T is a vivacious little thing with 30+ years experience popping and cracking and smashing people back into alignment. I was terrified, honestly, because Chris had had a bad experience with a chiropractor some time ago. Plus, the whole idea that they can snap your neck and paralyze you kind of freaked me out.

At my initial consultation, the doctor took X-rays of my neck, pelvis and lower back. Two days later, I was staring at my X-rays in horror. 

Several things:

• A healthy neck is supposed to have a gentle curve. Mine does not. It is stick straight, probably due to some car accidents I had years ago.
• I have a scoliosis in my lower back. My spine sways to the right near my waist.
• Rather than pointing upward, my hips are flared outward and are tilted forward.
• My tailbone is pointing out instead of curving down.
• My pelvis bone is still slightly separated.

With this information, the doctor went to work. She set me on her table, a contraption made up of a bunch of movable parts. First, I laid on my stomach. With her hand on my hip, she pushed down at the same time that she dropped a section of the table. BOOM-SNAP!

Woah wait. WTF is going on here.

I didn’t feel any pain. It was just totally fucked up and unexpected.

After popping my hips and butt, she flipped me over and went to work on my pubic bone. This was definitely scary, having this little woman balance her weight on my pelvic bone while dropping the table out from under me in order to pop my pelvis back into place. All the while, she is blabbering about all kinds of random nonsense. “Well, I had three babies in three years and raised them as a single mom” BOOM-SNAP! “I can’t believe you’ve been like this for five months, you could have come while you were still pregnant and” BOOM-SNAP! “See I don’t do that hocus-pocus stuff. It’s all biomechanics and science, really. We don’t need so much pain medication, we just need realignment” BOOM-SNAP! Probably the most whack thing she did was snap my neck while chatting about her daughter in college. 

$150 later and I was out the door, feeling that the treatment was a sham. The bitch had cracked a few bones and made a bunch of noise with the table, taken my money and sent me home, laughing at my stretch-marked ass the whole way to the bank.

But then . . .

But then, I went home and went about my day. And I had no pain. I could get up from the couch and stand up straight! My feet didn’t fall asleep when I laid down. This was a freakin’ miracle. 

So, do I believe in chiropractic care  now? You bet your dislocated ass bones I do.

I sucked at posting this week, but I had a really really good excuse.

Last Thursday, my husband told me he was going to Lowe’s to get a replacement light fixture for our bathroom. About an hour later, he called me and said he was lying – he was not at Lowe’s, but was instead on his way to get me a surprise and would be home in a while. An hour and a half later, he shows up with my best friend from California waiting for me outside. Surprise, indeed. Here’s the video of my shocked reaction. (For the record, I didn’t actually know she was coming, despite what I’m saying in the video.)

News from the baby front: The girls are rockin’. We had a visit to the pediatrician last Monday. Both babies have regained their birth weight plus some: Elise is now 7 pounds 1 ounce (up from 6 lb 3 oz last visit and 6 lb 13 oz at birth), while Althea is at 6 pounds 6 ounces (up from 5 lb 7 oz last visit, 6 lb 1 oz at birth). They’ve also gotten a little taller and their heads have grown a half inch each. The doctor wants me to supplement some vitamin drops for them, since breast milk is apparently low in vitamin D and iron. 

Nursing is getting so easy these days. That first week after the girls were born, I was pretty sure I was going to give up on breast feeding. I’m so glad I stuck with it. Just like everyone told me, breast feeding DOES get easier and it is SO worth it. When we first started, by far the most frustrating thing was that they’d fall asleep three minutes into it, making each feeding take close to an hour at times. Add the time for changing diapers, soothing, swaddling and setting back down to sleep, and we’re talking an hour and a half each session. If the babies eat every 2.5 – 3 hours, you can do the math to figure out that this was not a happy time for me.

It took a good 10 or 14 days, but the girls can now stay awake an entire feeding. If I have someone to help me, I can tandem feed every time in 10 – 15 minutes. Chris and I now have it down to a science for the night feedings:

1. Babies start stirring. I mumble to Chris to turn on the light.
2. Chris changes two diapers while I get set up to feed. Girls are now awake.
3. Chris brings the babies to the boobies. 
4. Babies feed for 10 – 15 minutes straight. 
5. Mom and Dad each burp a baby.
6. Swaddle Master Dad swaddles the hell out of each baby.
7. Girls get put back in bassinet. Sleep. Repeat.

This routine takes 30 – 40 minutes. Now THIS feels doable.

Also, they are staying awake more often during the day. After the 9-ish a.m. feeding, we all roll out of bed and the girls will quietly eat their hands and stare wide-eyed at something or other for a couple of hours. They then doze most of the afternoon and have more awake time in the evening. They’re making a lot more eye contact and are more aware of their surroundings and of who we are.

This evening, I was holding Althea and she grasped my thumb with both hands and stuck it in her mouth. Yeah, my kids are freakin’ geniuses.

One more thing: We got the pathology report back from the examination of the placenta and the girls are, indeed, identical. 

On the mama front, I ended up going in to see Dr. Amazing on Friday. You see, I was feeling pretty good the first two weeks after the delivery. But out of nowhere, I started having really awful pain in my nethers. Delayed Onset Vagina Pain, I guess. After I told him what was going on, he put my feet in the stirrups, plopped down on the stool between my legs and said, “Okay, let me see if I left my watch in here.” Boy, do I miss him.

He did a thorough poking-around of my ladybits before announcing that I have a “Golden Vagina,” my cervix is “in New Jersey” (his actual words) and everything is as it should be. Mega Motrin and the occasional Percocet are on the menu until the pain goes away.

As for the rest of me . . . Well, let me say that these last 20 pounds aren’t going down without a fight. My maternity pants are sliding off me, but I can’t get my pre-pregnancy jeans past my flabby ass.

Also, nursing bras suck. The ones I have come up really high on the chest and a couple of mine are racer-back style, so I can’t wear any regular tops anymore. I guess it doesn’t matter too much, seeing that I spend most of my time topless on the couch with two babies sucking on my boobs.

Random-yet-related thought: I find it odd that when I had what was, in retrospect, a decent body, I was self-conscious to the point that I was sometimes embarrassed to be naked in front of my own husband. Now that my stomach is distended and sliced up with stretch marks, my skin is sagging and loose, I have dark circles under my eyes, and my boobs look like something straight out of National Geographic, I don’t give a flying fuck who sees me naked.

Here’s a cute picture for making it this far. 

I finally explored my post-partum body for the first time.

I’ve been so afraid to look at it, to touch it. Every time I’ve brought my hand to my stomach since giving birth, I’ve broken down in tears with longing for my pregnant belly. You see, despite the excruciating pains and incessant complaints, I loved my pregnant body. The feeling of having my babies inside of me, so safe and warm and cared for, made me feel alive. Whole. Feminine. Purposeful. Attractive. Freakish, even, in a way that I liked. The babies’ kicks were never annoying. Even toward the end, when the girls decided to stretch completely straight so that I couldn’t bend forward whatsoever, I loved every bump and kick that emerged . . . yet was held within . . . my pregnant body.

And yet . . .

And yet, I was afraid. Over the weeks, I saw my body change. I saw the unmistakable zig-zags of stretch marks come forth and multiply. I’d push my skin together to get a glimpse of what I was in for once my uterus emptied. I was scared that I’d hate my new body and that I wouldn’t be as loveable.

Then, I had my girls. The most difficult physical challenge I’ve faced by far. But I did it. I did it. My body did it. And along with two new daughters, I had a new body to embrace.

It’s tough going 30 years with one body and getting a whole new one in just a few months.

My stomach is a strange landscape now. The skin is loose and lined with stretch marks. It sags and hangs low over my pelvis. The dark linea nigra is still there, dirt brown and crooked as the day I delivered. Over my now-wider hips are short, sharp gashes, purple stretch marks spread like train tracks over the plush padding of maternal fat. Notches on the belt for all the weeks I carried my babies. My breasts are full and engorged with the milk that nourishes these two tiny beings.

Elise and Althea. My daughters.

Pawing at the soft, crepe-y skin, running my fingertips over the grooves that line and encircle my stomach, I cried. I cried hard. I grabbed at the paunch that once held my babies. And instead of hatred, I felt love. This strange new skin once held my daughters. For that, I must love it. I have two healthy babies. This body accomplished something tremendous and indescribable.

My stomach will never again be taught with youth. My nipples will never again be pert and pink, virgin. I have a mother’s body now, scarred and ravaged with signs of life.

Baby pretzel

Turns out my maternity pillow is good for making baby pretzels, too.

The girls are doing well, with plenty of hiccups (both literally and figuratively) here and there. Nursing gets a tiny bit easier every day, especially now that I tandem nurse for most feedings. Let me tell ya, having one baby at each boob is pretty difficult. But thanks to my ever-patient and helpful husband, it’s getting done. The time savings alone is worth it. Nursing the babies back-to-back takes about an hour and a half, maybe more. So with feedings about every three hours, you can imagine it pretty much sucks (pun intended, of course). But by nursing at the same time, we get both girls fed, burped, changed and swaddled in about an hour. 

How long can I keep this up? I don’t know. I’ve been pumping to get a stash of milk saved up. I’d been looking forward to the two-week mark to introduce expressed breast milk in a bottle to save even more time, but now I’m feeling reluctant to do it so quickly when we’re just getting the hang of tandem feedings. 

I’m already starting to get anxious about going back to work. It seems so deeply wrong to go back after six or eight weeks, especially with two babies. I haven’t talked to my doctor about how much leave he’ll write a note for, and I haven’t talked to my boss at work yet to see what my options are. I hate that I have to worry about this at all. 

Physically, I’m feeling pretty damned good, aside from the fact that I’m randomly passing bloody jellyfish in the toilet and my vagina hurts sometimes. My hips/back/pelvis are starting to figure out how to walk a little better these days. I still haven’t gotten up to a decent walking speed, but I’m working on it. I also can’t squat down without screaming for help back up either, thanks to my totally f’d knees from the pregnancy. My belly pooch is smaller these days, but definitely still looks like something between a beer gut and a very low-lying early prego belly.

My boobs, meanwhile, are ROCKIN. After we’re done having kids and I cut my self to bits in an attempt to regain some youthfulness to my body, I’m so getting these boobs put in. They are spectacular, even if they do leak like milk faucets.

My first post-partum belly pic. Looks an awful lot like my 20 week pic, doesn’t it?

I’ve been getting lots of requests for an update. As you can imagine, things are very hectic around here. So here’s my update in list form:

• Yes, I have gone to the bathroom multiple times without incident. I did not have any tearing or stitches, so it hasn’t been an issue.
• The girls are doing awesome. We’ve had to supplement with formula because they lost over 11% of their body weight within two days, but they’re doing great.
• Nursing is going well, though it is a challenge. Luckily, I had a militant crazy nurse on my last day who set me straight and showed me how to REALLY nurse. She saved my ass, seriously.
• I miss being pregnant. A lot. I have seriously lost my shit on several occasions and I hope I can keep my head about me. Longer post on that to follow.
• My pelvis still hurts like hell.
• I still waddle and my back and hips haven’t figured out what to do with a heavy but empty uterus yet.
• I can reach all parts of my legs now.
• I can sit upright on the toilet like a normal person.
• My house is a fucking disaster.
• I am jaundiced and have a tough time staying on my feet for very long because my iron’s low.
• My legs have shrunk down from their tree trunk-like state, but my feet are still really swollen.
• Someone told me that when you have a baby, you go to the hospital with a husband and leave with an idiot. I feel sorry for them. Chris has been nothing less than totally amazing. Thank you, babe. Over and over. Thank you.
• I am curious about the state of my vagina, but am too scared to look.

I’m sure there’s more. If you have specific questions, leave a comment!