I decided some weeks ago to subscribe to a certain women's magazine, one that apparently targets ageing moms with nothing better to do with their free time.
Ok. So it was an impulse purchase. Since I entered my credit card information on their website and pressed the point of no return "purchase" button, however, it has come to my attention that absolutely everything, every article, recipe, etc. is on their website!
They should point that out on their "purchase the darn paper magazine and take your place among those who have absolutely no regard for the environment whatsoever" page.
Anyway. This has nothing whatever to do with this post. Except for an article in said magazine that caught my attention: "How to stop parenting your partner."
Ugh.
An article directed at "Adults who are natural caregivers (aka women)" and yes, it used the word "nagging."
Obviously.
I am so tired of that word. I figured out in the not too distant past when I finally reclaimed my self-esteem (following my recuperation from my twenties) that "nag" is just a word invented by men to shut women up. You see it works like this: men are assertive; women nag.
Not so. I once had a male roommate (in my twenties) who moved in just a few weeks after I had occupied the apartment, who complained to his girlfriend on the phone (I was eavesdropping from the bathroom) that I was messy and had "left my stuff all over the bloody apartment." The stuff he was in fact referring to were the towels I had bought for him and placed in his room to make him feel at home. I never explained to him the gesture, and simply removed the offending articles from his sight. But after that he continuously "nagged" me about my alleged messiness until he moved out a couple of months later.
I also know a woman who is so relaxed and easy-going she wouldn't nag a dog for devouring an entire Marc Jacobs bag (that's just an expression - it didn't actually happen. Not to anyone I know, anyway).
Getting back to the article. One of the ways it suggests to stop the so-called parenting habit, is to "acknowledge your part" in the issues you presumably nag your partner about. "Did you do anything to create the situation?"
I immediately thought back to what happened the other day. My husband had left a very wet diaper on the rocking chair in the baby's room. Just to put this in perspective, the rocking chair is at exactly the same distance from the changing table as the garbage can. I had not noticed it there, and sat on it.
Yeah. Yuk.
Now tell me what part I played in "creating" this absolutely disgusting situation.
To tell the truth, I didn't nag. Some absolutely horrible person with no idea what it's like to sit on a very wet diaper might say I nagged. But even they would be pushing it. I did no such thing. I simply "pointed out." Because, understandably, I couldn't help it.
After placing the diaper in the garbage and wiping the chair, I went downstairs and pointed out to my husband that he had left a very wet diaper on the rocking chair and that I had sat on it.
"Oh, I must be tired lately," is all I got. I raised my hands to the sky and tried not to laugh. I have lived with him for half a dozen years. I know that's all I'm going to get. Can I even change this situation? No. All I can do is watch where I sit from now on.
The woman who wrote the article would probably tell me I handled the situation very well, without nagging. My reaction would fit under her rules no. 2: Be direct, and 3:Talk it out (even better, make it a joke). But is this going to stop me from finding wet diapers on the rocking chair, in the playpen or on the change table? If I know my husband, I already know the answer. No. Absolutely not.
Saturday, 27 April 2013
Friday, 22 March 2013
Midwife or doctor?
I will always remember how I felt when I gave birth to my second baby. Ecstatic, giddy, ridiculously happy. I also remember something that went through my mind almost immediately after I saw her little body slide out in a gush of water: it was somewhere along the lines of "Wow! That was easy!"
Yes, I said it. Giving birth was easy.
At least, for me it was. I won't speak for anyone else. I'm convinced that many women in labour must have felt more pain than I did. Then again I was once witness to a friend actually texting a woman who was at that very moment in the middle of the second stage of labour (the pushing stage).
It was actually quite interesting. My friend decided to text her friend who was overdue to have her baby. It turns out, from the reply, that the woman in question was at that moment lying on a bed in the hospital, and in between texts was pushing! I cannot imagine how she managed it, but she literally had the time and the leasure to take her ipod in her hands and text: "Labour started this am, baby will be here soon!" (Not sure if there was a smiley face after that). My friend then texted "So, are you thinking about having another baby after this?" At which her friend texted: "F*** you!" The baby was born twenty minutes later.
Anyway, back to my birth story. I must admit I would not have been in any mood to text anyone, but the entire process was so much less painful than I had imagined. The contractions started in the early morning, and by the afternoon I was in active labour. Only I did not know how advanced it was. I called my midwife and she said she would check on me sometime after supper. I made myself as comfortable as I could, sitting on a chair and leaning on the backrest. I forced myself to breathe deeply during each contraction. I ate when I was hungry; I had lunch, and later pasta for dinner at around 5:00. I would eat between contractions, then pause when I felt one coming on. I would close my eyes, breathe, and after it had passed, smile at everyone sitting at the table around me, and continue to eat.
My midwife came at 6:30. I put myself in a position where she could examine me, and that's when my water broke! She told me I was already dilated to 6cm.
We obviously made our way to the birth house after that. My baby was born at 9:00.
I wanted to experience a natural childbirth more than anything. I am convinced that having a midwife by my side helped me do just that. After the birth of my first baby, I had to force myself to believe that I was even able do it.
My first baby was born by cesarian. It was an emergency; she had been in distress. The doctor wanted to get her out quickly so I was given general anesthesia instead of an epidural. I was asleep when she was born, and I only saw her for the first time four hours later. I made myself be grateful to the doctors for saving her life, but I felt like something had been taken from me. It's hard to explain, but when you carry a baby for nine months, and you don't give birth to her yourself, you feel like something's missing. It took the birth of my second baby, nearly three years later, for me to finally be able to get over it.
I don't want to criticize, or be ungrateful. But I wonder if any of the interventions performed at the hospital almost as soon as I arrived worsened the problem. Could my first baby have been born naturally?
When I arrived at the hospital, I had not had dinner, and I was already hungry. But I was not permitted to eat. My midwife told me later that women who give birth in a hospital are not allowed food because they are being prepared for a cesarian (if one should ever be needed). But a woman in labour needs to eat! Contractions last for hours; imagine if you were running a day-long marathon; wouldn't you need to pause for nourishment?
I was given a narrow bed in a wait-room and told to lie still while I was being monitored. Because I had tested positive for strep-B, a needle was inserted into my hand and I found myself permanently attached to an IV, which I would, for the remainder of my labour, have to wheel with me to go anywhere.
About an hour later, it was suspected that something was a little off with my baby's heartbeat, and I was told that my water had to be broken because a more precice heart-beat meaurement system than the one they had strapped to my belly had to be attached to the top of my baby's head. The machine they had on now just wasn't giving clear enough readings. My water was broken by the nurse ... and that's when the uncontrollable shivers started. I was taken to a room and told to lie on my left side, and to not move. The baby's heartbeat just kept on slowing down after each contraction. A warm blanket was placed on me to stop the shivers. I was starting to show signs of a fever. Every hour or so, whenever a nurse had the time to stop in, I was examined. "You're at about 3 cm" was hardly encouraging. I was already asking for an epidural, but it was too soon for that. The contractions were painful, and since I couldn't move, they were all I had to think about. The doctor finally came in (not my usual doctor; it was her day off), and looked at the machine that was measuring my contractions. "They're not really that painful, yet" he said with a smile as he saw me screw up my face as another one was coming on. Did he think he was being helpful?
Finally, at around midnight, since the baby's heartbeat was not improving, I was told I would have an emergency cesarian. We all waited as the anestheologist made his way to the hospital. I was asked to sign some papers; I was shivering so much that I was hardly able to provide a decent signature. I was then wheeled to the operating room, where my husband was not allowed to follow. Between contractions a catheter was placed in me (ew, definitely do not want to experience that again!) and finally I was told that I was going to sleep. Honestly, I was happy. Labour had not been a good experience for me. I just wanted to stop feeling the pain of the contractions.
I woke up later, heavily drugged and, for some reason, feeling like singing a song. I was wheeled into a bedroom and was left alone until a while later, when a nurse came in to fiddle with my IV. She let out a loud fart as she was doing so, probably imagining that I was asleep and wouldn't notice. Out of politeness, I pretended not to have noticed. When she came back later I asked how my baby was. "Oh! They haven't brought her to you yet?" She left the room and about thirty minutes later my husband came in with our baby. I wanted to cry when I saw her, but couldn't because it was too painful.
I spent five days in the hospital, continuously attached to an IV that was pumping me full of antibiotics because of the infection it was discovered had spread to my uterus (this had been ascertained during the cesarian). My baby's heartbeat and my own temperature were measured constantly. I had to do so many blood tests I began to bruise. I especially remember how, as soon as the baby and I would finally get to sleep, a nurse would walk in during the middle of the night, turn on the lights and chirp: "Ok! It's time to check those vital signs!" Was I ever glad to go home at the end of that bloody week.
***
Now, I have experienced childbirth in two enormously different ways. And it's obvious which of the two was most pleasant. My stay at the birth house lasted no more than twenty hours. The room was comfortable, charming, and the atmosphere was calm. After the birth, I was given a wonderful fruit plate, and we were left alone to sleep through the entire night. During labour, I had no machines tied to me; my baby's heartbeat was monitored every now and then by my midwife, who had a hand-held fetal doppler. I had tested positive for step-B, just like last time, and technically should have been given antibiotics, but since my water had broken before I went to the birth house, and it would have been pointless by then, I asked my midwife if we could dispense with the f***ing IV. She smiled and I never saw it again. I had absolutely no desire to have an epidural; the contractions were intense, but I could get through them on my own. And after my water broke (on it's own!) there were no weird shivers. In other words, this childbirth felt as normal and as natural as going to the bathroom! And that's the difference between giving birth with a midwife, rather than at the hospital: you realize just how natural childbirth is - and that you really have it in you to get through it.
Would my first baby have been in distress had my water not been broken so soon, and had I been allowed to eat, walk, or do whatever felt natural? I will never know. But I do know what it's like to give birth to my baby. Finally.
Yes, I said it. Giving birth was easy.
At least, for me it was. I won't speak for anyone else. I'm convinced that many women in labour must have felt more pain than I did. Then again I was once witness to a friend actually texting a woman who was at that very moment in the middle of the second stage of labour (the pushing stage).
It was actually quite interesting. My friend decided to text her friend who was overdue to have her baby. It turns out, from the reply, that the woman in question was at that moment lying on a bed in the hospital, and in between texts was pushing! I cannot imagine how she managed it, but she literally had the time and the leasure to take her ipod in her hands and text: "Labour started this am, baby will be here soon!" (Not sure if there was a smiley face after that). My friend then texted "So, are you thinking about having another baby after this?" At which her friend texted: "F*** you!" The baby was born twenty minutes later.
Anyway, back to my birth story. I must admit I would not have been in any mood to text anyone, but the entire process was so much less painful than I had imagined. The contractions started in the early morning, and by the afternoon I was in active labour. Only I did not know how advanced it was. I called my midwife and she said she would check on me sometime after supper. I made myself as comfortable as I could, sitting on a chair and leaning on the backrest. I forced myself to breathe deeply during each contraction. I ate when I was hungry; I had lunch, and later pasta for dinner at around 5:00. I would eat between contractions, then pause when I felt one coming on. I would close my eyes, breathe, and after it had passed, smile at everyone sitting at the table around me, and continue to eat.
My midwife came at 6:30. I put myself in a position where she could examine me, and that's when my water broke! She told me I was already dilated to 6cm.
We obviously made our way to the birth house after that. My baby was born at 9:00.
I wanted to experience a natural childbirth more than anything. I am convinced that having a midwife by my side helped me do just that. After the birth of my first baby, I had to force myself to believe that I was even able do it.
My first baby was born by cesarian. It was an emergency; she had been in distress. The doctor wanted to get her out quickly so I was given general anesthesia instead of an epidural. I was asleep when she was born, and I only saw her for the first time four hours later. I made myself be grateful to the doctors for saving her life, but I felt like something had been taken from me. It's hard to explain, but when you carry a baby for nine months, and you don't give birth to her yourself, you feel like something's missing. It took the birth of my second baby, nearly three years later, for me to finally be able to get over it.
I don't want to criticize, or be ungrateful. But I wonder if any of the interventions performed at the hospital almost as soon as I arrived worsened the problem. Could my first baby have been born naturally?
When I arrived at the hospital, I had not had dinner, and I was already hungry. But I was not permitted to eat. My midwife told me later that women who give birth in a hospital are not allowed food because they are being prepared for a cesarian (if one should ever be needed). But a woman in labour needs to eat! Contractions last for hours; imagine if you were running a day-long marathon; wouldn't you need to pause for nourishment?
I was given a narrow bed in a wait-room and told to lie still while I was being monitored. Because I had tested positive for strep-B, a needle was inserted into my hand and I found myself permanently attached to an IV, which I would, for the remainder of my labour, have to wheel with me to go anywhere.
About an hour later, it was suspected that something was a little off with my baby's heartbeat, and I was told that my water had to be broken because a more precice heart-beat meaurement system than the one they had strapped to my belly had to be attached to the top of my baby's head. The machine they had on now just wasn't giving clear enough readings. My water was broken by the nurse ... and that's when the uncontrollable shivers started. I was taken to a room and told to lie on my left side, and to not move. The baby's heartbeat just kept on slowing down after each contraction. A warm blanket was placed on me to stop the shivers. I was starting to show signs of a fever. Every hour or so, whenever a nurse had the time to stop in, I was examined. "You're at about 3 cm" was hardly encouraging. I was already asking for an epidural, but it was too soon for that. The contractions were painful, and since I couldn't move, they were all I had to think about. The doctor finally came in (not my usual doctor; it was her day off), and looked at the machine that was measuring my contractions. "They're not really that painful, yet" he said with a smile as he saw me screw up my face as another one was coming on. Did he think he was being helpful?
Finally, at around midnight, since the baby's heartbeat was not improving, I was told I would have an emergency cesarian. We all waited as the anestheologist made his way to the hospital. I was asked to sign some papers; I was shivering so much that I was hardly able to provide a decent signature. I was then wheeled to the operating room, where my husband was not allowed to follow. Between contractions a catheter was placed in me (ew, definitely do not want to experience that again!) and finally I was told that I was going to sleep. Honestly, I was happy. Labour had not been a good experience for me. I just wanted to stop feeling the pain of the contractions.
I woke up later, heavily drugged and, for some reason, feeling like singing a song. I was wheeled into a bedroom and was left alone until a while later, when a nurse came in to fiddle with my IV. She let out a loud fart as she was doing so, probably imagining that I was asleep and wouldn't notice. Out of politeness, I pretended not to have noticed. When she came back later I asked how my baby was. "Oh! They haven't brought her to you yet?" She left the room and about thirty minutes later my husband came in with our baby. I wanted to cry when I saw her, but couldn't because it was too painful.
I spent five days in the hospital, continuously attached to an IV that was pumping me full of antibiotics because of the infection it was discovered had spread to my uterus (this had been ascertained during the cesarian). My baby's heartbeat and my own temperature were measured constantly. I had to do so many blood tests I began to bruise. I especially remember how, as soon as the baby and I would finally get to sleep, a nurse would walk in during the middle of the night, turn on the lights and chirp: "Ok! It's time to check those vital signs!" Was I ever glad to go home at the end of that bloody week.
***
Now, I have experienced childbirth in two enormously different ways. And it's obvious which of the two was most pleasant. My stay at the birth house lasted no more than twenty hours. The room was comfortable, charming, and the atmosphere was calm. After the birth, I was given a wonderful fruit plate, and we were left alone to sleep through the entire night. During labour, I had no machines tied to me; my baby's heartbeat was monitored every now and then by my midwife, who had a hand-held fetal doppler. I had tested positive for step-B, just like last time, and technically should have been given antibiotics, but since my water had broken before I went to the birth house, and it would have been pointless by then, I asked my midwife if we could dispense with the f***ing IV. She smiled and I never saw it again. I had absolutely no desire to have an epidural; the contractions were intense, but I could get through them on my own. And after my water broke (on it's own!) there were no weird shivers. In other words, this childbirth felt as normal and as natural as going to the bathroom! And that's the difference between giving birth with a midwife, rather than at the hospital: you realize just how natural childbirth is - and that you really have it in you to get through it.
Would my first baby have been in distress had my water not been broken so soon, and had I been allowed to eat, walk, or do whatever felt natural? I will never know. But I do know what it's like to give birth to my baby. Finally.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Moms mother; dads ... babysit?!
Why is it that almost every time I go out in public lately, and I mention the fact that I have kids, the first question that comes up is: "Oh? Where are they now?"
"Oh, you know, I kind of lost track of them while I was looking up the fat contents for two tablespoons of Nutella in the breakfast aisle at the groceries a couple of hours ago, and then I forgot all about them, but I'm sure they'll turn up eventually."
That should be my response to the next person who asks me that question. If I only dare ...
My actual response is usually the same: they're either a) at home with grandma, or b) at home with their dad.
The first answer receives an approving nod and a smile. The second one is followed by another, and even more infuriating question: "Oh! So Dad's watching them?"
"Watching them?" as in, "Babysitting them?!"
My husband becomes infuriated by people who use the term "watching" when describing Dad's role in his relationship with his kids. We were discussing the topic while having coffee together this morning (here I feel obliged to point out, because I just know someone will wonder: he's on parental leave), and he mentioned how it's not only in real life, but also in the media that there seems to be a general consensus that whenever a dad is alone with his kids, he is in fact babysitting.
"But it's 2013," I pointed out quite pointlessly, "not 1955."
At this moment I would like to say that I in no way blame the men for this viewpoint. All the people who have asked me if my husband was "watching" our kids were women. I have even known women who would not leave their kids alone with their father for anything, because, according to them, "he can't handle it." I feel sorry for those men - their wives must think they're idiots.
Now, as for me, I need time for myself. And I have complete faith in my husband. When our first baby was born, it quickly became obvious to me which of the two of us was more at ease with her: and it wasn't me. For the first week, my husband had to keep reminding me that it was in fact impossible to break the baby into a million pieces, and would I please stop worrying that I would accidentally do so every time I changed her diaper? But as any mom does, I quickly got the hang of it, and became a pro in no time. I believe I did my husband proud.
Anyway, as I was saying, I am one of those radical moms who actually needs time for herself - and doesn't feel guilty about taking it. I have taken an afternoon now and then to go out for a coffee and read a book. I have even (gasp!) left my husband alone with our first child for an entire weekend to spend some time with my brother and his wife in the next city.
We may not like to admit it, but when it comes to dads, time to do your own thing is normal. A beer with the guys, what could be more natural? But when it comes to moms, we need to justify it. "I've been up all night with the baby, I need some rest!" Of course, if it's not for sleep, what good is time alone?
I'm going to say something shocking: my baby has started sleeping full nights a week ago (she's two months old - pause for exclamations of "how unfair is that?!? from other parents), and yes, I still need time for myself. Just because I have children doesn't mean I should feel guilty about taking time to do the things I love, the things that define me. Like right now. Am I writing this while my baby's sleeping? No. My husband is with her. Spending quality father-daughter time with her. Not "watching" her.
"Oh, you know, I kind of lost track of them while I was looking up the fat contents for two tablespoons of Nutella in the breakfast aisle at the groceries a couple of hours ago, and then I forgot all about them, but I'm sure they'll turn up eventually."
That should be my response to the next person who asks me that question. If I only dare ...
My actual response is usually the same: they're either a) at home with grandma, or b) at home with their dad.
The first answer receives an approving nod and a smile. The second one is followed by another, and even more infuriating question: "Oh! So Dad's watching them?"
"Watching them?" as in, "Babysitting them?!"
My husband becomes infuriated by people who use the term "watching" when describing Dad's role in his relationship with his kids. We were discussing the topic while having coffee together this morning (here I feel obliged to point out, because I just know someone will wonder: he's on parental leave), and he mentioned how it's not only in real life, but also in the media that there seems to be a general consensus that whenever a dad is alone with his kids, he is in fact babysitting.
"But it's 2013," I pointed out quite pointlessly, "not 1955."
At this moment I would like to say that I in no way blame the men for this viewpoint. All the people who have asked me if my husband was "watching" our kids were women. I have even known women who would not leave their kids alone with their father for anything, because, according to them, "he can't handle it." I feel sorry for those men - their wives must think they're idiots.
Now, as for me, I need time for myself. And I have complete faith in my husband. When our first baby was born, it quickly became obvious to me which of the two of us was more at ease with her: and it wasn't me. For the first week, my husband had to keep reminding me that it was in fact impossible to break the baby into a million pieces, and would I please stop worrying that I would accidentally do so every time I changed her diaper? But as any mom does, I quickly got the hang of it, and became a pro in no time. I believe I did my husband proud.
Anyway, as I was saying, I am one of those radical moms who actually needs time for herself - and doesn't feel guilty about taking it. I have taken an afternoon now and then to go out for a coffee and read a book. I have even (gasp!) left my husband alone with our first child for an entire weekend to spend some time with my brother and his wife in the next city.
We may not like to admit it, but when it comes to dads, time to do your own thing is normal. A beer with the guys, what could be more natural? But when it comes to moms, we need to justify it. "I've been up all night with the baby, I need some rest!" Of course, if it's not for sleep, what good is time alone?
I'm going to say something shocking: my baby has started sleeping full nights a week ago (she's two months old - pause for exclamations of "how unfair is that?!? from other parents), and yes, I still need time for myself. Just because I have children doesn't mean I should feel guilty about taking time to do the things I love, the things that define me. Like right now. Am I writing this while my baby's sleeping? No. My husband is with her. Spending quality father-daughter time with her. Not "watching" her.
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
Losing Weight Post-Partum
For any woman who has given birth, you will have become familiar with the excrutiating ordeal of losing the weight you have inevitably accumulated during pregnancy (except for those of you out there whom fortune has quite unfairly smiled upon, and who can miraculously fit into your best pair of jeans two days post-partum).
With my first pregnancy, I had gained ten extra pounds. I then lost twenty pounds, to my own utter bewilderment - indeed, just before my second pregnancy, I was able to fit into my prom dress; a feat I had never in my wildest dreams believed I could accomplish (it was a tight fit, but still). And it's not even one of those awful frilly pink dresses - this one is a classic a-line, halter top, satin dress in a pretty shade of green, one I could actually wear again (you know, at a formal military ball or something).
Anyway. This time, after the birth of my second baby, I must redo everything, having gained back every last one of those twenty pounds. I have decided that, for good measure, I will lose thirty. Or at the very least twenty-five.
And I am not wasting any time doing so. Today I spent one hour kickboxing in my basement. I generally find that if, after a workout, my face is a deep shade of red, bordering on purple, I have really accomplished something. I told my husband (who is presently on parental leave) that I was taking a shower, and that if he should hear a loud thump, it was just me passing out.
But it's not so bad. Any exercise routine takes some getting used to, when it has not been done in a while. A good, long while.
I have also begun using My Fitness Pal. It is really quite brilliant, and works very well. Assuming, of course, that you are repelled by the - 450 calories that shows up bright red in the top right corner of your screen at the end of a not-so-good day. Not that I'm a nut who enjoys counting every last calorie. I don't mind ballparking it. Plus, I tell myself that as long as I generally don't go over 100 extra calories in a day, I'm doing just fine.
I used to write down what I eat; that is how I managed to lose weight after my first baby. But this is so much better. This app really makes you aware of what you eat, and helps you develop better habits. For example, I will no longer be having take-out pad thai - did you know it's actually healthier to eat four Mcburgers? I found that out by looking up the calorie content before deciding on a last minute I-don't-really-feel-like-making-supper binge on fast food. So it's been proving really very useful.
Plus, I love the bar code scanning function.
Only a small 30 (min. 25) lbs. later and that dress will once again be within my reach.
With my first pregnancy, I had gained ten extra pounds. I then lost twenty pounds, to my own utter bewilderment - indeed, just before my second pregnancy, I was able to fit into my prom dress; a feat I had never in my wildest dreams believed I could accomplish (it was a tight fit, but still). And it's not even one of those awful frilly pink dresses - this one is a classic a-line, halter top, satin dress in a pretty shade of green, one I could actually wear again (you know, at a formal military ball or something).
Anyway. This time, after the birth of my second baby, I must redo everything, having gained back every last one of those twenty pounds. I have decided that, for good measure, I will lose thirty. Or at the very least twenty-five.
And I am not wasting any time doing so. Today I spent one hour kickboxing in my basement. I generally find that if, after a workout, my face is a deep shade of red, bordering on purple, I have really accomplished something. I told my husband (who is presently on parental leave) that I was taking a shower, and that if he should hear a loud thump, it was just me passing out.
But it's not so bad. Any exercise routine takes some getting used to, when it has not been done in a while. A good, long while.
I have also begun using My Fitness Pal. It is really quite brilliant, and works very well. Assuming, of course, that you are repelled by the - 450 calories that shows up bright red in the top right corner of your screen at the end of a not-so-good day. Not that I'm a nut who enjoys counting every last calorie. I don't mind ballparking it. Plus, I tell myself that as long as I generally don't go over 100 extra calories in a day, I'm doing just fine.
I used to write down what I eat; that is how I managed to lose weight after my first baby. But this is so much better. This app really makes you aware of what you eat, and helps you develop better habits. For example, I will no longer be having take-out pad thai - did you know it's actually healthier to eat four Mcburgers? I found that out by looking up the calorie content before deciding on a last minute I-don't-really-feel-like-making-supper binge on fast food. So it's been proving really very useful.
Plus, I love the bar code scanning function.
Only a small 30 (min. 25) lbs. later and that dress will once again be within my reach.
Tuesday, 19 February 2013
New Mom at Home - Second Time Around!
The last time I posted in this blog was over a year ago. But then I was no longer a stay-at-home mom - I was working full time as a teacher! My daughter had started daycare, my husband was still in Afghanistan, and the only thing I might have found time to write would have been "Gaaaaahhhh! Ok, think positive, serenity now, etc. etc. I'm going to have a glass of wine (after M's bedtime, of course)."
That fall was the most hectic I have ever known. Even completing a Master's degree seemed like a breeze compared to this. I preserved my sanity by simply not thinking, watching "Sex and the City" in the evenings, and enjoying the occasional glass of wine. A few months later my husband's mission was over; he came back from Afghanistan just in time for Christmas, bringing along with him an interesting exotic strain of the gastric flu, and life was more comfortable (after the flu passed, of course). I continued to teach until the summer, when we moved to a new city and I looked forward to the birth of our second daughter in December.
Oh, and, FYI, I am definitely thinking about not teaching again. It is an honorable, rewarding job, but it has its risks. I mean, I think it may not be an exaggeration to point out that my job was more high-risk than my husband's. Even when he was in Afghanistan. And there were rockets sailing over his head on a daily basis.
There was this one time where we were Skyping, and he was sitting at a computer in a small cubicle set up for that very purpose. Suddenly I heard a rather alarming-sounding alarm (a cheap pun, I know, but I really couldn't help it) coming from his end of the connection.
"Ugh. Not again," he said.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It's just a rocket attack." (Seriously. That was his response. Of course I panicked right away.)
"Well - do something! Hide!"
"Where?" He had an exasperating grin on his face. "The bunker's too far away. Technically I'm supposed to get under this desk, but there's really no room."
"Um, ok. Soooo ... what do we do now?"
"Keep talking. How was your day?"
A minute later the alarm stopped, and we continued our attempt to have a normal conversation. Not long after, I noticed my husband seemed distracted by something.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I heard it go off."
"You WHAT???"
That's when he explained to me that this was indeed an everyday occurence. I asked if the rockets ever hit anything. Sometimes, he explained, but no one had ever died. Someone had lost a finger once, if he remembered correctly.
I could not help having this vision of a group of rather annoyed Taliban, hiding in their cave in the mountains, their leader standing next to a hastily mapped-out sketch of the military base on a tiny blackboard, hitting it with a long stick and looking mildly cheesed-off:
"Now, this time I want you to try really hard to hit something. Anything at all. It doesn't need to be something big, even a toilet would be acceptable. Preferably with someone in it."
Now, I may have been too hasty in making fun. My husband did inform me, after he had been home a month, that someone in Kandahar had told him that a rocket landed right in his office two weeks after he had left it.
But I digress.
I have two daughters; my first is almost three years old, and my baby, who for the purpose of this blog I shall name G, is two months old. She was born just before Christmas, on December 15, on her due date (she is quite punctual). She was born at a birth house, and I was accompanied by a midwife. By the way, I fully intend on writing a post about the merits of choosing to give birth with a midwife rather than doing so in a hospital. More about that later.
So now I am a mom at home again - and very much looking forward to writing about it.
That fall was the most hectic I have ever known. Even completing a Master's degree seemed like a breeze compared to this. I preserved my sanity by simply not thinking, watching "Sex and the City" in the evenings, and enjoying the occasional glass of wine. A few months later my husband's mission was over; he came back from Afghanistan just in time for Christmas, bringing along with him an interesting exotic strain of the gastric flu, and life was more comfortable (after the flu passed, of course). I continued to teach until the summer, when we moved to a new city and I looked forward to the birth of our second daughter in December.
Oh, and, FYI, I am definitely thinking about not teaching again. It is an honorable, rewarding job, but it has its risks. I mean, I think it may not be an exaggeration to point out that my job was more high-risk than my husband's. Even when he was in Afghanistan. And there were rockets sailing over his head on a daily basis.
There was this one time where we were Skyping, and he was sitting at a computer in a small cubicle set up for that very purpose. Suddenly I heard a rather alarming-sounding alarm (a cheap pun, I know, but I really couldn't help it) coming from his end of the connection.
"Ugh. Not again," he said.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It's just a rocket attack." (Seriously. That was his response. Of course I panicked right away.)
"Well - do something! Hide!"
"Where?" He had an exasperating grin on his face. "The bunker's too far away. Technically I'm supposed to get under this desk, but there's really no room."
"Um, ok. Soooo ... what do we do now?"
"Keep talking. How was your day?"
A minute later the alarm stopped, and we continued our attempt to have a normal conversation. Not long after, I noticed my husband seemed distracted by something.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I heard it go off."
"You WHAT???"
That's when he explained to me that this was indeed an everyday occurence. I asked if the rockets ever hit anything. Sometimes, he explained, but no one had ever died. Someone had lost a finger once, if he remembered correctly.
I could not help having this vision of a group of rather annoyed Taliban, hiding in their cave in the mountains, their leader standing next to a hastily mapped-out sketch of the military base on a tiny blackboard, hitting it with a long stick and looking mildly cheesed-off:
"Now, this time I want you to try really hard to hit something. Anything at all. It doesn't need to be something big, even a toilet would be acceptable. Preferably with someone in it."
Now, I may have been too hasty in making fun. My husband did inform me, after he had been home a month, that someone in Kandahar had told him that a rocket landed right in his office two weeks after he had left it.
But I digress.
I have two daughters; my first is almost three years old, and my baby, who for the purpose of this blog I shall name G, is two months old. She was born just before Christmas, on December 15, on her due date (she is quite punctual). She was born at a birth house, and I was accompanied by a midwife. By the way, I fully intend on writing a post about the merits of choosing to give birth with a midwife rather than doing so in a hospital. More about that later.
So now I am a mom at home again - and very much looking forward to writing about it.
Sunday, 24 July 2011
A Scene Out of Edgar Allen Poe
My baby gave me a laugh first thing this morning. It was completely unintentional on her part - she certainly did not think it was in any way funny.
I had just got out of bed and wanted to check on my daughter to see if she was still sleeping. I put my ear to her door and thought I discerned a very soft sound. Careful not to wake her, should she still be sleeping, I very slowly and quietly opened her door, just wide enough to fit my head in. She was curled up on her bed, her back to me. I watched her for a minute. I still wasn't sure if she were awake or dreaming, when suddenly she sat up, and, two seconds later, turned around. When she saw me, her mouth opened in a short, silent shriek, her arms went flying into the air, and her eyes grew to twice their size. My first reaction was to laugh out loud at her reaction; that's when she knew it was me. She looked like she didn't know whether to cry or be angry with me. No wonder, and who can blame her? Poor kid's relaxing in her bed, when suddenly she turns around and sees a head peering at her from a crack in her door, which is in fact very reminiscent of the scene in The Tell-Tale Heart, where the creepy murderer very quietly opens the door to his master's chamber and just stands there in silence, watching the old man as he sleeps.
That was the first time I saw her frightened. It was real, genuine shock she experienced, poor girl. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. She forgave mommy pretty quickly though when she felt herself being picked up by a nice comfy pair of arms.
I had just got out of bed and wanted to check on my daughter to see if she was still sleeping. I put my ear to her door and thought I discerned a very soft sound. Careful not to wake her, should she still be sleeping, I very slowly and quietly opened her door, just wide enough to fit my head in. She was curled up on her bed, her back to me. I watched her for a minute. I still wasn't sure if she were awake or dreaming, when suddenly she sat up, and, two seconds later, turned around. When she saw me, her mouth opened in a short, silent shriek, her arms went flying into the air, and her eyes grew to twice their size. My first reaction was to laugh out loud at her reaction; that's when she knew it was me. She looked like she didn't know whether to cry or be angry with me. No wonder, and who can blame her? Poor kid's relaxing in her bed, when suddenly she turns around and sees a head peering at her from a crack in her door, which is in fact very reminiscent of the scene in The Tell-Tale Heart, where the creepy murderer very quietly opens the door to his master's chamber and just stands there in silence, watching the old man as he sleeps.
That was the first time I saw her frightened. It was real, genuine shock she experienced, poor girl. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. She forgave mommy pretty quickly though when she felt herself being picked up by a nice comfy pair of arms.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
She does everything but stand alone and walk
My daughter is now nearly 16 months old - and does not yet walk, nor does she even stand unsupported. But, strangely, she can do practically everything else.
That kid will climb upstairs in less than a minute. She will reach over the table and counters, her little hand coming dangerously close to the towel on which stand an unstable mountain of drying dishes (I wonder what would happen if I pulled on this? she must wonder, before mommy sprints towards her and prevents a disaster). An explosion of vocabulary erupts from her mouth, as she attempts to repeat every word I teach her. She can even point to her diaper and say caca. She can also pretend to be speaking on the phone: she puts her fist up to her ear (as though holding a receiver) and says hello? then mumbles something, says bye bye, and "hangs up." The other day, I was amazed at the fact that in reply to my question: what does a cow do? (incidentally, I had no pictures of cows handy, nor were there any in a nearby field, as we were, in fact, in the middle of the city) she replied, without hesitation, moooo! I had taught her that with the help of a book, only a few times before, but did not believe for one second that she would remember it, out of context!
But this is not all - she has also shown some inclination toward eating with a spoon (though she still generally insits that mommy feed her - it gets food to her mouth faster, after all). She will, once in a while, at the end of a meal, pick up her spoon and try to direct whatever food might happen to be on it towards her mouth. She is not always on target - sometimes she will get a cheek, chin, or nose-full of yogurt. She even understands that the napkin that is presented to her afterwards is for wiping her face. Sometimes she will grap it and pass it over her mouth - then insist on wiping the chin of the adult who has been feeding her.
So if she can climb stairs with perfect confidence, reach over tables and counters, learn new words each day, pretend to talk on the phone, make associations between animals and the sound they make, attempt to eat with a spoon, and wipe her own mouth, why cannot she walk, or at least stand on her own? I watch her, always thinking it's going to happen, but then at the last minute she always finds something to grab onto. She only once let go of a little table that was giving her support, and that only for a few seconds. She never attempted this feat again. There must be a reason for her being adventurous in so many other aspects of her life, but not this one.
Perhaps, because she is tall for her age, she thinks she is too far from the ground when she stands? I suppose it would be scary. Wow, that floor sure looks far away, she must be thinking. I think I'll just get closer to it before I attempt any sort of movement.
But then, how do you explain the stairs? Ooh, look, stairs, stretching up seemingly indefinitely. Wow, that sure looks high. I think I'll climb them! Hmmmm ...
That kid will climb upstairs in less than a minute. She will reach over the table and counters, her little hand coming dangerously close to the towel on which stand an unstable mountain of drying dishes (I wonder what would happen if I pulled on this? she must wonder, before mommy sprints towards her and prevents a disaster). An explosion of vocabulary erupts from her mouth, as she attempts to repeat every word I teach her. She can even point to her diaper and say caca. She can also pretend to be speaking on the phone: she puts her fist up to her ear (as though holding a receiver) and says hello? then mumbles something, says bye bye, and "hangs up." The other day, I was amazed at the fact that in reply to my question: what does a cow do? (incidentally, I had no pictures of cows handy, nor were there any in a nearby field, as we were, in fact, in the middle of the city) she replied, without hesitation, moooo! I had taught her that with the help of a book, only a few times before, but did not believe for one second that she would remember it, out of context!
But this is not all - she has also shown some inclination toward eating with a spoon (though she still generally insits that mommy feed her - it gets food to her mouth faster, after all). She will, once in a while, at the end of a meal, pick up her spoon and try to direct whatever food might happen to be on it towards her mouth. She is not always on target - sometimes she will get a cheek, chin, or nose-full of yogurt. She even understands that the napkin that is presented to her afterwards is for wiping her face. Sometimes she will grap it and pass it over her mouth - then insist on wiping the chin of the adult who has been feeding her.
So if she can climb stairs with perfect confidence, reach over tables and counters, learn new words each day, pretend to talk on the phone, make associations between animals and the sound they make, attempt to eat with a spoon, and wipe her own mouth, why cannot she walk, or at least stand on her own? I watch her, always thinking it's going to happen, but then at the last minute she always finds something to grab onto. She only once let go of a little table that was giving her support, and that only for a few seconds. She never attempted this feat again. There must be a reason for her being adventurous in so many other aspects of her life, but not this one.
Perhaps, because she is tall for her age, she thinks she is too far from the ground when she stands? I suppose it would be scary. Wow, that floor sure looks far away, she must be thinking. I think I'll just get closer to it before I attempt any sort of movement.
But then, how do you explain the stairs? Ooh, look, stairs, stretching up seemingly indefinitely. Wow, that sure looks high. I think I'll climb them! Hmmmm ...
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