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.

Motherhood is electric.

Never have I felt so alive as I have since becoming a parent.

What is it about motherhood that makes us feel equal parts deflated, sleep-deprived and haggard and yet somehow compels us to rise up every day, put one foot in front of the other, and greet these tiny beings with the same overwhelming feelings of love that we had the moment we met them for the first time? It's amazing, and yet it's no wonder, that a job so exhausting and fulfilling has the ability to stretch us in every which direction, and at the same time manages to leave us feeling as though we're overflowing with a love so strong it nearly knocks us over.

With childbirth, it's like the pain and struggle is proportionate to the subsequent joy, love and elation. With parenting, though, it's as though the pain and the joy battle to the death and each one simultaneously overrides the other until you're sure you can't handle another ounce of either and yet every fiber of your being cries out for more.

To me, being someone's mother seems akin to living without skin on. Like there's no protective layer - and everything feels electric and buzzing. Every feeling somehow bombards my senses and hits me square in the chest - but to the power of ten. Or a thousand, maybe.

Before I became a mother, there were days, weeks and entire months of my life that passed by in which I couldn't be bothered to feel much of anything at all; and yet somehow where I once waded through my days, I'm now scrounging to make it through excruciating minutes and hours - or I'm overtaken by such an intense level of joy I hardly know how I existed through all that time leading up to the moment in which I became a mother.

I'm not insinuating that if you don't have children you haven't lived, or that if you do, your life is somehow more fulfilling - I'm only saying that for me, my life - my me - began after giving birth. Although my identity does not remotely revolve around my daughter, nor does it revolve around motherhood, motherhood itself opened me up and shook awake the parts of me that were asleep for years, passed out and splayed on the floor. There exists meaning where none was before; I find purpose where before I had none; and I've somehow become a deeper, stronger more empowered version of myself.

The demands that motherhood places on us are staggering. Even on the best days, it's hard not to look at the bigger picture and wonder how we're going to make it through every trial, every struggle, every lesson and every period of hardship; especially when we find ourselves on the cusp of a[nother] emotional or mental breakdown.

But the magical, mysterious element to parenthood is how quickly and seamlessly our worries can be erased. It's cliche, I know. I just can't seem to spin the idea in any other way than to say that a kiss from my girl, or hearing her laugh, or feeling her blow a drooly, giggly raspberry into the crook of my neck is enough to erase every terrified and overwhelmed feeling I've ever felt. Without question, without reservation, without hesitation - her love for me swallows me whole and holds me tightly in the palm of her tiny little hand.

I am bowled over, I am scooped up and I am cradled by feelings equally paralyzing as they are comforting, compelling and captivating. And with great certainty, I know I am blessed beyond measure.

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

Enough is enough and we are enough.

For those of you who don’t know – and I think it’s safe to say that nearly all of you do, since I posted and linked to a picture of myself stripped down to nearly nothing – last month I was a participant in Ashlee Wells Jackson’s 4th Trimester Bodies Project. I was one of hundreds of women who were lucky enough to snag a spot in a very illustrious project; the market was very unforgiving, as hundreds if not thousands of women vie for a slot in each city this project visits, and only a couple dozen people get in; and it just so happens that I was one of them. Make no mistake, though; I wasn’t chosen – I just happened to be a quick clicker who moved swiftly through the registration process online. My timing was right, and so I got in. That’s all there was to it.

I waited with great anticipation for my photo shoot to come, and when it came, there wasn’t a second that went by that didn’t live up to or exceed my expectations; while the skilled and stunning Laura Weetzie Wilson worked on my hair and makeup to make me look and feel beautiful, Ashlee made her hard work look effortless as she prepared my heart and my surroundings for what was unquestionably a defining experience in my life. Sitting with the two of them in a small hotel suite in downtown Minneapolis cracked me open – it broke my shell and called forth a wave of words, of emotions and tears as I talked earnestly about my experience with conception, pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood; and all the while that I spoke, I was gifted the opportunity to listen; to commiserate, to empathize, to ask questions, to laugh, to feel loved and understood and as though I was part of a greater whole. And indeed, whether or not I had ever had the chance to meet and sit with Ashlee and be photographed by her, I knew and I know that my place in all this is no more valuable than any other woman who’s conceived, birthed or raised a baby. We all share a common bond, and I believe it’s of utmost importance that we remember to acknowledge this.

_____

Those of us who’ve participated in the project are all part of a private group on Facebook, meant to support, uplift and surround one another; it’s a place where each and any of us can ask questions, air grievances, or offer words of advice or encouragement within a community of others who share one or many common experiences – the least of which being our involvement in this project; and I’ve so loved being a part of it. Except these women, who’ve come together to collectively build this strong, beautiful and powerful empire were divided yesterday when some were notified of being chosen to be featured in Volume I of the book series, and the rest became deflated upon realizing that they weren’t. And the group page kind of …erupted. There was joy, surprise, and elation, and then there was – understandably – great disappointment. Many of the women who aren’t being published in the upcoming first volume seem to have felt cheated; a number of people didn’t realize being published wasn’t a given right, others questioned whether their photos or stories were sub-par, and others yet just forgot to celebrate the incredible news that a book is being published (A book! Is being published!) – that Ashlee’s hard work and dedication is coming to fruition in a bound book that we can hold in our hands! – because they swept any notion of celebration aside in order to air their great disappointment. Women were openly upset, and even wondered whether their bodies weren’t scarred, striped or stretched enough to have warranted a spot.

And I had to look away. I had to close my computer and get up and walk away because the explosion of fiery estrogen was almost palpable, spewing off that page. Whereas I usually enjoy reading what everyone has to say and seeing swooping wings of support envelop the women in this group, the advent of a rising-up of those who were vs. those who were not chosen in this group – whether unintentional or not – suddenly became just way too much.

There are 150 women whose photographs and stories are being featured in this book, plus Ashlee’s herself, and it so happens that I am one of them. When I agreed to participate in this project, it was made clear to me that while there was a chance I’d make it into a book, it was certainly not a guarantee; and by no means whatsoever did that possibility or eventuality define my reasons for choosing to get involved. I loved the idea, and I so hoped that my story would one day make it into print and garner a greater scope of reach, but this was not remotely why I got involved. When I was notified of my having been chosen, I was elated; I was completely without words. I’m honored to have been picked, and I’m constantly in awe of Ashlee and her vision and her work; but being published is nothing more than one more blessing piled on top of the mountain of gifts I’ve been given by even just sitting in a room with this woman. To have sat with her, been smiled at by her, and looked square in her eyes is to have been blessed by her.

And so to think that there are women in this collective – women who’ve also had this pleasure – who put such a defining line down the center of being on a page in a book felt so incredibly dismaying. Every single one of us are featured in a growing online gallery – our photos and our stories have been shared already on numerous platforms, and have yet to be featured in various touring galleries, and in all sorts of other collections in articles, reports and other social media pieces – so to suggest that any one of us who didn’t make it into a published volume is not good enough, not stretched or scarred enough, not interesting enough or not powerful enough is ludicrous – it’s discouraging, it’s disheartening, and it’s fundamentally untrue.

It’s time to take two steps back and marvel not only at the magnitude of Ashlee’s work and her footprint, but at the breathtaking beauty of each and every woman featured in this great project. If not for the 4^th Trimester Bodies Project, how many of us would still be looking at our wrinkly, stretched tummies, our caesarian scars or our saggy breasts and thinking they’re less-than? How many of us would not have realized what an honor and a blessing this scarred, stretchy skin is? To realize the power of the female body is to acknowledge just how intrinsically beautiful we all are. It’s only in participating in this project that we’re given a platform from which to communicate our hearts and our experiences and our exhilaration and our love. Each and every one of us is brave, is powerful, is a beautiful pillar of strength for countless women all over the world. We should be nothing but gratified at having been granted the opportunity to strip down to our skin and hold our sweet naked babes close to our bodies while love radiated out of us in every single direction.

Each woman – each photograph – offers its viewers an outstretched hand of hope and inspiration; each one is a message that we as women are beautiful at our deepest core: our hearts.

So please; I implore you – marvel at these women. These photographs. These pillars of beauty and strength. And know that you, as a woman and a mother, are every bit as powerful. Your wives, your sisters, and your mothers. We are all this, at our very foundation.

Working toward normalizing breastfeeding

Margot and I are alone today while Daryl's at work, and we had a really lovely morning together before the shit hit the fan and she spent nearly the entirety of lunchtime bawling her face off because her yogurt was all gone. Nevermind, though, because I totally understand. Sometimes I'm known to scream and cry and let boogers and tears run down my face for half an hour when I finish my ice cream. I get it.

We went for a walk through the woods, and talked about bugs and green beans (her choice). And when we got home, I got to nurse her on two separate occasions - both of which came highly out of the ordinary since lately I only seem to breastfeed her before bed and in the middle of the night. But she asked, and I was happy to oblige, because is there anything more lovely than looking down into these eyes? For me, today, there is not.

Do I take too many breastfeeding selfies? Not as far as I'm concerned. But do I wish I cared less what other people thought? Yes. I'm working on it, though. 'Tis my mission with this blog; to overcome my insatiable desire to do what others think is best. Really, though, it's not that I care so much about what other people think as it is that I so fervently don't want to offend anybody. I'm a firstborn; I'm hard-wired to feel this way. I understand this quality within myself as much as I am annoyed by it.

But I am ashamed to admit that Facebook feels particularly scary today, with regard to sharing this post; I don't totally know why. But my circle of followers is far wider, and vastly more conservative than those on my other social media platforms.

A little voice in my head reminds me that this is not my finest effort at normalizing breastfeeding or uncensoring motherhood, but I'm trying to combat it with the knowledge that I'm taking my baby steps every day - and that for the record, they don't feel like baby steps at all. They feel like giant leaps off cliffs.

So... sorrynotsorry I'm flashing you my boob again.