Tag Archives: kids

Epidural = spa-like birth experience

This picture was taken the evening of June 2nd, three days before I (miracles of miracles) went into labor by myself, one day before my due date.

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When I look at this picture, the thing that comes back to me is:

back pain.

It was with me almost constantly from February to June.

And a few days after having little Benjamin, suddenly I realized: it left the moment he popped out. And it may have been connected to the fact that he was a whopping 9 lbs 3 oz. Just maybe.

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Now I can sleep again, sit without grimacing, and don’t have to drape my back with hot rice bags on a nightly basis. Alice was so used to this routine that one night, when she was fishing for excuses to call us into her room when she was supposed to be sleeping, she said to my husband, “Daddy, my back hurts, so I need a rice bag.”

Little stinker.

And by the way, going back to Benjamin’s birth, the phrase ‘popped out’ is not ironic, but totally applicable: he came out in three contractions.

Three contractions!?

Yes, three contractions. I know–it’s the stuff of dreams.

In fact, by the beginning of the second contraction they said, ‘oh, there’s his head!’

Already? I almost exclaimed, but then I didn’t, because the epidural had turned me into a Zen goddess and instead I probably just smiled serenely.

Let’s just say that I had a blast giving birth–after the epidural kicked in (during the last hour or so–there was some hell before that to get those first 7 centimeters accomplished, including a most dreadful walk from the parking garage to the hospital itself).

But giving birth to him with drugs was a complete 180 from my horror story of having Alice au naturel. (If you have yet to be scarred by my story, well, you may be the happier for it. Then again, you might just feel so relieved by the end of it that it’s not happening to you at this very moment, that it might make you happier to read it after all. Only you can be the judge.)

I liken my experience giving birth to Benjamin to relaxing in a spa.

I got the epidural about an hour into transition, when the suffering was starting to reach a fever pitch–and then an angel with a needle showed up. For anyone afraid of needles, let me tell you: when you’re in transition, that awful phase of labor that sucks you in, chew you up into a pulp and spits you out, you don’t care about any amount of needles. They could have stuck me with four needles at once–heck, four hundred needles–and I wouldn’t have cared. Big needles, long needles–whatever. Heck, make it the length of a hand–or an arm! As long as it puts the drugs into my spine as quickly as possible. Normally I’m a needle wuss and feel a little faint when I get blood drawn. But in this context, I was like, ‘jam that in there!’ because I wanted the pain relief so badly.

And then, the epidural worked–first on only half my body, but when I turned on my side, it flooded into the other side as well. Aaaaah. Sweet relief.

I took a nap for a whole, magical hour.

When I woke up, someone said, “Alright! You’re ten centimeters–it’s time to push!”

Two wonderful, encouraging ladies (one nurse, one midwife) calmly stood there saying, “okay, push now!” So I pushed–while feeling no pain. They cooed, “Oooh, good job! There’s his head!”

By the way, there’s his head–

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–in another context, of course. It came out nice and round because he flew out of there so fast.

Anyway, there’s a profound irony in being told ‘good job’ when there’s nothing hard about what you’re doing. I mean, just compare that to my experience with Alice, when I was doing the hardest thing I’ve done in my life, and giving my all to push her out while experiencing the agonies of what felt like a torture chamber. Then no one was telling me ‘good job.’ Then it was more like, ‘push harder!’ And ‘stop yelling! You’re wasting energy! Grunt deep, like this!’ and furious shouts of ‘COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, KEEP GOING!’ and “COME ON JENNA!!!”

I’ll take the soothing, approving ‘good job’ in the hospital/spa any day. Also, did I mention that I only swore, like, twice (in a quiet whisper, too) instead of at least two hundred times AT A THUNDEROUS SHOUT? Yep. That encapsulates the difference between the two experiences, all right.

When we were taking our Bradley Method natural birthing class the summer before Alice was born, sitting on yoga mats in the intense heat that had descended on Chicago that year and learning from a wonderful woman named Denise about the wonders of natural birth, I never thought I would say this. But now, I will.

(I’m sorry, Denise.)

Drugs = magic

Happy Monday from this little man who turned 1 month old yesterday.

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The pregnancy journey . . . boy versus girl, or #2 versus #1?

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This pregnancy has been so different from my pregnancy with Alice. I’ve been wondering how much of that is my slightly different lifestyle (less walking and more driving, less–read “no”–yoga classes, more Kraft macaroni and cheese), how much is because I’m pregnant with a boy instead of a girl, and how much is just part of a second (as opposed to a first) pregnancy.

What are these differences, you may ask? Lemme give you the skinny.

-MORE WEIGHT. I just had to put that in caps, because it’s really affecting how I feel. As of my appointment today–at 27 weeks, the cusp of the third trimester–I’ve gained 21 pounds. That’s reasonable and fine, I realize this, but it’s also more than I gained in my entire pregnancy with Alice (20 pounds). The mirror tells me I look fine, but I just feel heavy, large, gross, and generally unattractive.

When I was pregnant with Alice I heard other pregnant women say things like, “I feel so ugly,” or “I don’t feel sexy at all.” Huh, I thought. Poor things. I guess I got the magical pregnancy gene. Because I felt great–beautiful, sexy, and (at least after the first trimester) plenty energetic.

This is not the same.

I am a whale. In my mind. Which is where it counts. And whales, though endearing, endangered, and graceful in their own balloon-like way, are not sexy.

-More Kraft macaroni and cheese.

-Less documenting. Alas for the days when I had time and energy to blog and blog and blog . . . it was fun. And I love looking back on each week of my pregnancy with Alice. But what with work, writing novels, taking care of an energetic, galloping almost two-and-a-half year old who has been cooped up inside for far too long and a myriad of other things, little Benjamin just isn’t getting the same type of thorough analysis.

(Yes! His name is Benjamin!)

-Back to the whale part–this really hit me when my sister Heidi mailed me a box full of maternity jeans, that both she and my sister Erica had used throughout their pregnancies. Still living under the delusion that my sisters and I all have the same body (regardless of what our adult experience has taught us), I joyously stripped down and pulled on the first pair.

“Pulled on” is a misnomer–it implies I was actually able to, well, pull them on. To my body.

Let me give you the short version:

I couldn’t get into a single pair. And I was only halfway through my pregnancy at the time.

Hmm. I can’t fit into any of these jeans at 20 weeks, and both my sisters wore them through 40 weeks, I thought.

Weird.

My conclusion? My sisters and I all totally have the same body.

Can’t stop believin’.

-More indigestion. Evenings of stomach-related misery, though a recent purchase of almond milk may have been the ticket–it seems to calm things down. I love the Califia vanilla stuff–not too sweet, and it makes me feel like maybe my stomach isn’t trying to grow up to be The Hulk anymore.

-More Kraft macaroni and cheese. Did I mention that yet?

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-Less energy. I’m not romping about at 8pm anymore–I’m looking at the clock and thinking, “hmmm, is it embarrassingly early to go to bed?” Then I realize that I don’t have the energy to even ponder that question, at which point I pass out on the couch.

Anyway, that’s the short version. The long version also includes what makes this an emotionally different journey: a Downs syndrome scare that turned out to be a false alarm, a lot of uncertainty about what we’ll be doing and where we’ll be living this fall, and all kinds of intense tear-inducing stuff like that. But you know what? Tonight, friends are coming over to our apartment, we’re eating an Indian feast from our favorite restaurant, and then we get to go to bed (isn’t it amazing that we get to do that every night??? I LOVE BEDTIME). So . . . hurray!