Breathing room, or lack thereof

I've been issued a court-legislated restraining order from my dear darling daughter. And by that I mean Daryl just got home after a day at work, and having had received a number of texts from me containing a long list of expletives, he all but stuffed my feet into my boots and shoved me out the door so that I could take care of myself and pick up my scattered pieces. Today started out completely fine, and then transformed into an afternoon of me grasping desperately at straws in order to gather my Qi and become zen, then failing miserably, then opting out of even trying anymore whatsoever. This afternoon in its final form turned into an angry mess of noise while Margot bawled her eyes out on and off for hours, and I yelled back at her as if I was ever going to win a contest by making my voice louder than hers.

It's amazing how I can hear a voice travel through my head on repeat telling me not to let my own emotions rise up, match or rival those of a cranky toddler - and yet disregard it wholly while my heart screams back that I do not care - and it does so with great indignation - because right now I'm angry and she's angry and the angrier we are the angrier we get and yes it's very loud in here but WE'RE JUST BEING HONEST ABOUT HOW WE FEEL. And honest communication is the pillar of any good and healthy relationship, right?

And because correct me if I'm wrong, but is there anybody else in this house at this moment who's here to deal with this girl? Or to whisk me away to a cloud of pillows and feathers and billows of dry ice, then take over my role as mother and comforter and disciplinarian and supporter and teacher and nose-blower and tear-wiper and and and and and...?

And if a tree falls in the forest, will a toddler who only napped for 45 minutes today express any notion of level-headedness or rationality when there's a blanket touching her arm (the nerve) or when her sippy cup isn't placed precisely in the south-west corner of her crib? NO. The answer is no. So if another tree falls in the forest, ....no. I just don't care. It turns out that today I'm inevitably going to err on the side of extremely and overtly irrational in my response. I'll issue a formal apology later. But for now, I'm stewing and decompressing. Because I'm lucky enough to have a husband who throws me out the front door, throw a handful of cash at me, and tells me to take the laptop and sit at Caribou Coffee while he insists that I don't dare walk back in the door a minute before dinner at 6:30.

Okay. Deep breaths.

I'm still a post-miscarriage pile of crap. Did you get that notion? I'm not writing frequently enough, I'm not nurturing my heart or my soul enough, and I've essentially turned into a sedentary lump that wafts between feeling like a firefly trapped in a mason jar, and like ...like a sedentary lump.

And how dare I yell and stew and swear and frown and stomp and whimper when I share my home and my life with this person?

I blew the dust off my camera the other day and took pictures of this heart-stoppingly beautiful human being; of this little person who nuzzles into my neck and tells me of her own accord that she loves me "so muts" and who laughs and dares me to tickle her armpits and who eats her weight in yogurt as though it's going extinct tomorrow and who dances with fervor to Sia's Chandelier and Toto's Rosanna and pretty much anything by Justin Timberlake.

Being a parent is an overwhelmingly wild ride. Raising a child demands of us every fiber of energy we possess, and then squeezes us harder at exactly the moment that we start to relent. It calls us to exercise superhuman levels of patience and humility, and to show unending grace even at our very weary worst, and somehow - somehow - raises us up all the while to do every one of these things with great and tireless love.

Even when we need to put our boots and coats on and lie down in the street and roll ourselves along down the road and drag our bodies by our cold and determined fingers to the nearest refuge / coffee shop for a series of long, deep breaths.

Lifting you up, up, up when you're feeling down, down, down

If there’s one message I might walk the streets hollering out at the top of my lungs, it would probably have something to do with reminding you that I’m okay, you’re okay, and that we’re gonna be okay. I’d probably be fervently reminding you that if you’ve just had a new baby, or even if it was kind of a while ago, those feelings you’re experiencing, and that voice in the back of your head that’s taunting you to throw in the towel – they will diminish and disappear. And while I can tell you with great certainty that hours or days or weeks later they’ll resurface, they’ll always just be hills or mountains that I know you can scale.

Because even though we’re all going through different things, as mothers, we’re also all walking down the same road. Whether a mother chooses to have an umedicated birth or an elective c-section, whether she endures episiotomy or vacuum or forceps, whether she births in a birth center or hospital or at home unassisted, whether she chooses to formula-feed or breastfeed exclusively, whether she opts for cloth diapers or disposables, or whether she chooses to stay home full-time or foster her career; we are all doing our absolute utmost to raise our babies and do exactly what’s right for them and for us, all the while bending backwards until our spines nearly snap in two.

Because no matter what path we're traveling, we’re all hanging on by a thread.

The weight we bear as mothers, as we hold up our children, our jobs, our partners and every other responsibility and relationship in our lives is nearly too great to bear on any day and over the course of every day.

Motherhood is hard; and nobody gets through those early days unscathed. Pregnancy, childbirth and parenthood are altogether rewarding, exhilarating, exhausting, trying, demanding, and beautiful. But if you’re new to this, if you’re on your knees, or if you’re barely scraping by, remember two things: you are not alone, and there exists an army of women behind you who support you and love you.

The things you’re feeling have been felt and endured by scores of women before you. I am one of them. Whether you’re experiencing postpartum depression or anxiety, or battling the overwhelmingly powerful effects of postpartum hormones, remember that this too shall pass. It gets better. It gets easier. Life has a way of priming us for greater challenges; and if you reach out, ask for help, and make yourself vulnerable, I promise you will feel the pull of that army lifting you up and out of that hole.

Sleep deprivation and postpartum hormones are a lethal combination – but they’re one that we’ve all experienced, and continue to. So again, I say: you are not alone. This will pass. And you are loved.

Eight weeks nine weeks no weeks

I never thought I'd be announcing a pregnancy this way. It just never occurred to me that at this stage I'd be talking about my second pregnancy as something that's already been and gone.

I didn't realize that the first time I'd blog about it I'd be reflecting on how I never got the chance to birth, meet, name, give life, or show love to my second baby.

When I went in for an early ultrasound at eight weeks pregnant, I expected one of two things: I'd either see a healthy, thriving baby, or that I'd be offered condolences; that they were sorry to be the bearers of bad news, but there's just no heartbeat to be found; that my baby had passed. I'm not entirely sure which outcome I was expecting, realistically, since I'd been spotting intermittently throughout the duration of my pregnancy, and I knew that even though I wasn't particularly losing sleep over it, that miscarriage would be a distinct possibility. Because at the same time, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this pregnancy was real. I felt it. I experienced all those familiar symptoms I had the first time around - the excessive fatigue and hunger, the mood swings, and those little uterine twinges that reminded me that a tiny human was coming into being within my body.

While lying on the table, though, with that cold goop on my abdomen and the ultrasound wand moving slowly across my lower belly, something in the back of my mind - or my heart - raised a red flag. There was my baby - albeit smaller than I expected it to be - but with a beating heart that just didn't seem quite up to par. The ultrasound technician didn't say anything, but when she timed the heartbeat, I knew something was wrong. She eventually stepped out, to go get the doctor on staff to come in for a consultation; and I waited in that dimly lit room for just long enough to know that their hushed discussion out in the hallway was probably focused more on how they were going to tell me than it was on what they were going to have to say.

I can only recount little blips of what the doctor told me - I think most of what he said washed away as his voice filled up the room and my ears, and eventually started to sound like white noise. "The baby is far too small for how far along you are - and its heart rate is very slow. You have a first OB appointment scheduled directly after this, I know," he said, "...but I'm going to recommend that you not bother going. We'll schedule another ultrasound a week from now, and if we don't see substantial progress, we'll know for certain that this baby isn't developing properly and we'll take matters from there." "I'm sorry this isn't good news," he continued, and asked if I had any questions. "No? Okay. We'll see you next week." Questions? I had a million of them. I had zero. I had a ringing and a buzzing filling my head and I needed to run away. I was thinking everything and nothing and everything and nothing. I was numb and I was exploding.

That day became a day of mourning. I cried harder than I've cried in a long time. I cried until I had a splitting headache, and I cried until I just couldn't anymore. 

I tossed and turned that night, and somehow woke up the next day feeling less attached. It became a day of holding on, loosening my grip, letting go, and then questioning everything I was feeling. Did I still feel pregnant, from an emotional standpoint? No. I must have let those feelings slip away. But physically, did I? I couldn't tell. Was my baby's heart still beating? I had no idea. Would it still be beating the following week, when I laid back down for another ultrasound? Your guess was as good as mine - though I hastened to believe that it would be.

The days that followed, though, became torturous. I clambered back up that muddy slope, desperately trying to cling on to every shred of hope and every minute possibility that my baby would be okay - that we'd all somehow miscalculated the dates - that the baby wasn't meant to be any bigger yet or that its heart wasn't quite ripe enough to be beating any faster. I calculated dates, I obsessed, I grasped at straws - and I implored the universe to speed up time and yet somehow slow it all down to a dead stop. I didn't know how to make it through an entire week not knowing what was happening - but never in my life had I so desperately wished for a day to come as I had simultaneously wished I could stop time so as to keep it from ever ever ever arriving.

My fear was fighting so strongly against my desire and I so deeply longed for and loathed Thursday, September 25, 2014. Waiting for that day to come was a torture form that I was anxious to be rid of; because I felt that if this book was going to close, I wanted it closed now. No more limbo. Please.

And when the day came, and I laid down on the table for that follow-up ultrasound, and saw my tiny, lifeless baby on that screen, it was like something in me finally felt free to exhale. Like the torture I'd been feeling all week prior wasn't so much associated with the impending loss as it was with the utter uncertainty that existed surrounding the whole thing. I had grieved, I had celebrated, I had prayed, I had begged, and I had hoped - and then finally, at long last, I was able to breathe. A little shallower, albeit, and through tears, but it surprised me that I ended up feeling more relief than anything else. At last I knew.

___________________

So I lost my second child. At nine weeks gestation, that little baby let go. I'll never know why, and I'll never understand, but I'm doing my utmost to trust that my body was in control.

My body now, though, is suffering those pains of loss. The surgery I just came out of, the aftermath, the medication, the sleepless nights, and the residual grief are all my very-real and very-present now. My body aches, it hurts, it groans. And I'm tired of being tired.

I know I have a long way to go with regard to figuring all this out for myself - I hope I actually manage to do it someday - but in the meantime, I'm walking along with this heavy heart of mine, doing my utmost to rise up and out of this great sadness I'm carrying over the loss of my little babe.

Today sucks and I am complaining.

As I write this, there's a little storm cloud hovering above my head; I'm sitting on a chair in my dining room gorging on chocolate peanut butter ice cream and effectively nursing a throbbing wound in a self-serving pity party. There's no question whatsoever as to whether I'm being dramatic, here - I am - but I'm on Day Four (going on Day Five) of single-parenting while Daryl's demanding work schedule requires him to spend nearly all waking hours away from home and the only time we're spending together are those quiet hours where we're fast asleep with drool running down our cheeks. Either that or we're conversing for fifteen seconds over which one of us should be on Margot duty since she's just woken up and is calling out for someone to hold her, and I make a point of taking every chance I get to lie in bed while someone else takes care of her.

But I digress. The amount of whining and crying and screaming I've weathered from one tiny human who stands, like, two feet tall has been far more than I can handle today. She was being a royal turd at home all morning, so I decided we needed to get out of the house so that she could be a royal turd somewhere else for a little while. I don't know whether she's working on a new tooth or going through a developmental leap or whether she's tired or gassy or what her deal is - and might I take this opportunity to implore the good Lord as to why he didn't equip babies and toddlers with some sort of adequate signage? - but at any rate, we were fresh out of Chill Pills in this house, so we went out.

And it was worth our while! I have to confess something, actually. It's something I feel weird saying, because this is entirely out of character for me, but I'm saying it anyhow: I went shopping. I bought clothes. Now for those of you who know me well, I absolutely loathe shopping. I can't stand it. My eyes glaze over when I stare at racks upon racks of clothing and over my dead body am I up for trying any of it on. Which is why Daryl, my husband, and Ashley, my middle little sister, are my saving graces and my personal shoppers - once every year or so, one or both of them has the opportunity to drag me through a few stores, grab stuff off the rack, and go, "Here. Try this on." And I obey, I fall in love with a few basics (I mean, serious basics. My wardrobe consists of jeans, t-shirts, tank tops and hoodies. I don't do "nice" well.), and we move on. Then I wear those pieces until they're full of rips and holes, and we start again.

So today I mysteriously for some reason took myself shopping at Target. We had just been there yesterday, as it happens (uh... I go there a lot), and I had walked past some really great stuff and I remembered how much I like Target's clothing. I usually buy all my clothes at H&M or American Eagle or Joe Fresh (if I'm lucky to be back in Canada!), so Target is never really on my radar. But today, because I was so at my limit and all my patience had dripped out my ears a few days ago, I went, and I tried on, and I bought. Only three things, I should say, so for me that's going crazy but probably not for you, but I felt better! Imagine that! I understood for the first time that feeling that people get when they need to shop out their frustrations.

Today just sucks, though. I swear I'm going to work on my attitude as soon as I'm finished writing this post, but I'm just so tired. Yesterday was a remarkably hot day considering how relatively mild this summer has been, and for some reason I thought Margot's nap time would be the perfect time to mow all the grass on our property. It took an hour, and by the end I was drenched in sweat, and I got a blister on the back of each of my heels and one on my hand, and today all my muscles hurt. And I'm tired and there's still laundry to do and dishes to wash and junk to put away and vacuuming to do and I think I've already swept the floors in this house 14 times today but I'm still stepping on crumbs and dirt and why isn't sock & slipper season here yet and I know that this is a run-on sentence and that it's just gratuitous complaining but it's my blog and I can complain about stupid stuff if I want to, right?

But why do toddlers have to be so hard? I mean, really - WHY do they have to be SO HARD? I should try keeping a tally of the number of times in a day I repeat myself saying, "Margot, don't touch that." "Margot, what did I tell you? Don't touch." "Miss Margot James. I have asked you nicely. You know that's a no-no. Do not touch that!" Then inevitably, "MARGOT. DON'T. TOUCH." And my voice comes out of my mouth sounding like Zuul's (please tell me you've seen Ghostbusters and you know what I'm talking about here).

Parenting involves so much push and pull and there are days where every limb is being stretched in a different direction and today just happens to be one of those days where the demands of motherhood and marriage and keeping a home from accidentally imploding became so great that I sent Daryl a text so long that it probably took him an hour and a half to read in full, in which I said something at least once about wanting to kill everyone I know. (I did say I was feeling dramatic today, didn't I?) I think I need a hot bath and a bottle of wine with a bendy straw.

Image source: Google Images

Your story matters, and this isn't a contest.

I know how easy it is to feel overwhelmed. Particularly when I was going through postpartum depression, I spent so much time floundering to stay above water. It was hard not to look at my life as a big-picture piece and wonder how on earth I was going to make it through the next five minutes, let alone the following weeks, months, or the entirety of my life as I knew it. I knew it was important to take each thing as it came, baby steps all the while, but depression and being overwhelmed tended to find me compounding issue after issue on top of one another until I was roughly the size of an ant standing at the bottom of a mountain of problems that I couldn't see how I'd ever get through.

I remember being in elementary school or high school and having my parents' friends brushing off whatever it was that I was going through - like if I said I was involved in this or that, or that I was up against x amount of assignments or exams, I remember these adults turning to one another and almost laughing at one another over how petty these issues of mine were, that I was calling "problems", so to speak. They'd talk to me and around me as though it was cute that I was feeling stressed about a test or social hurdles at school, but that if I thought that life was stressful now, I had another thing coming. Because as I can only imagine they were thinking, I had no idea what stress meant until I was up against things like mortgages or marital problems or employment struggles or the like. I remember on numerous occasions feeling indignant when adults made my problems out to be non-issues, when I felt very legitimately upset about this or that.

And now that I am an adult (well...am I? I could argue strongly that I'm still six in my brain; or that I'm actually still every age I've ever been - but whatever) ...or I should say in spite of the fact that I am an adult now, I still remember that feeling so vividly. I remember thinking how unfair older generations tended to be - that just because I'm only 16 doesn't mean I'm not a real person yet, that my emotions aren't weighty or legitimate, or that my experiences are somehow lesser than anyone else's. I remember being 18 years old and making a conscious decision to always remember what it felt like to be that age; that when I grew older, I needed to fight the tendency that adults seemed to have to make light or make less of what an 18-year-old was going through, or what things are like at that point in a person's life. I chose to make note of the importance of acknowledging the personhood of an 18-year-old; or of any teenager, because it felt important to me. It still does. I knew there would come a day when my own teenagehood would slip away from my memory - and it did - but I remind myself that even though they look like puppies and often act like idiots, they're muddling their way through life no differently than I am today.

I'm referencing this because I still very much notice this tendency when it comes to parenthood; whether it's brought on by people making passing comments, or even just by my own habit of holding my situation up next to somebody else's, I realized that this still exists today. We still have the inclination to belittle certain feelings or circumstances because we're holding them up to a greater standard - to think, "Oh, just you wait. This is nothing." It can be a mother of three telling a mother of one that she doesn't know what busy or exhausted means; as though a first-time mother feels even for an instant that she's got it easy. Or it can be a mother telling a mother-to-be to sleep now - sleep while you can - because as soon as that baby comes, you won't get a wink; as though they've forgotten completely how cumbersome it is to be in the final stages of pregnancy, and how little sleep she's actually even getting at this point - not to mention the gamut of emotions she's experiencing, notwithstanding total fear at what parenthood is going to end up being like.

Why aren't we investing more energy into supporting one another, and into reminding ourselves that the hurdles we face, no matter how paltry compared to someone else's, are not unimportant?

My struggles and your struggles are real, no matter how insignificant they may seem up against another person's; and that just because one person has fewer babies or a smaller workload doesn't make their struggles any less significant or staggering. We adapt, and we adjust, and life primes us for greater issues that we'll encounter along our way. So what someone else is up against, or what you might find yourself going through in the future, does not in any way belittle where you are or what you're feeling today. Don't let anyone make you feel like what you're going through is insignificant based on anyone else's situation. Your story matters.

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.

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.