I had just finished working out and was meeting Nathan and Paul at a nearby restaurant. I arrived first, so I got a table and waited for them to get there. Although I was sitting near the middle of the restaurant, I could still see them through one of the windows when they got there. I watched as Paul and Nathan got out of the car and started to head towards the door, and then saw Paul turn back towards the car to get something. When Nathan turned to follow him, he stumbled and fell. I couldn’t see exactly what happened, but I saw Paul swoop Nathan up and carry him back to the car. I just figured the little guy skinned his knee. And then I saw a woman quickly walk over to them with a roll of paper towels. Worried, I picked up my phone and started to text Paul to see if everything was okay when he called me and told me it was bad and that I needed to get out there. I quickly snatched up my things and briskly trotted out to the parking lot.

Then I saw a mound of bloody paper towels on the trunk of Paul’s car.

“Is he okay?” I asked the woman who was standing there. She gave me a sad smile and may have patted my arm. I can’t remember- I had tunnel vision and my entire focus was on my child. I ran around the side of the car and saw blood pouring like a faucet out of Nathan’s mouth.

“He fell and knocked his two front teeth loose,” Paul said as I knelt in front of my wailing child. With shaking hands, I raised Nathan’s upper lip and could see strands of skin hanging down from his mouth. His teeth were severely loose and blood was pouring from his gums and lips where he had nearly bitten through them. As you all probably know, mouth wounds bleed a lot. There was so much blood, however, that it was hard to see exacly what was going on. We went through so many paper towels trying to wipe up all the blood. After about half an hour, we were able to stop the bleeding enough to get him to the emergency room.

Nathan, being the spirited little boy that he is, was quite angry with the doctor checking his teeth. He screamed and kicked and sounded exacly like a wounded mountain lion. It was heartbreaking. Fortunately, the doctor was very understanding and patient and dealt gently with Nathan. He said that Nathan’s front two teeth were loose and his gums were angry and swollen, but he didn’t hit his head or have a concussion so he should be okay. He said to follow up with his dentist within the next few days so they can see exactly what kind of damage had been done. When he was finished, he hunted down a grape popsicle for the little guy, who tearfully slurped it up.

A nurse then came in who seemed very bitter and was apparently unfamiliar with children. She declared she needed to get his vitals (temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. *insert dry laughter.*)

“Well, we can’t take his temperature when he’s eating a popsicle,” she said with unmasked irritation as she eyed Nathan sadly slurping the icy deliciousness. No kidding, Ms. Smarty Pants. Then she tried to put his finger in a device that would read his pulse, but you’d think a viper was hanging onto Nathan’s finger the way he screamed about it. She kept telling him to sit still… seriously woman. HE’S ONLY THREE AND HE’S IN PAIN. And then? Then she tried to take his blood pressure. THAT was an EPIC FAIL. He kicked and writhed and screamed and frantically tried to get the cuff off his arm while screaming that it hurt. He knocked the wires loose, aggravating Ms. Meanie even more. She said he needed to sit still and calm down or she wouldn’t be able to get a reading.

I may have laughed a little loudly.

Of course, she couldn’t get a reading for his blood pressure because he was way too upset. “Well,” she huffed. “It won’t read because he won’t calm down.” No shit, Sherlock. She pretty much yanked the cuff off his arm, irritation oozing from her pores so thickly it was almost tangible. Apparently, this woman had never been in the same room with a child before. I think she should find a different job.

At any rate, after all that, we were finally able to head home. Nathan’s upper lip was so swollen from the impact that he looked like a pitiful little duckling. His gums were a vicious purple color, and the abrasions on his upper and lower lips were bright red. Poor kid looked like he had been through the mill. We stopped at a nearby ice cream parlor and let him eat his fill of chocolate ice cream, which lifted his little spirits somewhat.

After all that, next on the agenda was getting him to a dentist. That’s another post in and of itself, so I’ll write about that next time.

In the meantime, keep the little man in your prayers.

Forget the midwife.

More and more women are choosing to take part in unassisted births… having a baby without the help of a trained professional such as an OB/GYN or a midwife. Not because of an emergency, but because that’s what the mother chooses ahead of time.

Would I ever have an unassisted birth? No. Never. Mostly because I would be scared to death that there would be an unforeseen medical emergency and no doctor or midwife around to help. What if the baby gets stuck? What if there is extensive damage? What if the baby doesn’t start breathing? What if the cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck? All these questions would be floating around in my head, driving me insane.

No, I could never personally do it.

I’m not even sure how I feel about other women having these types of births. I totally understand WHY they would want to… the belief that birth is a normal function and not a medical emergency, the belief that birth is a private matter, believing that medical interventions cause more harm than good, being able to birth the baby according to what your body desires and not what a doctor dictates. A lot of these women simply want a home birth, but many states don’t allow doctors or midwives to attend home births. So instead, they choose to give birth at home anyway, without medical help.

Proponents of unassisted births believe it’s empowering. I’m sure that it is.

However,  I just don’t think personal empowerment is worth the risk to not only my life, but my unborn baby’s life as well.

Below is a link to an interesting MSNBC article about one woman’s journey:

More Women Choose Do-It-Yourself Births

Ah, another Monday. In case you haven’t noticed by now, I’m not a big fan of Mondays. It is the first day of the work week, which means that my husband has to go to work for five days. Today signified the end of our wonderful weekend alone together… I had so much fun with Paul!  The hotel was great, and of course, my husband brought in all our gear.

Including my breastpump.

My big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump.

He walked through the lobby, arms laden with suitcases and bags, with this huge  gray case that says “MEDELA” on one side and “LACTATION SERVICES” on the other. And it was rattling with every step he took. Loudly. I could see all the bystanders gazing curiously at this cumbersome container as he walked by. He might as well should have hung a flashing neon sign around his neck that said “BREASTPUMP COMING THROUGH” because I swear, it seemed a sea of people parted to make room for him and my breastpump. He stopped briefly to converse with a friend of ours who also attended the wedding.

“Yeah, this is a breastpump,” Paul said nonchalantly with a little smile as his friend looked curiously at the glaring words “LACTATION SERVICES.” I could feel everyone nearby who was staring at my breastpump look from the pump to my boobs.

Suddenly, I felt very self conscious.

Which reminded me of when I went to the hospital to rent my breastpump. Nathan had to stay home with Paul because I couldn’t take him to the hospital with me, so I was on a schedule and in a hurry. But I became lost in the maze of hospital corridors, and the doctors, nurses, and anyone who looked like they knew where they were going were all walking so briskly that I couldn’t stop them to ask for directions due to the fear of being trampled on like a mere mouse in a herd of elephants. Somehow, I meandered my way onto the maternity floor. When I exited the elevator, a group of guys were loitering near the door to the maternity wing, probably chatting about their newborn babies or whatever it is that loitering guys do outside a maternity ward. I looked to the left, then to the right, trying to get my bearings.

“Can I help you?” one of the gentlemen asked.

“Um, sure. I’m here to rent a pump,” I stated matter-of-factly, forcing myself to appear confident and cool. My forced boldness, however, was immediately shattered when looks of confusion clouded every single one of their faces.

“A pump?” he asked.

My heart sped up. Sweat dotted my brow. Did I ever mention I have anxiety issues sometimes?

“Yeah. A… breastpump,” I replied. Only, in my mind, it was all in slow motion. It didn’t seem like I said a breastpump the way a normal person does… it seemed to come out thickly, like someone had halfway pressed the pause button on my speech, making the world come out slowly: Brrrrrreeeeaaaaassstpuuuuuuuummmp.

They all looked from my face to my boobs.

“Oh, go through that door and go right,” the guy said, looking a little off guard. This is silly, I thought. Why am I so scared to say “breastpump?” Should I call it something else, like “boobpump?” Or what about “lactation device?” That was when I made up my mind that I would call my breastpump exactly what it was and I was going to force myself to get comfortable saying it.

After I picked up my big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump, I hoisted it over my shoulder and began the trek back to my car through endless hospital mazes once again. Only this time, I stopped anyone who looked like they knew where they were going.

“Excuse me, I came here to rent this breastpump and I can’t find the parking garage,” I said to one marathon-walker. She looked at me rudely and pointed vaguely in the right direction, eyeying my giant breastpump.

When I came to a thick crowd of bystanders who wouldn’t let me through, I said, “Coming through with my breastpump, folks.” They immediately parted and made way for me and my breastpump. Almost everyone I passed looked at my big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump case with the words “LACTATION SERVICES” printed glaringly on the outward side. I fought the urge to turn the case around and have the words “MEDELA” facing outward instead.

So my husband was less embarrassed than I was, but it was still funny watching him carry in my breastpump and all the strange looks he got for doing so. I love that man!

A public awareness reminder that things that happen out of our sight aren’t always as rosy as we might think. Here is a video of an apathetic nurse bathing a newborn baby. Thanks to the mom who posted this video in an effort to spread awareness that other people don’t necessarily treat your precious baby the way they should, even “professionals.”

7 lbs 13 oz, 21" long

It shouldn’t be. Seriously. Childbirth is a natural thing… women have been birthing for thousands, if not millions, of years. The medical field of today agrees with a roaring “that’s right, folks!” but their actions say otherwise.  

They strap you down to a bed via blood-pressure machines, IV lines, and fetal monitoring devices, rendering you immobile and in the worst possible position for childbirth- your back! For someone with back labor, the pain is so overwhelming that you’re susceptible to the little devil’s advice on your left shoulder as he whispers sweet nothings into your pain-clouded mind. Something about epidurals and how they can make the pain vanish… it’s only a little needle in the back, he says. You want it. You know you do, he says enticingly. You find yourself agreeing begging for the epidural in a language you never knew existed before that last contraction. The anesthesiologist comes in and gives you the drugs.

Ah, sweet relief.

The nurses wait until they see your face relax and your lips curve into the beginnings of a relaxed smile and then WHAM! They start scrambling around and talking in acronyms, causing your pulse to skyrocket because the air has suddenly been filled with EMERGENCY-MODE electricity. They are exuding massive amounts of tension, like a malevolent fog masking a pond. They say your blood pressure dropped due to the epidural, so they shoot you up with epinephrine. They sneak Pitocin on you without your consent, then they squeal that the contractions are so intense that the baby’s pulse has become irregular. The doctor rushes in, speaking in acronyms so, of course, you don’t know what they’re talking about… there is a neon yellow DANGER sign flashing in your head, perspiration dots your brow, and your eyes dart around with fear. Then they haul out the vacuum and proceed to suck your tiny little human out like he’s a mere bug, all the while murmuring about how they must hurry up and get him out because his pulse is irregular and the cord is around his neck.

His pulse more than likely would have been fine had they not snuck the Pitocin in, thereby ramping up the contractions, causing fetal distress.

One intervention (epidural) leads to other interventions… all the while leaving the mother scared out of her mind.

I wasn’t able to calm down until my little bundle of angry joy was screaming mercilessly in my quivering arms… after 40 minutes of not being able to hold him because the nurses thought it was more important to check his vitals and do his screenings than bond with his mother. What a fiasco- but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

I had my little guy and some crazy memories to share with him when he grows up. However, if there is ever a next time, I will probably give a birthing center a call instead. Although the hospital said they treat childbirth as a natural occurrence and not an emergency, their actions spoke otherwise, rendering the experience harrowing and not something I’m jumping to repeat any time in the near future.

I will miss that epidural, though.

It was wonderful.

On the other hand, I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind learning a whole new language…

He was the best thing during my labor. He kept my forehead covered with a cool cloth, kept ice-chips in my dehydrated mouth, kissed my parched and cracking lips, and even nodded sympathetically at each new curse word I invented.

What a perfect man! He still loves me after seeing me akin to a demonic possession.

The doula my husband hired was great as well.

Before heading to the hospital, she came over to our house and helped me with breathing techniques, relaxation, and attempted to get me mentally prepared for it all… but it was all moot once the doctor broke my water in the hospital.

I swear I grew three swivelling heads, each complete with a pair of fangs.

She helped my husband to help me, never once chastising me for my atrocities. I probably would have eaten her and everyone else in my room had she have done so. Alas, it all worked out for the best; I have some not-so-fond memories… but believe it or not, time is turning those memories into more of a rosy color. It gives my husband and I something to laugh maniacally about when the effects of sleep deprivation kick in…