Urine Trouble

Disclaimer:  I know I promised post-birth stories, complete with poop and catheters, but this one was still fresh in my mind...and on my clothing.

I knew going into this motherhood thing that I would be spending a great deal of time dealing with fluids…and by fluids, I don’t mean a bottle of Jack Daniels. Oh no, my friends, I’m taking about urine. I’ve heard horror stories about baby boys and their lack of control over their little..um…hoses? (And I guess the same lack of control can be said about certain adult men as well). Friends have told me about their sons peeing in their faces, in their mouths, on their freshly laundered work suits, all over walls--pretty much wherever they feel like it. This epidemic is so widespread that companies have capalized on it and are now producing little birthday hats for their little guys. Behold theThe Peepee Teepee for the Sprinkling WeeWee (yes, that's the name).



Seriously?  The baby will kick that thing off with his ninja moves in .1 second.  Also, are they trying to make it look like the baby is being changed on a fluffy white rug?  Good luck getting the poop out of that after his first dirty diaper. 

There is so much to be said about this...but I have a feeling if I do, this blog post will be an endless rant about the absurdity of the product.  I personally use one of these, which I have found to be just as effective.  And re-usable.  And free:

A burp cloth.  Or a washcloth.  Or a baby wipe.  Or your hand.  All of these things work wonderfully....most of the time.  Unless you've encountered my son, who is very stealth about his urine output. 

I was breastfeeding him the other day, utilizing the best invention ever (and I'm not talking about my boobs).  The My Brest Friend Deluxe Nursing Pillow (again, yes, this is the actual name of the product).  This is the actual one I have and I am more attached to it than I am my Iphone (which says a lot).  I don't think I could feed the Dictator without it.  Essentially, you strap this sucker on and whip out the boob.  The baby lays on it and has direct access to the goods (so many things could also be said about part of this sentence...). 

 

So here I am, sitting on my couch, providing nourishment for the Dictator.  He's happily chowing down.  Then I notice that he stops.  I look down and he is smiling.  Or actually, he was probably smirking.  Like this:

Suddenly I feel something warm.  And I smile, thinking that he's just snuggling with me, enjoying our bonding time.  I am so naive.  Because then the warmth starts to get cold.  And I realize he had just peed, up and out of his diaper, aiming right for my stomach.  And now he's smiling for real. 

Of course, I can't just pull him off of me and change my clothes since he's in the middle of eating (I liken this to being pulled away from my straw, where I'm sucking down a wonderful Jack and Coke with a million limes.  I would be pissed).  So there I sit, for the next 30 minutes, covered in my son's urine.  The kicker?  He DID IT AGAIN 10 MINUTES LATER. 

The Evidence:

You win this round, little man.  You win this round.

Emmett: 1  Mommy:  0

Ruled by the Tiny Fist



Emmett Michael is here.  And since his arrival on 2/10/11, he has been ruling our household with his tiny, tiny fists. 

This little guy is a dictator.  He determines when we eat, sleep and shower.  When we can leave the house, have guests over (because lets be honest, I'm sure my brother in law does not want to see me whip out a boob to feed the dictator), when mommy can have that COVETED margarita she had been dreaming of for 8+ months.  He is absolutely in charge. 

He also kind of has it made.  He eats on demand, we wipe his ass on cue and I have suddenly morphed into that woman that speaks in wittle bitty baby voices in order to calm the screaming little person down when he unleashes HIS rage.  Oh yes, the pregnancy rage has transferred from me to my little man.  I kind of feel sorry for the victims of my rage (from the man with that "MOM" tattoo that stole my air hose at the gas station, to cashier at the Hallmark store) because now the tables are turned. 

I am farily certain I am running on adreneline, as is my husband.  Thankfully, the dictator has taken to sleeping in 4 hour stretches at the moment, so by each taking a night shift feeding (me at 12, my husband at 4), we are actually getting some long stretches of sleep in.  For now.

There were MANY things people didn't warn me about when it came to c-section recovery and breastfeeding.  I plan on sharing those with you in my next blog--all of the gory details including the first bowel movement post baby (OMG, I thought I was dying) to breast engorgement and nipples that felt like they have been sandpapered for 3 hours.  Since the next blog will be kind of gross, I will reward you now with a cute baby picture for making it this far:

Emmett Michael

2/10/11

7 lbs. 3 oz. 20 inches

Surely plotting my demise while perfecting his Zoolander poses

Sure To Get A Side-Eye

I had my 39 week check-up yesterday and after the obligatory weight, blood pressure and violation of my lady bits, my doctor confirmed what I had already suspected—that my child was never, ever coming out of my body.  Really, she told me that for the 3^rd week in a row; my body had made no progress in terms of dilation or effacement.  The baby was high and I was closed up like Fort Knox—wonderful image I just left you with, wasn’t it? 

So at this point, I knew we were going to have “the talk” and I was prepared.  She mentioned again that I was not progressing at all and though I could go into labor on my own, it was time to discuss the options of induction and C-section.  She and I talked for a bit about our options and what Ryan and I wanted out of the delivery experience. 

Ryan and I had discussed this subject many, many times and had always come back to the same conclusion—if we had a choice between an induction and a C-section, we would choose the C-section.  And that’s what we decided.  Emmett will be born around 1 p.m. on his due date of 2/10/11 via C-section.  This statement has gotten me no less than 15 side-eyes and looks of surprise from various people.  We’ve been bombarded with “Is the baby okay?  Why a C-section?” questions from just about everyone.   I think a lot of people (especially those from an older generation) automatically think that induction is the way you have to go, because that’s how things were done 15 years ago.  C-sections were emergency options only and they were a last resort.    

Now, I understand that a C-section will be no picnic on my body.  And if Emmett decides he wants to grace us with his presence earlier than our planned date, I will be ecstatic and will welcome the labor.  But induction is not a choice for us, simply because we believe that it is used to “trick” your body into thinking it’s time to deliver and places stress on a baby that’s probably not ready to enter the world at that time, via the birth canal.  Also, many inductions, particularly on mothers who are less than 4cm dilated (on their own) end up in C-sections anyway.    

Again, these are the first of MANY choices we get to make as parents, and we feel like these are the right ones for us.  May not be your cup of tea, but it’s not your vagina or body we’re talking about here, is it? J


Edited:  So after Ryan read this post, he mentioned that a male co-worker today tried to get him to "talk me out of a C-section" and how he (co-worker) believes it's way worse than an induction.  Now I'm pissed.  Excuse me, sir, but when you grow a vagina and carry a human being in your uterus for 9 months, then we can talk about how you really feel about the subject.  That is just one of those things you don't say to a pregnant woman.  Right behind "Are you having twins?" and "You look like you're ready to pop". 

My Morning - A Photo Essay Courtesy of Allie Brosh

**Disclaimer:  All of the drawings seen below are drawn by and Copyright Allie Brosh.  Please view her hillarious blog at http://www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com.**

I was woken up at 4:45 a.m. with painful, hurty contractions.  BTW, if you've never had a contraction before, imagine that you ate 32 fake meat tacos from Taco Bell and are racing for the toilet with the worst stomach cramps ever.  That was my wake up this morning, the stomach cramping part--not the racing for the toilet part.

Anyway.  Immediately after I realized that I wasn't going to die, I simultaneously began watching the clock and freaking out about all of the things that I still had to do.  This exact phrase kept running through my brain:


Which is why I am using the following drawings to illustrate my day.

Some of my thoughts were crazy (ie-clean the tile in the shower with a toothbrush.  Ya know, in case Emmett decides he wants to hop in there after he gets home from the hospital) and the others were things like finish the laundry and  put gas in my car. 

The painful, hurty contractions eventually stopped, but the anxiety remained. When I was trying to explain my feelings to Ryan he stared at me like I was crazy.   I felt like Brick from "The Middle", who puts his chin to his chest and repeats things he just said in ominous voices.  "Must Clean All of the Things!!!"

Ryan told me to take it easy today and relax, but the look in his eyes told me that he knew I was going to do what I felt I had to do.  He knows me so well. 

I got some coffee (YES!  The Horror!  Pregnant woman has coffee!) and spent 45 minutes getting my coupons organized because today I'm also an anal nutjob.  I then went to Target and Publix (where said coupons came in handy.  At Target I saved $67 and at Publix I spent $20 and saved $17):


I am currently doing laundry, while baking cupcakes for an order.  Other various projects that I began before grocery shopping are half completed around my house.  There are messes everywhere, from things I destroyed while looking for other things I needed.  I am overwhelmed and have hit a wall.  And I'm still having contractions, though not painful, hurty ones, and not even close to being timeable (despite drinking the water and resting every 15 minutes).  Maybe this kid will arrive before he turns 15. 

This is now how I feel:


How is your Friday going?

A Man Did This

I love margaritas, Jack Daniels and Coke with 4 limes and Marlboro Light 100’s.  I love to sleep in, watch hours of trashy TV and spend hundreds of dollars on random things at Target.  I love to book spur of the moment vacations and spend long nights out with friends.  I love to spend the entire day after a long night out in bed, wrapped in my down comforter, swearing off alcohol and cigarettes.  I love quad venti skinny vanilla lattes from Starbucks, even though they’re overpriced and have more espresso than 4 people need in one day. 

I will become a mother very soon and all of those things I love have become distant memories.  The cigarettes, which I know were a gross habit to begin with, have been gone since the second I found out I was in the family way.  The margaritas and Jack Daniels are only memories (very vibrant memories, still!).  The sleeping thing is difficult now, though I have to say, I got some great sleep the first three months of my pregnancy…in between the gagging at everything I smelled (which included my precious lattes).

Pregnancy is not all puppies and rainbows; I will probably be the first person to tell you the honest truth about that.  Before I got pregnant, everyone used to tell me how much they loved being pregnant, how they felt great and glowy and just so at peace.  That is a bunch of bullshit.  Don’t get me wrong, there are some pluses to pregnancy (the sleep!  the occasional pampering! the eating everything in sight with an “excuse”!) but there are a LOT of things that they won’t tell you about.  That’s where I step in.

I am no expert here, as this is my first (and maybe last!) go-round with pregnancy.  The purpose of this blog is to share with you my thoughts and anecdotes, as well as serve as a diary of sorts (in case my husband convinces me it’s time to try for baby number two).   This blog will also serve as my time capsule, so when my son, Emmett, is older and ripe for grounding and punishment, I can pull up my stories about my pregnancy rage (and other emotions) and pains (heartburn, the ‘roids, stretchmarks, etc.) to throw them back at him, just like my mother did to me.

You probably are thinking I’m going to be the worst mom in the world, simply because I don’t enjoy being pregnant, which is the furthest thing from the truth.  I can’t wait to meet my son, to hear him cry (this will probably be the last time you’ll ever hear me say that!) and watch him grow.  I am on the edge of my seat to find out if his eyes will be a beautiful blue-green like his fathers and if the old wives tales about heartburn are true and he will have a full head of hair.  I can’t wait to teach him things and spend time together as a family. 

Now that the sappy stuff is out of the way, stay tuned for more tales of what a man did to me.