Doodooing It Doggy Style

Remember when I told you about this visit to my erstwhile-beloved doc? And do you know how sometimes you can relive the same conversation over and over again, mentally inserting all the things you Should Have Said?

Well, this has been stewing for weeks, so here it go. . . . (Warning TMI ahead!!)


This is how it went:

Dr. M (beginning my examination): Wow! You are constipated!
Me: Really?!
Dr. M: Yes. Just full of stool. All backed up.
Me: Hmmmm.
Dr. M: How often do you go to the bathroom?
Me: Every couple of days?
Dr. M: That’s not good! You should really be going every day, if not twice a day.
Me: Yeah. That would be my husband.
Dr. M: You really need to eat more fiber. And lots of water.
Me: I drink at least 2 liters a day, so. . . ?
Dr. M: You should probably think about taking a probiotic. At night before bed.
Me: I think I have some at home.
Dr. M: We should be like dogs. We eat, we poop. You never hear of dogs getting colon cancer.
Me: {thinks to herself – what IS it with this guy and dogs?}


This is how it should have gone:

Dr. M (beginning my examination): Wow! You are constipated!
Me: Ever seen that episode of Seinfeld where Kramer waits so long he misses his chance? Well, that was me today. I was busy and missed my chance at least twice. I tried to go a few minutes ago, but like I said, I missed my chance.
Dr. M: Well, at least you tried. How often do you go to the bathroom?
Me: Every other day or so. How often do YOU go to the bathroom?
Dr. M: Ummm. That’s not really the point here. You should really be going every day, if not twice a day.
Me: Bowel issues, Doc? Is that why you’ve gotten chubby? Is that why you’re all crankypants today?
Dr. M: I am not chubby! Besides, you really need to eat more fiber. And drink lots of water.
Me: How do you know it’s not because I’ve had low back problems for the last few weeks? Or because my hormones are out of whack and maybe (just maybe?) you should check them out, run a panel or something, before you run off and prescribe me hormonal birth control?
Dr. M: You’re right. Let’s get some blood work done. And are you seeing a chiropractor about that back?
Me: Yes I am. Thank you, Doc, for being concerned about my whole person and not using my bowel troubles to chastise me because you are frustrated I took too long to answer your questions about my menstrual cycles.
Dr. M: You’re welcome. You know, we should really be like dogs. We eat, we poop. You never hear of dogs getting colon cancer.
Me: {thinks to herself – seriously! what IS it with this guy and dogs?}


Sadly, it didn’t go like it should have. But, I AM happy to report that I have paid close attention and my bowel habits over the last few weeks are becoming increasingly canine-ish every day. Take that and smoke it, Dr. M!

~Nichole

Insane Giggling and Cosleeping Update

Remember The One Where Everyone Sleeps Together? Funny story, that.

It goes something like wicked family-wide colds in early February 2011, during which baby was cranky but still played the part of an acceptable bed mate. Following which, he decided to get all big-britches on us and decide a king sized bed (California-sized, even) with his parents as bookends was cramping his 32-inch tall style.

Much thrashing and refusing to be comforted ensued, whereupon his parents decided he was asking for his own space.

And so, one historical (hysterical?) Tuesday night in February, that boy's parents fussed and fought over the deconstruction of a crib and its reconstruction into a toddler bed with the mattress cranked up to king bed height and smushed up on mom's side of the bed with pillows wedged between. I made a big to-do over "C's bed!" and "all the toys!" and the first night he was too exhausted from being kept up past his bed time and his parents fussing and fighting to care. But the next day's nap and bedtime were. . . . challenging. Everything was moved around and he had to see it all from his new digs. He is sleeping better, we are sleeping better. Big W all around - Hooray!

Now, I say "let's go sleep in C's bed!" and he climbs right up and in. Yesterday M reported that C disappeared and M found him nearly asleep in his own bed - all by himself! (I am still waiting for him to repeat that with me.)

Then today it happened. The moment I've been waiting for since he was just a newbie. When you've been just-the-two-of-you as long as we were before C and suddenly a third person moves in with you, it takes some getting used to, see. When C was tiny and I was getting used to having a tag-along, I used to expect him to come out of the bedroom at any moment. Today, he woke from his nap, climbed from his bed to our bed and down, and "screeeeeee!" went the bedroom door - and the moment I've been expecting finally came true.

It was actually quite hilarious.

But before that, C and I were in the bathtub and we found a new use for the Boon spoon. He's fetched it out of the no-longer-being-used box of bottles and other feeding accessories (that I've failed to find a good place for) more times than I can count and most recently it's ended up with his bath toys. Today I filled it with water and we sat and squirted water and filled it up and squirted water etc. for a good 20 minutes and that danged kid could hardly breathe for laughing. I've never heard him giggle so hard!

This is such a fun age. Well, except maybe the part where he is climbing up on all sorts of tables around our house and sitting on them. Yeah, that part we could maybe do without. But, other than that, FUN!

~Nichole

Fertility is a Grown Up Word

I recently went to Dr. M. I was excited to see him. Unfortunately, he was having a bad day or something because he was unusually brisk and impatient with me. He even seemed exasperated at one point.

I've been having cycle issues that are not normal. So when he'd ask how things "normally" go with me, it was a little difficult to tell him. My cycles have not been normal since getting pregnant the last time. Apparently, my waffling did not make him amused. (Who knew?)

Anywho, in addressing the issue, he offered hormonal birth control in several forms. The comment that stood out was when he said "I don't know where you are in terms of your fertility." Huh. Funny. I don't know either.

Instead of waffling about that (which surely would have sent him over the edge), I said "I'm not looking to be pregnant in the short-term". Which pretty much sums it up, but might only be partially true, I am coming to find.

See, it's kind of hard when I have a husband who walks around saying things like "I can't wait until I have a better job so we can have another baby" and a baby who walks around, his big, dark eyes smiling under his curly mane, looking all cute and making me want 5 more of him.

So, where am I at in terms of my fertility?

Well, the textbook answer my body would give is that I'm 34 and the clock is tick-tocking faster and faster. The official answer my spokesperson would give if I was famous is "she is not pregnant and has no plans to be in the near future". The answer my heart would give, if things like money and jobs and homes closer to money and jobs were not in the equation, is I would totally welcome another baby (and secretly am hoping for a "happy accident" that would take all the thinking and plotting and planning out of it and sort of force the issue).

In the meantime, I am loving all over the baby I have, squeezing the juices of his babyhood and relishing this time when I can still call him a baby (even as he is on the threshold of toddlerhood!), and making the most of his only-child-ness while it's here. He is a fascinating and funny kid and I really would take 5 more just like him (but only if it doesn't mean 5 more pregnancies to get there - and not all 5 at once, either). (You've got to be specific when you put these things out in the universe!)

~Nichole

The Miracle (I Never Knew) I Always Wanted

There was a time, not long ago, people would ask if I had kids and I would say, perhaps a little too fervently, “oh, no!”. The words would then hang in the air, the unmistakable relief I had poured into them dripping off of them until I would sweep the whole mess away with a little scoffing laugh.

As I edged toward my late twenties, I would hear myself practically exclaim my timeworn response, always the same emphasis, always the same self-satisfaction.

Still, I knew the time was not far off that I would be ready to have children. And, fearing that God, having heard my smug tone, would strip me of that ability, I decided I had better start sounding a bit more humble when answering that question.

An unplanned pregnancy is many things to many women. For me, it was the place where all my roads diverged. It was panic and logic. It was mania and purpose. It was disappointment and hope.

The miscarriage that followed was a meridian of time that marked my departure from the selfish, egocentric ways of my twenties, and in their places opened up a rabbit hole, down which everything I had believed to be sane and certain about my life suddenly fell.

The dark and dreary days thereafter are mostly jumbled somewhere in the annals of my personal history, but some are chronicled here and there. (And then there was this heartbroken Christmas wish.)

Today, I read this, and had a stirring in a primal place of my heart – perhaps the mother place that, though once dormant, has been there all along – and I feel now an urgency to here proclaim that even though I always viewed pregnancy as a means to an end, there was not a single solitary day I was pregnant that I took that miracle for granted. I never glanced sidelong at the gift that was mine, wishing it was something else, and no scoffing or scorn ever once escaped my lips.

I embraced pregnancy with my arms thrown wide, like one is wont to do with a long lost friend. Still, as sometimes happens even between long lost friends, the 10-month stay wore out my welcome to the point of being threadbare. But, as it goes with long lost friends, when pregnancy once again graces my doorstep, my enthusiastic embrace will be as warm as it is welcoming, as appreciative as it is affectionate.

~Nichole

On My Own

On this, the second day of January 2011, I did something that I haven't done in almost two years.

I fasted on Fast Day. Because of pregnancy and breastfeeding, the last time I fasted was February 2009.

It was hard. I kept wondering why on earth I was so hungry! Then I would remember "oh yeah! It's because I'm fasting."

But you know what that hunger also meant?

That my body is my very very own for the first time in two years. For the first time in all that time, my body is not dedicated to keep another human being alive. In fact, my little person can now feed himself with a fork, and (finally) holds his own bottles!

Hooray! Just in time to whip this body (or run it) into shape!

~Nichole

Once Upon a December 2010

This evening's routine was just one of those for which the stars aligned, the universe was set right for a few hours and everything fell into place.

First, despite being sickly (yes again! I don't want to talk about it), I came home during lunch and actually picked up my house. Then, I left work at a reasonable hour, cooked dinner while watching a flick on the ol' porta-player, which eats were done precisely 10 minutes after hub and baby arrived home from their commute in the carpool lane.

Then, we ate dinner. More specifically, the baby ate dinner! It's been a struggle getting him to eat, but triumph of all triumphs: tonight he ate salmon, long grain rice, peas, and butternut squash. Never underestimate the power of toddler forks, I tell you!

After dinner, I played ball with him in the living room. The kid has an arm. It runs in hubs' family, but even so, it's impressive. Plus, he gets all giddy and excited and clumsy with all the excitement of me chasing him and him chasing the ball. It's hilarious. Just ask M, who nearly spewed his mouthful of OJ when I threw that Thomas the Train ball and it rolled up C's body and caught him in the face.

C then had a lovely bath, held still the entire time I dressed him (and we traded all sorts of mouthy sounds back and forth til he was giggling up a storm at me breathing in and out like a dog through my nose). We read a book together, he kissed his Dada good night, pilfered a couple of red grapes from him, then off to bed he went.

As he tried to get settled, he tossed and turned, snuggled on my chest for a while and then I sang some children's hymns to him (in my nasally, crackly, off-key voice) and off to dreamland he went.

It only took 1/2 hour to get him to bed (relief after last night's 2 hour fiasco), and now my husband is standing in front of me resembling something of a David, so I really must go.

But, as for perfect nights, this one's pretty dang close, no?

~Nichole

Unplugging: My Year of Pumping Exclusively

After he was born and we were both newbies at breastfeeding, each time I tried to breastfeed the Bug, he would get frustrated and refuse to latch and would cry and cry.

When he was just a day old, the hospital's lactation consultant came to see us. She took one look at him and one look at my breast and said "we need to get you a pump". Within 30 minutes, a hospital-grade Medela was sitting at my bedside and I was receiving instructions about how (and how often) to use it. And so, even with the Bug in the nursery overnight, I still was up every 2 hours pumping.

When I was pregnant, I had researched breast pumps, figuring I would most likely need one at some point. The day we went home from the hospital, we called a local dealer, who told us the Ameda I'd decided on would not be in until the next day. That stupid manual pump they gave me in the hospital was a pain in the neck (and arm) (and breast) to use. My dutiful husband went and bought my double electric up for me the next day.

In those early days, I was fighting against the clock. The baby needed to eat every 2 hours, which meant we fed him formula every 2 hours and I would pump every 2 hours. Sometimes, especially after M went back to work, I would feed the baby and then I would pump. That meant very little sleep for the momma, but I was trying to get my milk to come in and to establish a supply that would be enough to get him off the formula. It was completely exhausting!

I remember having to set the alarm on my cell phone to remind myself to pump every 2 or 3 hours. I remember getting up and feeding the babe in the middle of the night, then staying up to pump. I remember spoon-feeding the babe colostrum and finally (triumphantly!) making enough milk so that we didn't need formula any longer.

I remember the pride I felt when my doc told me that I was lucky that I could maintain a supply using only a pump because some women can't. I remember feeling grateful that I never knew in advance how hard it would be and just running into it headlong, completely stubborn and determined to make it work.

I remember leaking all over the first time we traveled away from home and I used a manual pump instead of my double electric. I remember learning all about why breasts start feeling less full after a couple of months of breastfeeding. I remember wondering if I should have called a lactation consultant to my house and given it another try. I remember trying anyway when he was about 4 months old and having him treat my boob like a pacifier. I remember regretting ever saying that it wouldn't bother me if I had to pump exclusively rather than breastfeed.

I remember how groping, pressing, and otherwise feeling my boobs in public became the norm. I remember crying over spilled milk, over milk left to ruin in a insulated pack, over milk leaking out of busted freezer bags, over bags that fell out of the fridge bursting all over the floor. I remember the feeling that my baby was protected from all sorts of illnesses by the bubble of the antibodies my milk provided him.

At the height of my establishing/maintaining a supply days, I was pumping 7-9 times a day. When he was little and could still be curled up on a boppy on my lap, I could pump while holding him. It took only one swift kick and the knocking of a flange and bottle onto the floor and milk thrown all over both of us, the couch, the armchair and the floor for that arrangement to come to an end. Then, there was a larger pillow with his feet turned away from important parts. Then the bouncer. Then the swing, then the walker. . . And as he got more and more active and alert, I kept getting the feeling that pumping was actually taking me away from him at the same time it was providing food for him.

Once my supply was steady, I went down to 6 sessions a day. When I went back to work, I dropped the middle of the night session and went down to 5 a day. The most I ever pumped in my first morning session was 15 ounces. I had a very good supply and I was able to establish quite a freezer stash all those months.

I kept pace pumping 5 times a day - before and after work, twice at work, and during lunch - until he was 8 months old and fully transitioned to solids. To say it was grueling at times is an understatement.

Then, finally (and with a great deal of relief), I gave up the lunch session. I held steady at 4 sessions a day for almost 3 months. I was getting between 30 and 34 ounces a day and able to keep stockpiling my freezer stash. In those months, the sense that pumping was taking me away from him increased and I basically had to reconcile that with myself every time I was home alone and unable to attend to him. More than once I had to disconnect from the pump and, holding flanges to me with one arm, go and retrieve a crying baby with the other.

My pumping schedule was easy enough, if not always convenient, to keep during the week when I was at work. But, inevitably, the weekends would find me disjointed and either skipping a session or trying to force that fourth one in somewhere, especially when I could no longer pump at church because I was trying to keep a crawling baby out of things.

And so it was by happenstance that I went from 4 sessions to 3. My supply decreased almost immediately, but as long as I was making my mark of around 26 ounces a day, I was happy. It also meant that I no longer had to pack my pump and take it (and all the accessories, ice packs, freezer bags and bottles) to work with me everyday. It was a lovely thing to only have to worry about grabbing my purse and heading out the door!

Eventually, my milk supply started doing battle with my monthly cycle and always came out on the losing end. Rather than pick up an extra session, every once in a while we used frozen milk to supplement what I pumped in order to meet all his needs.

When, exactly, to go from 3 sessions down to 2 was a matter of great internal debate. At issue? Timing. The Bug was getting ready to turn 1 and I wanted to time phasing out pumping with transitioning him to whole milk in such a way that all my frozen milk would be used and that his full transition didn't happen until after he was fully a year old and we could make sure he tolerated the switch well.

And so, about 2 weeks before his first birthday, I dropped down to 2 sessions a day. I was managing between 16-18 ounces a day and was regularly supplementing with frozen milk, which was helping me be less anxious about any of that frozen supply going to waste. Each and every bag of frozen milk represented time served at the pump!

The weekend of his very first birthday party, I went down to just one session a day. At the same time, I began making his bottles a mixture of 3/4 breast milk and 1/4 whole milk. The following Tuesday, I only pumped once in 24 hours and got only about 9 ounces, and he went to 1/2 breast milk and 1/2 whole. Then I waited for 36 hours and got about 8.5 ounces.

I waited until I was sore before pumping again, and about 52 hours after the previous session, I pumped 10 ounces and the pump chewed me up and spit me out (thank goodness for A&D ointment). Examining the tears on my sensitive parts and feeling the soreness . . . I was SO done!

Five days after that, I Googled to make sure I was on the right track. Reassured, I continued not to pump. On day six, I pumped only enough to relieve my growing discomfort. The freshly pumped milk sat while I pondered over what to do with it, knowing we were on a 1/4 to 3/4 mixture by this point, that I was down to a single bag of frozen milk in my freezer, and that I was wholly ready to go all the way to whole milk within a day or two.

Besides, gun-shy as I was about using the double electric after the last time, I used my manual pump, which had been relegated to the bottom of my breast pump bag and which I had not sterilized (or even cleaned, really) before using. For the first time since I began this journey, I purposely dumped those 3 ounces down the kitchen sink, and even premeditated, the loss still made me want to cry.

As I packed my double electric and all the sundry breastfeeding paraphernalia away “until next time”, I thought about the double edged sword I am walking like a tightrope: how freeing it feels to have huge chunks of time back, but how I’ll no longer have a ready excuse to just stop everything and sit down for a while; how I can just go the store and buy milk when we travel and not have to worry about running out, but how sad I was last week when the Bug was sick and I realized he’s not getting the bolstered protection of my antibodies anymore; how my boobs finally had a real purpose and had fulfilled that purpose and now they are just plain ol’ boobs with nothing worthwhile to do but sit (hang?) there while I do battle with the weather and desperately try to conceal my newly. . . . erm, pointier parts.

~Nichole

And Then . . .

The Pitocin was increased, the contractions intensified, and before long I was fully dilated and ready to do the dirty work. I pushed for 53 minutes.

And then, at 11:57 a.m., there he was.
I cried. A delirious mixture of complete relief and all-encompassing joy.

Words stumble and fall weak in the knees, entirely daunted by the task of expressing the emergence of a body, the rushing forth of spirit, the creation of a whole new being, and how it is one becomes a mother.

The ability of language is eclipsed by the largesse and majesty of that moment.

And just when words fail you, love crawls into your being, sparks a primordial ember and sets fire to your heart, the urgency and ferocity of which both engulf and mesmerize you all at once.

As of this moment, my baby is one year old! He is an amazing little person, with such a fun personality! He grows more interesting and fascinating every single day. I am convinced I will spend the rest of my life completely in awe of him. I am so blessed to be his mother.

~Nichole

Stage 1: 14 hours and 45 minutes (plus 5.5 hours at home)

We went to Walgreens to get cold and flu stuff for M's worsening sickness. I remember having to stop in Aisle 1 to breathe through a contraction. We picked up a burrito for M and two smoothies on the way to the hospital. The anticipation was a heady concoction of not wanting to rush to the hospital and be admitted too early and knowing my body was on the labor train and not wanting to wait overlong. We checked into the hospital at 8:00 that evening. I send out a dispatch: in labor, going to hospital.

I was 5 cm dilated and 100% effaced when I was admitted. My blood pressure was 139/89. So, on to magnesium I went, doctor's orders, which, of course, slowed my labor. One by one, my women gathered to me: mom and sisters and mother-in-law. I labored and they watched and we waited together as my contractions became less intense and farther apart even as I continued to dilate.

Because of the magnesium and its side effect of dizziness and drowsiness, I was not able to walk around or even be out of bed much, even though I asked at every opportunity/nurse change. Finally, I got an angel of a nurse who let me get out of bed and get on a birth ball and change positions to try to get the baby rotated. I'm convinced this is when my water broke (just before 6:00 a.m. the next morning) and before long I was at 7 cm.

To get my contractions back into a regular pattern, I was started on Pitocin around 6:45 a.m. The baby was still not descending, so they put a catheter in to measure the strength of my contractions, which were determined not strong enough to get the job done, even with the Pitocin. I was at 8 cm, water already broken, and having really hard back labor when the doc said we'd have to up the Pit to make the contractions stronger.

At 8:24, I got an epidural. It wasn't nearly as scary or painful as I expected. In fact, once it took effect, I think my exact words were "oh! that's like ice cream!" And it really was! I couldn't feel or move my legs for a while, but eventually that went away and I could feel both my legs and the pressure of my contractions.

~Nichole

How It Began . . .

There was no compelling clutch across my belly. No momentously rushing fluids, no thundering squeezes.

Sunday, November 8th, 2009 had started just like any other day, except I was largely pregnant and anxious for the end of that particular ailment.

I had been having early labor signs and I was already dilated 2cm and over 50% effaced. Still, the discomfort and fatigue I was feeling were pretty par for the course for a 40 week-plus pregnant lady.

By the early afternoon, I had started to notice a sort of pattern to my discomfort. My back ached and there was absolutely no comfortable way to sit. I found myself shifting positions every few minutes. I started tracking this pattern at 2:30 p.m. I visited with friends, got a blessing, and faithfully tracked the time, duration and frequency of my discomfort, which eventually gave way to full-fledged contractions that I had to breathe through and that were coming routinely every 4 minutes.

~Nichole