speaking of placentas

One of my biggest worries for my first postpartum period was depression. It turned out to be unfounded -- I didn't have any "baby blues" so to speak, though I did have a few crying jags resulting from the certainty that I would somehow accidentally kill my baby, and the realization that "the parents" were never coming to pick him up and I was well and truly responsible for someone else for all eternity. This has, so far, worked out for the best, I'm glad to report, and this second postpartum time has been similarly depression-free. What I didn't bother worrying about, because it's impossible to imagine, was the crippling fatigue. It is, for those who don't know, the kind of tired that makes you a different person. A person who, partially thanks to the hormones, hates others who are sleeping or have recently slept. Add to that fatigue inherent in new parenthood a sort of big blood loss and you are, to put it plainly, screwed. A hateful, palefaced sweatpant-ed zombie. 

Placenta encapsulation wasn't something that I'd heard too much about when I was pregnant with George. I knew people who'd kept them, buried them and planted trees which was nice, but not really for renters. It pains me a little to think that I wasted that first placenta because I didn't know better, remarking that it was cool as my midwife held it up, then okaying her to pitch it. Shortly after I became pregnant with Zelda, though, keeping in mind the blood loss I experienced at George's birth, and knowing placentas are iron-rich, I decided to have her placenta encapsulated and I contacted Doula David, Bellingham's placenta guru. 

David showing me the different parts of Zelda's placenta and cord

This overview of the medicinal benefits of one's own placenta covers most of the reasons I chose to consume mine: preventing anemia, increasing milk production, increasing energy, and curbing depression, but it was really just bet-hedging. I figured I'd do it because it couldn't hurt, but I didn't expect much, results-wise. I've been surprised, however, at the noticeable difference in my mood, milk supply and energy level on the days when I forget to take the pills. I'm never raring to run laps around the block or anything, but even the smallest boost counts when you're teetering on the brink of I could fall asleep while standing here brushing my teeth and it's only 9am. There have been days when I've felt downright great after sleeping for five (non-consecutive, as if that needs to be mentioned to anyone with a newborn) hours and taking a few placenta pills. My recovery this time was fantastic, though a more significant blood loss meant lightheadedness for awhile when overdoing it (hello, mallwalking at 1 week pp; bad idea for myriad reasons) and between the placenta and fenugreek I'm taking I think I could feed triplets, though the 3 month old and 2 year old are pretty happy with the bounty. 

Unlike some women I've heard talking about their partners' disgust at the idea of placenta consumption and citing that as a deterrent, I'm happy to say that my partner (neener neener) was never anything but supportive. He looked at the placenta with me after it was delivered, and just the other day we marveled together at the dried cord. I'm guessing that, because he's... you know, not a jerk, he values the fact that my body made this crazy amazing organ that nourished a baby -- our baby -- for many months, and continues to nourish me. In fact, he nightly delivers to me my vitamins and placenta pills on a little dish, often accompanied by a bowl of ice cream. Okay, now I'm just gloating.

Hedging my bets paid off; I'm so glad I didn't listen to the "alternative medicine" naysayers or the grossed out how-could-you?!ers. My only regret is that I didn't do it the first time. I wish George had a sweet placenta print like Zelda's, made out to him with love from our doula. 

free will naming

It was right around this time two years ago -- a little earlier, actually -- when I, hugely pregnant with the baby that would be George, started reading my unborn child's horoscope. I'm not a strong believer in astrology, though it's a recurring passing fancy like that of cancer patients who believe strongly in God when sick, but revert to agnosticism in remission. In times of confusion, when I'm in need of guidance or an unbiased party to set me straight, I read my horoscope. Specifically, the ones Rob Brezsny writes, because they're more like a pep talk from your new-agey friend than a transparent, one-size-fits-all premonition. 

This morning, I read George's. It began, "Harvey Ball was a commercial artist who dreamed up the iconic image of the smiley face." Anyone who's colored with my son knows that he's a managerial sort who'll boss you into drawing exactly what he wants. And what he wants is invariably a happy face. Sometimes on an elephant ("happy 'woo'" with trunk-swinging action), sometimes on an apple, sometimes just a round, smiling face. The rest of the horoscope went on to encourage Sagittarius to be sure and get credit where it's due, unlike poor Harvey Ball who was paid a measly $45 for his original, now iconic image. This, of course, doesn't really apply to a two year old who is, like most his age, sort of over-credited for everything but the connection was sweet nonetheless. 

Then, I read Aquarius. The new baby will be Aquarian unless she's very early or very late and it should follow, given that she is still a fetus, that hers didn't have much to allow. How could it, unless it suggested a slight decrease in flailing so that your mother might sleep? 

I read mine last. A Lily Allen quote: cute. A new mother herself, singing about neurosis and insecurity. Rob Brezsny cautioned me against high-falootin'. Good advice, but nothing earth shattering. Until the end, that is, when there it was: providence, or maybe just a nice coincidence. I should've read mine first, was the lesson. Put on your own oxygen mask before tending to your children, right? 

The footnote of my own horoscope defined a German word. A German word that is, like lots of German words, a Yiddish word as well. And like a lot of Yiddish words, it's also a Yiddish name. Its definition: happy. Ecstatic, if we're being specific. It has a feminine version, which is on our list of potential names for this baby. It's been George's favorite all along, the name he insists on when we suggest others, shaking his head, saying, "noooooo," like we must be joking, then repeating the one he likes, mostly to himself. It seems the universe -- or at least astrology -- is on his side. I don't know how comfortable I'll be telling the grown-up version of this fetus that her name was solidified by my week-of-December 8th horoscope, and who knows anyway: maybe she'll look so distinctly like one of the other names we like that it will all be moot. But somehow I doubt it. 

body politics and the willies

When I made it through the first trimester of pregnancy with my milk supply intact and no soreness like I'd been warned of, I thought George and I were free and clear to keep nursing through this pregnancy. My goal has always been to breastfeed on demand until two, when we'd switch to the no offers/no refusals game plan, which would lead to weaning in due time. George has nightweaned himself, with the transition from our bed to his own, and, anymore, only asks to nurse a few times a day; on some especially busy days, he's only asked once. Regardless of frequency, however, it's a part of our relationship I don't want to give up, and certainly not prematurely (not to mention: it's my only way of getting him to sleep without the aid of one adept papa). 

One thing I hadn't worried about and, hence, hadn't prepared for, was the nursing heebie-jeebies. As in, a total aversion to breastfeeding my child. We've had a great and easy road and I've never felt even a twinge of the body-related resentment toward George that I'd heard expressed by some other mothers or discomfort with breastfeeding created by the over-sexualized and unfriendly-to-nursing culture in which we (unfortunately) live. So when, a few weeks ago, slight soreness gave way to OH MY GOD DON'T YOU DARE COME NEAR MY BOOBS, KID I was shocked and bummed and guilty-feeling. My poor, sweet, little dude just wanted some noms. I hoped the feeling would go away -- that it was just a fluke -- and I'd be able to enjoy that part of our day like I had in the past. But it hasn't gone away. And it's kind of messing with me. 

I am so incredibly comfortable with enforcing my need for personal space. Anyone who's shared my bed can tell you that I am not to be bothered in the middle of the night. Cuddling? Hell no. I don't like to be tickled, either, so call me a joykill but stay away from my knees if you value your nose's structural integrity. I can say no, believe strongly in my right to do so and can safely say I've never willingly compromised my body for someone else. Until now. And I'm doing it three + times a day. 

Maybe I just need someone to feed me cotton candy while I nurse?

Every time George's little hand opens and closes to say he wants milk, I cringe. It hurts, it's hot and I just want it to be over. And I feel like the world's worst asshole. My supply is dipping, so there's no telling how much he gets, and as though he's trying to make up in time what he's lacking in product, he wants to stay latched on FOR. EVER. Through the entirety of the morning -- 6:30 to 8am, and again through his whole nap, waking when I desperately extricate myself. I've read so many articles and blog posts  for tips, and some of the suggestions work, if briefly. Some of the voices are genuinely reassuring. But I'm still having a hard time parsing my belief in respecting my own body and limits while maintaining what's obviously an important facet of my relationship with my son. 

Parenting comes with a healthy dose of self-sacrifice and I daresay anyone who argues otherwise is doing it wrong. I don't think, however, that you're obligated to hand over all body autonomy if doing so is giving you the willies. To forsake my own comfort especially around such a potentially intimate body part seems innately un-Feminist. Is it? Is there an intersection of feminism and motherhood with a permanent red light? It seems that the short answer is yes; the long answer no with a but. And that makes me uncomfortable, too. To be the first woman to yield to my son -- whom I am (with luck) teaching that women's (and everyone's, really) bodies are to be respected and protected, especially in a political climate that decreasingly supports that idea? I'm probably over thinking it, but it seems to set a precedent I don't like. My best bet may be to grin and bear it: to never let him think he has to convince me, both because that's the kindest way, and because it doesn't teach him that coercion is an option. 

I'm devoted to child-led weaning, so I'm sure I'll continue gritting my teeth until oxytocin overcomes the heebie-jeebies, George gives up on his own or the new baby brings back my supply, any illusions of control over my own chest wash away with a new, never-ending batch of spit-up stained laundry, and breastfeeding becomes the hormonal love-fest it used to be. And I'll continue to question my own politics, my own motivations -- to check in with my methods -- because doing so is healthy. It keeps me relevant, or at least as relevant as a stay-at-home mom can be (ha!). 

on hiring a doula

I've encouraged a gajillion women to invest in a doula. I count several doulas among my friends and am never at a loss for one to recommend to any interested parties. I've got a super-hippie doula reference, a regular-lady doula reference, a conservative Christian doula reference, and most everything in between. I love playing a small part in facilitating that relationship, and always feel a little like a matchmaker when I hear of a successful interview. I even (somewhat creepily) had my picture taken with Penny Simkin, who is, you know, THE DOULA.

Penny, Lauren of Hobo Mama, and me

There's one hitch in this lovefest, however, and it appears when someone asks: Who did you use? 

Because me? I didn't hire a doula. Too expensive, too self-indulgent, too much focus on me, and nobody I could fathom being "in the room." I had a supportive, informed partner and the best midwife in the entire goddamned world. What did I need a doula for? This thinking was borne out when my labor lasted less than three hours and we settled in comfortably at home to revel in our great experience and sweet new baby. 

When I learned of a local doula who did placenta encapsulation, I contacted him (yep: him) to check on pricing and availability. It was something I hadn't really explored with my previous pregnancy and, if we could swing it financially, was on my to-do-this-time list. After all, it's like medicine, right? A justifiable expense. He directed me to his website and I was really impressed with his discussion of gender, his inclusion of chosen families, his use of the phrase "dads and other partners" and -- ahem -- his sliding scale. This is totally the guy I would hire! I thought. If I were hiring a doula, that is. 

Dear reader, I hired him. Or, more accurately, we're trading him some design and web work for his services. After sending a rambling email detailing the reasons I thought I didn't need a doula, he responded (in the least pushy way imaginable) with the myriad things a doula does outside of the potentially narrow window of direct labor support. Sandwiches! Organization! Photos! And, also, help if my labor is not as swift and mighty as last time. The four of us (Nathan, George, Doula David and I) had a coffee shop date where we talked websites and community and birthy stuff. And it was good. 

I'm opening up to the idea of help, of allowing for the reality that we may not be able to handle it all on our own. And I have one more recommendable doula in my cache... as long as you're not due on February 1st. 

What do you think about hiring a male doula? Or any doula? Did one attend your birth?

thrifty sunday: not thrifty at all

My maternity wardrobe will be decidedly different this time around. No business attire means no scrounging for the most acceptable black pants to wear with whatever hand-me-down tunic I resorted to once my dresses got too short to wear, even with tights. I recently discovered what I had neglected to figure out before: that instead of looking futilely for an affordable, decent pair of maternity skinny jeans, I should just take in a pair myself. I had some dreadful bootcut ones I'd kept because, well, you can't just wear sweatpants, and I turned them into perfect everyday jeans. Good thing, as none of my pants have fit for weeks. 

After a lengthy Polyvore break (it's worse than Facebook), I threw together a Fall maternity set. Fall, being my favorite season to dress in, during my last pregnancy was the one I least looked forward to. I felt like I couldn't be myself when I had to dress a pregnant body for office work on basically no budget. But now, there's nobody telling me that my skirt's too short (unless it is, then tell me) or making me wear shitty polyester pants instead of jeans or leggings. I can follow the lead of this lovely lady whose maternity (and non-maternity style) is an inspiration to me, and should be to us all. 

fall by lejeunesse 

A lot of this stuff is similar or identical to things I already own. The trench, the boots, the leggings and jeans and skirt and tights are all in heavy wardrobe rotation already -- or, have been in Falls past. Some of this group, of course, are dreamy never-gonna-happens, like the long, beautiful Lanvin dress and the sequin mini, but in thrifting I can usually get the same feeling for a lot less money. 

As I said in a previous post, last pregnancy, there was a dearth of photos of me. Partly because I'm usually the one holding the camera, and partly because I felt fat and weird-looking. I'm looking forward to dressing like myself as this baby gets bigger, and maybe someday s/he will look at old photos and think, hey, not too shabby, mom!