Margot's birth story, Part II

Well, this story takes off where Part I ended. In my last post, I recounted the story of Margot’s birth – an intervention-free natural water birth, which was far and wide the most profound and empowering experience of my life. I had an iron will and a driven outlook on a woman’s body’s capability to rise to the challenge of childbirth; and after 14 hours of active labor, my sweet squirmy girl was born.

Shortly after her birth, I was moved from the birthing pool to a hospital bed in the room we were in; the hospital’s protocol was that the placenta must be delivered on land, so to speak, in order to accurately gauge the amount of potential blood loss. Fair enough, I thought, and waddled over to a bed. My midwife, Edie, who I can’t tell you for certain is not an angel walking among us, kneaded on my belly to engage my placenta; out it came, and I think the population of the greater Midwest heard me howl. Once that was over, though, Edie praised me for my hard work in getting Margot here, said that I had achieved my goal of a drug-free birth, but that I needed to know that I had sustained a severe laceration when Margot flew out of me, and as a surgical team was on its way down to perform the repair, she was offering me drugs to withstand the pain of surgery.

Well, I may be a hardcore advocate of natural childbirth, but please don’t paint me with the wrong brush – medication-free surgery is just not my jam. So bring on the drugs, I said, with the understanding that they wouldn’t interfere with my tiny nursing newborn, who happened to be clamped on to my breast at that moment.

It was less than a minute before everything went loopy. I remember being told that whatever it was they were giving me wasn’t going to knock me out, but that it’d numb the pain in spite of the fact that I’d still be conscious, and still able to hear and speak. Now, I haven’t spent a lot of time on the operating table – at that point, actually, it had been zero time whatsoever – but I can only liken the effects of those drugs to what it feels like to have consumed a bottle of wine or two (or four) on one’s own. My eyeballs were swimmy, my speech was slurred, and it felt a bit like everyone in the room was talking in low, slow-mo voices. (I can only assume I’m factually wrong about this.)

I distinctly remember a number of people shuffling in (how many, I can’t be sure – three? Four?), and only learned in retrospect that this was a small team of medical students being led by one proper surgeon. Why I was never asked permission before I was made into a hands-on guinea pig I’ll never know, but I will always be resentful of this.

The team assessed the situation, and I could hear them going back and forth over the final consensus of my laceration. “Fourth-degree, would you say?”

“No, third, I think.”

“Yes, third.” Said someone else. Okay; so they had agreed it was a third-degree tear; now to work on a plan of attack.

Everything that ensued is all wrapped up in my mind as vividly clear enveloped in a fuzzy outer shell. From the moment they started stitching – no; from the moment they injected me with some further layer of pain-numbing medication – I realized this wasn’t going to be pain-free at all. I felt every needle prick, every poke, every pull. I was, as I said in my earlier post, floating somewhere between the precipice of hell and snug within the heart of pure bliss. My focus was entirely on Margot nursing on my chest, and on Daryl, standing bedside, holding my hand while I squeezed the very life out of his own. And yet I couldn’t shake this team of surgical workers who were stitching me up, and going over what I can say confidently was all too much back and forth about what needed to happen with regard to proper repair. They weren’t sure, and I was suffering immensely.

As it goes, though, it finally came to and end. I remember a doctor named James (“Hey! That’s what Margot’s middle name is!”) telling me that while I needn’t be alarmed, there was a piece of hymenal tissue that had torn during childbirth, that I was going to see if and when I looked at the …construction site, should I say. Since I was still looped up on drugs, I’m sure I managed nothing more than an, “Oh-kay…thahnkyou..vurrymuch.” And it wasn’t until a few hours had passed that I understood the gravity of what he had said. A piece of live tissue – something that was meant to be snug and safe and sound up IN my body – was not in it at all.

Now, anybody who’s given birth can attest to what a horror scene a vagina is like immediately postpartum. I don’t need to write about it in order to convey just how terrified I was of my own body in the hours and days that followed childbirth. And to add insult to injury, I had a piece of tissue prolapsed and veritably snapping its jaws at me every time I looked down. I took what Dr. James SomethingOrOther said to heart, though, and trusted that this tissue would retreat, and that my body would heal on its own time.

Suffice it to say, though, days and weeks and months passed and I was in chronic pain. The tissue eventually did retreat, but still remained visible, and it caused me pain in all areas; I couldn’t walk or sit comfortably, and don’t even mention sex. I’d burst into tears just thinking about it. Five months went by and I grew ever weary that I’d ever have enjoyable sex again, let alone be able to conceive another baby when the time came. I slinked into a depression over this as well as a Molotov cocktail of other factors – namely sleep deprivation, an untimely end to my maternity leave, and a case of eczema that swallowed up one of my fingers on my left hand, leaving me without a fingerprint, even; it was a physical manifestation of the debilitating stress and anxiety I was feeling every day. So I decided I needed to address my situation, and I made an appointment to talk to my doctor about what I was going through. She confirmed what I’d been afraid of – that my body wasn’t likely to heal any further, so if I was experiencing pain, we were going to have to pursue some sort of reparative surgery.

Within minutes, I was scooped up under the wing of the surgeon who gave me my hope and my life back – Dr. Ruth Merid – she couldn’t have been much older than me, if at all, and exuded confidence and strength. And without a doubt, she was my saving grace. Within two weeks, I was lying on her operating table while she effectively undid the work of that surgical team five months prior, and put me back together again. It was a long road back from that surgery, though, since I was essentially recovering from childbirth for the second time in a five-month span; but recover I did, and even though it took a year from start to finish, the advent of Margot’s first birthday saw me finally dusting off my knees and seeing my future and my present with hope rather than fear.

The fact that Margot’s first birthday coincided with her forays into experimenting with temper tantrums and other such toddler behavior, though, was a different battle altogether. One, though, that at least followed afterward instead of crashing head-on into my broken body and spirit. Onward and upward I went, and in spite of newfound challenges being thrown at me from every direction, I was unspeakably blessed at my recovered ability to, you know, put on a pair of shoes and walk to the end of my driveway.

Margot's birth story, Part I

It feels appropriate to say that Margot’s birth story started two days before she was born. It was early February 2013, and I was officially 40 weeks + 1 day overdue, lying on the table in a doctor’s office, with my midwife telling me that no, sorry, the baby hasn’t dropped yet, so you’re still only 2cms dilated, with no likely sign of anything getting moving anytime soon. I left that room some time later feeling deflated, as you can imagine, and positive that I’d be the first woman in the world to remain pregnant forever. I rounded up all my closest girlfriends that evening to sit around a table at a café, gorging on cheesecake while they empathized to their finest abilities. It was an evening of complaining, wistful thinking, and commiserating. That night, I went to bed with a tummy full of cake, a belly full of baby, and an acceptance that I’d just have to hang on a little bit longer – albeit a weak acceptance it was.

The next morning was a Saturday, and after sleeping in (as much as I could at that point, anyhow – sleep wasn’t my finest skill since I was rolling around and getting up to pee in the night like it was my full-time job), I waddled to the bathroom only to realize – okay wait – is that my mucus plug?? I had been experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions for months leading up to this, and that morning I was feeling them with relatively stronger intensity, but suffice it to say they never once had me batting an eye; I could feel my belly tightening and cramping up every so often, but the contractions were painless. So when I saw blood that morning, I suddenly found myself enlightened at the prospect that maybe I’d end up meeting my baby after all…! Not that day, I reckoned, and not the next, but just maybe the one after that. I got myself up and ready for the day and had a better outlook on things.

The day went on, and more of my plug passed. And in hand with that came these stronger contractions. They still weren’t anything particularly noteworthy, and if anything I actually found them kind of fantastic because a) it meant my body was gearing up to birth this babe of mine, and b) would you believe me if I told you I actually had this twisted, “bring it on” mentality with regard to labor? I actually dared it to come at me because I wanted to take it on and see just where my limits laid.

The day passed without anomaly, and that evening we had plans for our friends to meet us at our place, and we’d walk to one of our favorite restaurants for dinner. The streets were laid thick with snow thanks to a recent blizzard, so the roads were quiet and the streetlights lit our path as we walked a mile toward pizza and hot chocolate. My contractions at that point had increased in strength, and although I didn’t think much of it, every handful of minutes I’d have to yell out to everyone to just hang on a sec… “Just give me a minute to ride this out…” before the cramping would pass, my body would relax, and I could walk at a reasonable pace again. We ate our dinner, talked, laughed, and had a great time. It wasn’t until we were in line at a coffee shop picking up our hot chocolates for the walk home that the thought crossed my mind, “I think I might be in labor.” I said it out loud to Daryl, at which point my heart nearly exited my body via my mouth (or maybe my butt), and I got weak in the knees out of nervousness. There was something about saying it out loud – like, did I just say that? Am I really in labor? No. I can’t be. I suddenly barely thought of myself as pregnant – I was the girl whose friends got pregnant while I tried fruitlessly, peeing on negative test after negative test. People around me go into labor; people on TV do, too. But not me. I don’t go into labor.

We walked a mile back to our house, and in my total denial, we made plans to meet these same friends for breakfast the next morning at 10 o’clock. “See you in the morning!” we said, and we climbed the stairs up to our second-floor duplex. Once we got up there, though, it occurred to me that I might want to start timing my contractions. So I opened up the app on my phone, and while we watched TV, I started cluing into the fact that my contractions were happening every four or five minutes. A couple hours went by, then we decided we should get some sleep in case things started to really gear up. We packed a hospital bag just in case, and got ready for bed.

I think I lasted about 10 minutes, though, before realizing there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to be able to sleep. These contractions were surely nowhere near what they’d end up being, but they meant business nonetheless. I crept out of bed so Daryl could sleep, and I headed back to the living room to labor on my balance ball until I couldn’t take it anymore. About three hours went by, and at that point it was 1:30am and my contractions were closer to three minutes apart – four at most. I called the hospital to ask for some advice since my water hadn’t broken and I wasn’t in the throes of pain, but I was certain I was in labor – and sure enough, they said come on in. So I woke Daryl up, told him it was time, and I’m pretty sure he was up, dressed and with his shoes on before he was even quite awake yet.

We made a wholly uncomfortable drive to the hospital, and checked in at the ER, where we were escorted up to triage in the birth center. This was where we met the on-call midwife – the woman who’d end up overseeing the majority of my labor & delivery, save for the final two hours when a shift change happened. She was a surly woman with a curt demeanor who examined my belly, told me that this baby of mine was going to be massive, and said that since I was still only at 2cms (What?? Seriously?), “these contractions you’re feeling are nothing. Honey, they’re gonna get so much worse,” she said. THANKS. Then in between contractions I daydreamed about clocking her in the face.

Eventually we were brought to our birthing room, where a really kind nurse said to us, “Here we are! Here’s the room in which you’re going to have your baby!” And I think Daryl & I both gulped in unison. If my heart hadn’t fallen out of my butt by that point, it did just then. The nurse got us all set up, put me on a bed, and advised us to get some sleep before things really got going. Well with all due respect, I thought, I came here because I can’t sleep through this. If it’s not happening in my own bed, it’s sure as hell not happening here in the hospital. But she left us alone in a dimly lit room, and told us to buzz her if we needed anything.

Now Daryl remembers this as the time in which he laid on a makeshift chair-bed, in the corner of our hospital room, waiting for me to fall silent – knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sleep through my laboring moans – he’d be able to sleep as soon as he heard me relax and drift off. Except that as he recalls it, it was only about 30 seconds of him thinking that okay – this was it! We could get some sleep! – before he heard me scream out, “OH, SICK! EW! DISGUSTING!”

“What?! What’s going on?” He answered.

“My water broke! Ew. Ew. Ew.” I had been lying there on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to relax and fall asleep, when I felt what I can only describe as a water balloon pop between my legs. It was quick, it was painless, and it was warm and disgusting. It caught me entirely off guard. So we called the nurse in, and from this point onward I can’t recount the details with much accuracy. My plan all along was for a water birth, but they won’t let you in the tub before you reach 5cms. I don’t know how far along I was at that point, but I wasn’t there yet – because I instead labored in the tub in the bathroom. From my fuzzy memory, I recall that things geared up immensely from this point on. I remember drifting in and out of focused consciousness, moaning loudly, and being offered intermittent sips of water and bites of banana. I remained motionless and I moved this way and that, gripping the shower handles with the strength of the Gods. It’s amazing I didn’t wrench them out of the wall.

All I remember thinking as I endured each contraction with deep, labored breathing and knuckle-busting hand-holding was that I was going to explode if somebody didn’t check me and tell me I was 5cms. And once I was, once I moved from the bathtub into the birthing tub, that I wasn’t going to last much longer if somebody didn’t check me and tell me the baby was crowning. I labored in the birthing tub for what I can only tell you felt like days – weeks, even. Time stopped and swallowed me up. I weathered each contraction on my knees, with my arms draped over the edge of the tub and my face rested on the edge. I did it until my bottom half fell asleep, then was prompted to change positions to regain blood flow. Daryl held my hand, blew on my face, rubbed my back, and my midwife (post-shift-change – a veritable saint of a woman) coached me along with words of support, and poured water down my weary spine. The pain I felt was immense; the contractions so strong I’m not sure I didn’t spend most of them hanging from the ceiling. If I didn’t know up to that point what kind of laborer I was, I knew now I was a fierce and vocal one. Each inhale was swift, and each exhale was a deep and labored moan. Either that or an accidental YELL.

Eventually, after what had to have been months and years of contractions and breathing, I felt my body start to push. It was beyond my control, and so “this is it!” is what I thought. Well – sans exclamation point, I’m sure, because I was so exhausted there’s no way my brain had any punctuation to offer. So I pushed, and I pushed, and I pushed. With all my might. “ANYTHING??” I remember thinking. “IS SHE CROWNING?” I’d reach my hand down to check - I so badly wanted to feel my baby making her way out – but nothing. I pushed and pushed for what legitimately felt like hours, only to be told in retrospect that it was about half an hour altogether. Everything culminated when my midwife said, “Okay Sandy, you’re probably feeling what we call, ‘the ring of fire’. It’s your baby making her way through your cervix, and it’s gonna burn.” Oh I felt it, alright. I think I still feel it.

Finally – FINALLY – I got word that my baby was on her way out! “Push, Sandy!” they said, and told me to push again. I did, and on one of the final contractions, I managed to get her head halfway out; but then the contraction ended, and my midwife got worried. “Okay,” I was told, “your contraction has passed, but we need you to push this baby out anyhow. Push as hard as you can.” So I did, and in a split second I felt her rush out of my body. Just like that, it was over. There was this 7lb, 14oz daughter of mine in the water, and I lifted her out and placed her on my chest. I don’t even think I cried – I just stared at her in wonder, half panting, half laughing. I did it; I birthed my baby girl in the water, unmedicated. Words can’t even come close to describing how I felt. I was over the moon.

A few minutes passed, and Daryl cut the cord, and my wee girl and I were moved out of the tub and onto a bed so that I could deliver the placenta. (Oh – can I get an amen over how birthing a human being didn’t even hold a torch to the pain of delivering a placenta?) Then shortly after this, I remember being told that I’d suffered a severe tear, and a surgical team was coming in to stitch me back up. The fact that I was improperly repaired over the course of the following 45 minutes is a story for another day, but suffice it to say I lived those minutes somewhere between the precipice of hell and snug in the heart of bliss while I nursed my brand new baby girl. Daryl held my hand all the while, and we marveled at what love we were experiencing for the very first time.

There, lying on my chest, laid this wiggly baby girl that caused my heart to explode into a thousand pieces; she in her tiny glory turned me into a mother and forever changed the way I look at the world.

My best tips on pregnancy, labor & all that follows.

Even though I ended up being one of the last of my friends to have a baby, there still ended up being a few stragglers who had their first babies after I did. And if I'm not mistaken, there are others of you out there who have yet to have babies. Here's my best list of things I wish somebody had told me in the days and weeks leading up to having a baby.

Diapers

- Without a doubt, I have to wholeheartedly sing the praises of Target-brand diapers (Up & Up). These diapers scared me for the first few months, because I had been gifted an extensive supply of Pampers diapers, and in my head, name-brand rules all while off-brand ends up being more of a Plan B thing. We used Pampers until they ran out, then decided on a whim to tap into some Up & Up diapers that a friend had passed on to us. As it turns out, they're AMAZING. Granted they don't have the frills that name-brand diapers have, like cute designs, wetness indicators or perfumes (not that I want that, though), but they're absolutely fantastic diapers with no tendency to leak, and they're half the cost of Pampers. Never again did I buy anything but Up & Up, nor will I for any future babies we may have.

- I will say, though, if you don't have access to Target or you prefer name-brand products, I'm inclined to tell you that if I could accompany a Pampers suggestion with lights and music, I would. They're great diapers, and more importantly, they're not Huggies.

- Because friends don't let friends buy Huggies-brand anything. Least of all their diapers. The consensus among anyone I've ever talked to is the same: do not waste your money on Huggies. They're awful.

Wipes

- Since we're on the note of Huggies, stay away from their wipes, too. They're like wet paper towel - they'll actually rip. No good.

- Pampers wipes are really fantastic. I got one large pack of them at one of my baby showers; they're great, quality-wise, and they have a nice smell if you're into that sort of thing. I thought I was, until my brain started associating that perfume smell with baby poop and now a whiff of them makes me want to hurl. Anyway though, that's neither here nor there. So as I was saying, Pampers offers good quality; the price, though, not awesome. I'm like a broken record when I say this - Target is where it's at.

- Target's Up & Up wipes. I swear by these wipes. I buy the unscented ones, so I can't speak for their perfumed ones, but they do the job well, and the price is fantastic. (And side note: I also use them as makeup removers. They're gentle on bums AND faces!)

Nursing Pads

These are something you're going to want to love, as they're going to become an extension of your own body. From the time that my milk came in, about 4 days after giving birth, I wore nursing pads round the clock, seven days a week. The only time I didn't have a bra on was when I was in the shower. You'll figure out your own groove, but for me, it was hard to even make it from the shower to my clothing without drip-drip-dripping milk down my legs and onto the floor. So nursing pads were my best friends.

Don't forget that for the most part, when you're nursing your baby from one boob, the other boob is leaking like crazy; and if your boobs are full (after an extended period of not feeding, for example), when your baby starts crying and you're getting settled and getting your boob out, watch out for spraying. Milk is just going to start shooting out in every which direction. So, again, nursing pads. You want. You need.

- Having said that, I've tried a few different kinds, and have pretty much (again), settled on Target brand (is this post sponsored by Target? No it most certainly is not. I swear.) They're not amazing, but they do the job well. Their only real downside is that they're kind of lumpy - i.e. they don't really conform to a boob as well as Johnson brand, for example. So if you're wearing a thin bra and a thin shirt, it'll be obvious that you've got a nursing pad in. but they're really absorbent, and they'll keep your boob relatively dry.

- Johnson brand. I have a love/hate/mostly-hate relationship with these. I bought a box, really loved the way they conform to my boob (nobody can tell you're wearing them), but I absolutely hate their absorbency. They stay damp, and the absorbent gel stuff leaks out! One day I noticed this weird clear jelly-like stuff on Margot's face, and had no idea what it was...until I went to change my nursing pads and saw a bunch of it around my nipple. Awful! I have no idea whether or not she ever ingested any of it, but suffice it to say I never bought another box, and I was changing nursing pads very frequently. Invest in these at your own risk.

- Lansinoh brand. These suck. I expected more since they're name-brand, but their only perk is two sticky patches (to stick them to the inside of your bra...the others just have one patch). They're stupid because of a fold down the middle that divides the absorbency into two sections. totally defeats the purpose, in the name of easier packaging. Not good. Don't bother.

Nursing Bras

Hilariously, I wore a nursing bra with a hoodie overtop for like, a ridiculous length of time after Margot was born. My sister still laughs at me for it. I laugh at myself for it. I couldn't wrap my mind around how to comfortably wear a regular shirt and maintain insta-access to my boobs, so a zip-down hoodie and jeans was my outfit of choice for months. Because I'm really trendy like that.

Rather than just being hoodie-clad for months, I recommend a nursing tank top that you can wear over a nursing bra (or instead of one, if your boobs can handle that. Mine couldn't.), and underneath a normal shirt if you're concerned with keeping from exposing your whole torso when nursing. I don't have a wealth of information here since I went with a Gillian & O'Malley tank and hated it.

- So as far as nursing bras go, don't have much to say about these, as i don't own multiple brands. I invested in Bravado brand, and realized after awhile that they just don't withstand the test of time. I was really happy with them at first, but I wore out both of the ones I purchased within about six months or so. These are the ones I bought: Bravado's OriginalNursing Bra (Basic Style), and their Body Silk Seamless Nursing Bra. I preferred the body silk one over the original, because the body silk comes with inserts, and because the original is a lift-over-your-head one. In the end, though, neither of them were offering me great support and for future babies I'll do some more bra-foraging before buying anything else.

Breast Pump

- I own the Medela Harmony. I got this at the recommendation of a good friend of mine who has used it for all three of her babies, and swears by it. I also got it because the concept of an electric pump really creeps me out. Anyway, the Medela Harmony is great.

Breastfeeding

- I really recommend Ina May Gaskin's Guide toBreastfeeding. I read this while I was pregnant, and it's full of fantastic information that'll get your confidence up, and help you learn methods, positions, proper latch, etc.

- Whether or not you read that book, know that a proper latch is VERY important. Do your research. And don't be afraid to break the latch while you're feeding, time and time again, if you need to. It's worth getting it right.

- To cope with my nipple pain and to advance healing, I used Lansinoh-brand lanolin. It's fantastic; get some if you need it. Actually, get some anyway. Your nipples will thank you.

- If you're being threatened with mastitis due to a blocked milk duct, address it STAT! I'm not saying this is a hard and fast rule, but take heart knowing that I was able to avoid mastitis by making a concerted effort at freeing the duct. Hot compress, nurse your baby with his/her nose pointing toward the blocked duct, and (this sounds crazy, I know), take a fine-toothed comb into the shower, lather it and lather your boob with soap, and comb your boob downward, as though you're combing the block out of the duct. It WORKS.

- Another good resource for breastfeeding information, aside from Ina May's book, is Dr. Jack Newman. He's from Toronto, and is a leader in the field. http://www.breastfeedinginc.ca/

- And, of course, La Leche League - a community of women all over the world dedicated to providing breastfeeding help, support and resources to new and seasoned mothers.

Childbirth

- Back to Ina May Gaskin: I can't speak highly enough of her Guide to Childbirth. Whether you're planning on giving birth naturally, doing it with the help of drugs, or haven't yet decided, read this book! It will empower you, and give you everything you need to know about how to work your way through pregnancy, labor and delivery. It's a fantastic book, and it taught me virtually everything I know - relief positions, deep breathing, etc. It also offers tons of birth stories of women who've done it naturally and had really positive experiences.

- Don't forget the power of your mind once you go into labour. Pick a focal point that works for you. Have your partner or doula squeeze your hips, massage your lower back, be a lean-post for you... whatever you find you're needing in the moment, go with it. Your mind is a powerful thing, as is your body, and you can really retreat within yourself to help work through contractions.

- BREATHE. This is number one. Swift breath in your nose (count to four), slow breath out your mouth (count to eight). Relax every muscle in your body. Keep your brow un-furrowed. Relax your lower jaw. keep your shoulders loose. And breathe.

- Take classes! I was never really into this idea since I did so much reading, and felt like there wasn't a ton I could learn from classes - and I really didn't want to pay for them. But then I found this group of doulas in my neighborhood called the Childbirth Collective, and they offered a free class each week about something different. I got to choose which ones I wanted to go to, and skip the ones I wasn't interested in. It was a great time to pick up bits of information here and there, hear again about all the things I'd read, ask questions, and chat with other expectant mums. The classes can just be really fun - if only to mingle with other big bellies! and you'll get peace of mind and confidence out of them.

- One thing that I learned in one of my classes is that through each of the four stages of labour (early labour, active labour, transition, pushing), the hormones that your body & brain need to cope and push forward take about 30 minutes to kick in once each new stage comes about. So you can be totally in the zone for early labour, then you bump up to active labour, and there could possibly be a half-hour lag time where you start to feel overwhelmed. This is where most women give up and feel like they're defeated. But then the hormones kick in, and suddenly they're back in the zone! Once during Margot's birth I actively felt ready to throw in the towel and toss to the wind everything I'd been hoping for with regard to a natural childbirth; I remembered throughout labour consciously telling myself, "do not say out loud that you can't do this." Because I didn't want to let the thought in. It did happen - once! - i said it - but the struggle passed, and on i went. Just remember you CAN do this! Women have been doing it for a bajillion years. And once you're done, you'll feel like the most powerful amazon woman there ever was.

General

- kellymom.com is an AMAZING resource for all things baby-related. Take advantage! It's a goldmine.

- Hormones. Don't feel bad if you find yourself overwhelmed in the days and weeks following birth. Postpartum hormones are real and powerful! And not lasting. So don't worry if you're completely scared, anxious, overwhelmed, freaked out, confused, happy/sad/happy/sad...post-birth is a crazy time, but things will regulate, and you will feel normal again. Remember that as everything does, this too shall pass.

- Your body. Give it a break. It takes TIME to heal. Time. Time. Time. The body is a powerful thing, but don't overwork it! Stay off your feet, eat well, drink plenty of water, soak in the tub, and relax. And give your body what it needs to slowly but surely get back on track.

You're strong and you're powerful. You're superhuman. The end.