Pieces of Me

The car wash seemed like a great idea

until the terrible tentacle beast started beating on the windshield

I found a writing fragment, and it is time to continue the story...

Ran across this unfinished piece, and decided the topic was relevant again. I added to it diary/journal entry style, read and reread tried to edit, and just can not get good with it. Sometimes I feel like I have that writing “spark”, right now it feels like I'm trying to get this blog post out of myself with a ball-peen hammer. And then I realized if this post was smooth and not the choppy mess it is it would be a work of fiction, not a blog about my current life. I'm 45 years old with a two year old. I work. I'm taking a class (still chugging towards my BSN, crawling is better than not moving...), parenthood has strained our relationship. You know, life. So in all of its flawed splendor, I present to you my current world (but starting with my current world of a year ago – try to keep up...):

(Written in October 2017- Baby 1 year old...)

A pic from that time for reference, he did not like the car wash then, either

The month before I conceived, I was the most body-confident I had ever been. When I was not working, I was hiking, lifting weights, doing Pilates with Duncan, working out with a trainer twice a week, and doing Pure Barre as many days a week as I could fit in. I was feelin' myself, a rare thing for me.

Prepregnancy

 

For those of you not keeping up with the story from first post, Duncan was told in a previous marriage that he was not the baby-making kind. Low count, low motility, etc. The first time we dropped the microgram of birth control we used (rhythm method) I was pregnant.

The night I conceived, we had gone on a Marty Dred whale watching booze cruise for my birthday. Marty Dred is Maui's Reggae ambassador. That night (which consisted of an inhibition-shedding open bar) was the night that Duncan decided (after several rounds of oh-yeah-well we'd make a beautiful baby anyways...) to not pull out. And our son was there, patiently waiting to cross through the veil. Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

Within a week or so of giving birth, I managed to get in a Target run as my mom cared for our son. No small feat, getting me out of the house, given the amount of postpartum anxiety I had. I ran into Marty Dred himself in the grocery aisles of Target as I knocked off my to-do list. “Marty Dread!” I exclaimed. “You got me pregnant!!” This did not phase him a bit. “I get that a lot,” he replied.

I ran into Marty again at a music and story telling festival some time later, and he got to hold the child his song had some part in the calling through of...

I gained somewhere between more than thirty but less than forty pounds in the course of my pregnancy – most of which was water retention in my lower body. I was throwing up so much I ended up with an emergency ultrasound in my eighth month. There was concern he was not big enough, possibly starved due to my constantly engaged eject button. He was fine. I was induced on my due date because of severe edema, blood pressure spikes, and no sign of going into natural labor any time soon. 27 hours labor and three hours pushing later, he was here and after a few tense moments, he was fine. 

Ready to pop. Seriously.

 

I had IV fluids running into my body during the entire L&D process, and all of that fluid settled into my lower half. My OB told me my swelling would get worse before it got better, but I had no idea just how bad...I insisted on going home the next day. My legs were so (additionally) swollen that I could not walk properly. I shuffled, just pulling my enormous elephant legs along (no offense to actual elephants). I could not lift my legs to get into the tub without grabbing behind where my knee used to be and doing an assist lift with my arms. I wish now I had taken pictures but in the middle of it all I just couldn't bear to look at myself well enough take pictures.

And then my friend Claire visited me. Claire is this magical unicorn mix of fantasy girlfriend material. She's been in several punk rock bands as it was coming on the scene and DJ'ed a punk show on Maui for years. Has a room just for her record collection. She was in a 1980s female skateboard gang called the Hags in LA. She has purple hair. She's half Japanese. Yup. Purple frickin' unicorn. Anyway, she is also a gifted massage therapist (yeah there's more, shut up) and Claire has that thing a person can not be taught. She has that thing one has to be born with.

Claire came to visit me a few days after I had my son. We sat talking on my bed as I was getting horizontal as much as possible due to my deformedly puffed state of swollen-osity. My body felt sick as I was trying on motherhood for the first time. Claire was giving my poor feet a little rub-love. As we chatted she idly sort of flick-swept her fingers up my legs, the leg closer to her got more of this treatment than the other.

The next morning I felt like a strangely drawn cartoon on Who Framed Roger Rabbit? The swelling had gone down in both legs, more drastically in the leg she touched more. It looked like my legs belonged to two different people. The water loss was even more pronounced in the calf than in the shin, again due to uneven touch distribution, further adding to the cartoonish appearance. I excitedly called her and asked how much she would charge to do full body lymphatic drainage massage on me. She worked out a trade for Pilates with Duncan, as his way of contributing to my wellness. 

11 days postpartum. Thank you Claire, for saving me from drowning in myself

 

Over the next 11 days I dropped 30 pounds of water. Claire worked on me three or four times during that span, leaving me eight pounds above my pre pregnancy weight. I think the eight pounds that were left were in my chest mounted milk storage containers.

I started wearing compression garments immediately postpartum as well. Sometimes I would double-layer not wanting to let the swelling creep back in. I was doing gentle Pilates within the first few weeks to get my body moving again, and back to the gym and working with my trainer within a month or so.

And then I went back to work. Cut the time I had to exercise, and cue the stress eating spurred by being away from my baby. A few pounds crept back on. The gap between pre pregnancy weight and current weight has widened from eight to fifteen pounds. I plan to do a cleanse to reset my body when I am done pumping, but a drastic calorie cut could stop lactation abruptly. I bought a used NordicTrack elliptical for home use as getting to the gym is a challenge these days. I try to make better food choices every day. Some days I do great, some days I could do better.

Motherhood, for me, has been a series of letting go from the moment I was pregnant. I get clean every day, and my hair gets brushed and re-braided. And some, OK most days, that is all the vanity I am allowed. Sometimes I don't shave my legs until I can no longer stand how they feel when they touch each other. My eyebrows are always in need of a plucking touch-up. I could always use a mani-pedi. I think I put on a little make up last December for a Christmas party. Not sure. I think that was also the last time I let my hair down into its full long curly splendor. And Hair? I lost about a third of my hair (at least that's what it felt like) starting three months postpartum. Crying was a daily thing as I pulled hamster sized clumps of hair out of my brush after each daily brushing. Lingerie? Pretty matching bras and panties? I haven't been out of a sports bra since I had Duper. And until I lose a few pounds, if I put on a g-string and bent over it would cut me in half. Logically I know none of this will ever matter to my child (or Duncan), and I am still in the midst of figuring out what matters to me in regards to self care, self image, and vanity. What I do know is that my my daily energy coins need to be budgeted well and my son is worth all of this superficial angst, even the mid life rosacea/adult acne that has come with my body trying to decide if I am still young and fertile (see: return of menses and breaking out like a teenager) or mid-life (see: bifocals, chin hair, and crows feet).

Duncan has likened this earthly existence to being space persons. Think of the body (see: sack of meat and bones) as our space suit that allows us to inhabit this life in this place. I take the best care of my vehicle as I can, but I'm not going to get through without a few dents and scratches. I will, however see some amazingly beautiful things looking out the window on this ride...

Continuing these thoughts now, in September 2018

My personal identity has been in question, to me, at least. What is left of me beyond “Mommy” ? There have been days I just wanted someone to put their hands on my shoulders and say “I see you” or “you exist”, I was no longer sure. That last sentence looks ridiculous on paper, but it's taken me nine months to be able to say that out loud without crying. Loneliness is an invisible prison, worn in all travels, that no one else can see.

I weigh less now than have in my adult life. I weigh between 20 and 25 pounds less than I did when the first half of this entry was penned. The first ten came off with effort and exercise. The next 10-15 came off with anxiety (see my previous blog entry for details...). Exercise has become my “Me” time, my chance every day to burn off the crazy. It is, in a way, how I am hanging on to myself. Even in the gym I have to mentally push back the rest of life and just remember to be present and fully in my body. Every rep. 

 

My Beastie and I are great parents to our baby boy, but on the daily treadmill of parenting, adulting, and doing all the things – too much space opened between us. We are blessed to have worked out a schedule that involves no outside child care, but with two working parents, that creates much passing of the toddler and very little interfacing for us. My postpartum anxiety (see: coming from a place of fear, not love) certainly made me about as much fun as a blister. Intimacy suffered, and as much as I hear it happens to all new parents, I was determined that rest of the world be damned, I was going to maintain a (sexually) passionate life. Turns out I'm not so special. Having a toddler means nothing you do will ever get done quickly, except sex. That nap could go for an hour, or it could last 7 minutes. 

Daddy and Duper.  Best buds.

 

My mom came out to visit in August into September. I was struggling to say the least, but during her visit I completely broke down. It was necessary, and her being here and taking up the primary care of her grandson gave me the space for it to happen. I cried daily, and after dragging myself through the days all I wanted to do when I got home was lie down in bed and veg out to Candy Crush. I was exhausted down to my soul, and I felt like my grip was slipping.

And then I got mommed. I came home from work during her visit and this is what I found: Two baking dishes full of stuffed zucchini. One very happy grandma-loved baby boy. And all of my laundry done, which is really saying something as the hamper was over flowing and the laundry facilities are not in our condo. While cooking and child caring she schlepped my laundry (in several trips) to our condominium laundromat. All I had to do was go to work. Other than that she gave me the day off from, well, me. I did the only logical thing left to do – I cried. If you want to commit an act of love to somebody, do their laundry. I'm 45 years old and I still need my mom, some days more than others. 

My reason to try harder

I started seeing a therapist as soon as I found out I was pregnant. Damage remediation. I'm going to do something wrong, and not knowing how I will hurt my child in the long run sucks. Because, let's face it...we're all broken. Also recently started couples therapy. I just want to be a good mom, partner, human. I want to be good to myself. 

 

Humans having a Spiritual experience or Spirits having a Human experience? My son is proof that I've done something right in this lifetime. He's also proven that he has so much more to teach me. The hardest part of this post has been the end. I should have something inspiring to say, something that ties up this whole rambling post, the perfect meme. Nope. Just the promise that I will try to post again within the month, not five. My apologies to my awesomely amazing readers out there. All three of you. (HI MOM <3!) 

Also, this happened. Still having small heart attacks when I pass mirrors. I call it midlife crisis violet. Hope you like it.