Look at mah belly!

I'm 32.5 weeks along.

Guess how many belly pictures I've taken?  No... Guess....

Zero.

Turns out that I'm now this big, fat snob and I don't wanna take pictures of my belly with my cell phone with the dog in the background! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

So, this past weekend, I broke out the good ole tripod and remote and tried to do a self-portrait.  Simple, right?

It was maybe the most frustrating thing I've ever done in my life.

Frustration + Pregnancy Hormones = Almost Incredible Hulk Tearing of Clothes and Throwing of Inanimate Objects.

My husband was kind of scared of me.

Lesson? Don't do self-portraits with your camera unless you are super zen.  The end.

 

Another lesson? Be prepared for the fact that your belly AND face are youge and you might need an objective party to choose your photos for you afterwards because you will hate how you look in every.single.one.

The Almighty Compromise

So, I've outed myself as a closet granola.  I am not ashamed. I think if we can do things naturally, then we should try to do things naturally. I think it's best for everybody in the end.

But then again, opinions are like assholes. But this is my blog, yo. So my asshole gets to shine in all its glory. So there.

Turns out my husband? My partner in life? He's not quite so crunchy and granola as I am.

And he vetoed the home birth. 

I think he was worried about our rugs from Pottery Barn.

And we're a team, so his vote counts.  But after a horrific (HORRIFIC) 28 week visit to my doctor that reeked of incompetence and judgyness and inferring that perhaps I didn't care about the well-being of my baby because I don't want to be on constant monitoring by default, I was about to give the middle finger to the hospital and have my baby in the woods.

Good thing I'm surrounded by level-headed people. I made some phone calls. And I talked to my homebirth midwife Aunt who suggested a doula or midwife who could provide montrice work.  GENIUS!

So, I interviewed a midwife on Monday and now we're going to labor blissfully (I like to live in a land of delusion) at home for as long as possible before transferring to the hospital for the grand finale.  She'll be able to monitor me and the baby and make sure we're all good in the hood.  The baby won't be born in the car. And I'll get to eat and drink to my heart's content and I'll get to walk around and avoid being strapped to a bed with monitors and IVs.

And our Pottery Barn rugs will stay intact.

This is what marriage is all about.  I couldn't be happier.

Cause We're Crazy! Yeah! Yeah! We're Crazy!

Sorry I haven't blogged much lately.  My new business has kind of exploded in the last month, so I'm back to working crazy long weeks.

Which is super fun when you're packing an extra 25 pounds and 7 months pregnant.

Also, did I mention I have 2 year-old twins?

Oh, and we're doing a renovation on our house?

Bwahahahaha! We like to be craaaaaazy up in here.

But at least my husband is handy....and kind of hot.  Here is some husband porn for you to enjoy.

 

 

In case you're wondering what exactly, we're doing here (and by "we" I mean Brendan)

We're turning 3 worthless rooms into a master suite.  Here Brendan is taking down a wall between my office and a glorified storage room to make a large master bedroom.  This suite is going to be suh-weet.  

Becoming Mom

Ricki Lake & BlogHer sent a canvas email to BlogHer members asking them to describe the moment they first felt like, "I'm a mom."

I don't know if I'll submit a response.

But it made me think about when that moment happened for me.
And I couldn't think of it.
Did I miss it?


Biologically, I became a mom when a couple cells joined together (twice over).  But even when that positive test popped up, I didn't feel like a mom. I prayed, sweated, and agonized over that pregnancy for 34 weeks, but I never felt like "mom."

Technically, I guess I became a mom on December 29, 2009 when the twins were born.   But there was no "Yes! Magic Mothering Hormones Ignite!" kind of moment for me. Blame an emergency c-section, but I was too busy puking into a kidney-shaped bowl, pooping on nurses, and demanding coke from friends (the last part I don't remember) for the next 24 hours.  All that medication-induced fun didn't allow time for lightning to strike.  The bad Jefferson Airplane tripping meant I barely registered the fact I had just given birth!

Then there was the moment I first saw Cassidy.  And the moment I first saw Finn. They were in different parts of the NICU, so I didn't get to see them together.  The night after they were born, Brendan parked my wheel chair next to Cassidy's incubator. I remember how small she was.  Barely over 3 pounds. She had an IV coming out of her head. I was so overwhelmed that I broke down crying. I felt disbelief that these were my children, crushing guilt that I didn't carry them for longer, and paralyzing fear that I wouldn't be able to take care of them.

Is that what being a mother feels like? If so, it still didn't register with me.

Like so many NICU moms, I left the hospital empty-handed. I had luggage, flowers, discharge papers. But no babies. Our backseat was empty. And so was my heart. There was no exhilaration at being a new mom. Just a deep, penetrating exhaustion and a feeling of being disconnected from my whole birth experience.

About 10 days after they were born, the twins had a bad day in the NICU.  They weren't eating well, which meant they wouldn't come home for at least another week. I remember my mother found me in bed, crying.  She crawled in next to me and stroked my hair while I sobbed that I missed them. I wanted them home. I felt guilty for wanting them home because they were where they needed to be.

And she said, "This is what being a mother is."

She was right.

That moment I realized the "I'm a mom" feeling doesn't have to look like holding your baby or looking into their eyes or being consumed by their presence. It doesn't have to look like an orgasmic bonding moment. Sometimes being a mom means heartache.  Sometimes it means you feel out of control and disappointed with yourself.

And I think, most of the time, becoming a mother is about love. Remembering that love looks like wringing your hands over a high-risk pregnancy, placing your hands on a swelling stomach, crying next to an incubator, trembling with fear over your baby's frailness, and stroking your 31 year-old daughter's hair as she weeps with grief.

So, I guess that means I became a mom from the time I realized my life was no longer about me. Three times over now. And I'm becoming a mom every single day.

This is How It Goes Down On Super Saturdays

When I triumph over adversity* and start getting shit done up in here anyway, then I'm hot. Like fire. Like funky fire.

Top That Bitchez

Adversity (def.)- To find dog poop on the floor first thing in the morning and have toddlers scream so hard they might just puke a demon every time you tell them no.

It's the Principle of the Thing

I've noticed lately that I am extra super-dooper principled about things.

Any controversy that crosses my path is fair-game.  I will jump on that stuff like white on rice.

I'm like Norma Rae hopped up on pregnancy hormones.  Which means, I'm probably going to have no friends soon.

* Home Birth vs Hospital Birth-  Well, you've heard enough about that from me.

* SOPA & PIPA- I will rant on and on about these mo-foes

* Susan G Komen gone political and withdrawing funding from Planned Parenthood?- Oh yes, I have something to say about that.

I realize nobody probably wants to hear my opinion about things but it sure seems like I'm jonesing for a catfight. I should probably stay off the internet...