Rose’s Birth Story & Some Musings on Self-Care for Mamas

Of course it has taken me waaaaay too long to write this. Writing is an involved process as is, let alone when you’ve got a new baby in the hacienda. I’ve been working on giving myself grace in all areas of life and allowing this wonderful (and short) phase of my life to evolve and be enjoyed. It’s ironic as the tone is really set for new mamas during their brief (God-willing) stay in the hospital after giving birth. Here is Rose’s birth story with some thoughts and musings on self care and how only WE are responsible for prioritizing it.

Lyla was born at 37 weeks. Completely unexpectedly, but without issue. Watching a movie with Tim and having dinner at home, mucous plug emerged (sorry guys, this post may not be for you), decide to take a shower before bed, water broke, calm drive to the hospital, contractions started in the waiting room while I watched Dancing With the Stars on the lobby TV and patiently waited for the newbie receptionist to learn how to use her computer and check us in, about eight hours later, out Lyla came. Now don’t let me gloss over all the things that happened in the middle. I chose to have an epidural, so honestly the eight hours of labor were quite relaxing. If you choose to birth your babies naturally, those hours of labor obviously look much differently for you.

Anyway, I digress. The point being that Lyla was born early and I assumed Rose would follow suit. Week 37 came and went, 38, 39, my tummy is growing by the second. I can’t get up and down without a hearty grunt, I’m awake 47 times a night, and if someone even suggests I cook dinner, they are banned from my life forever. Week 40 hits and I get the news I was expecting, but dreading. The doctor will not let me go past 41 weeks. If she doesn’t arrive by Monday, I will be induced. I kept a brave face until I got into the car and then broke down in tears to my mother-in-law. Now listen, I support every woman in their birth plan. There is no right or wrong here. Goal= get that baby out safely. But, I did not want to be induced. I had heard all the horror stories of the 100s of hours of labor, the hook apparatus that is used to break the water, and emergency C sections that inevitably still had to happen in the end. Plus, I loved Lyla’s birth story so much! It was fun and spontaneous. Also, I was proud that my body had done what it was supposed to do unprompted. There was a selfish power in this for me. I had accomplished something by birthing this child, although in reality I had absolutely no control. I wanted to feel this again and have the fun birth story again.

40 weeks and a few days, I waddle to the hospital to get my COVID test done. All expecting mothers were required to do this. It was June and I had no symptoms, but of course us natural worriers go into “what-if” mode. What if I test positive? What if I have to wear a mask during labor? What if I can’t hold my baby? What if Tim can’t be with me? What if they quarantine her at the hospital for two weeks? Luckily, as per usual my worrying was a waste of energy as the test came back negative. Giving birth during the pandemic was unique, but not as awful as I feared. We only had to wear masks when in the halls or lobby of the hospital. Tim could come and go as he pleased (thank God as hospital food loses its appeal after your first snack!). The worst part was no visitors or flowers were allowed, but this made the homecoming more special.

I had to be at the hospital at 5:45am on Monday morning to begin the forced baby extraction. I had tried riding in a bumpy car, eating spicy foods and an orchard of pineapples, nipple stimulation (super fun to pump when you don’t have to btw), and manifesting destiny. By Sunday morning, I had basically given up. I gloomily went through the things in my hospital bag that had been sitting in the corner of my bedroom judging me for a month. At least I’ll get to see her face tomorrow. At least I have modern healthcare that is keeping me safe by not letting my pregnancy go too long. At least I won’t be pregnant after tomorrow. A mantra of “let’s attempt to look at the bright side” sang through my head.

So let’s switch gears for a moment and get real. I have no clue if I ahem….“evacuated” while giving birth to Lyla, so in my head I didn’t. I know doctors have seen it all and it’s natural and blah blah. But, for me it was the ultimate embarrassing notion. So, each day I was ever so grateful that my regularity was keeping me in the clear. Alas, I was not “regular” on this Sunday, and was becoming a bit anxious about it by Sunday evening. About 9pm I started feeling this urge to go, but it wasn’t moving. As I knew baby would be coming the next day, I wanted to expedite the situation. It was too late for coffee, so dreaded exercise it was. I waddled ever so quickly making laps around my open concept main living area. Meanwhile Tim and my mother-in-law are eyeballing me from the couch asking if I’m ok. “Yep! Just need to go to the bathroom and can’t!”, as I perform a few squats. Sexy is basically the best word to describe myself at this point…and the husband/wife relationship all together at the end of this 9 months stint. I would pause from my laps and the pressure would get a bit worse, so I would go sit on the toilet…..nothing. This went on for about 20 minutes and I finally decided maybe I’ll just go relax in the tub. Just maneuvering out of my leggings and……my water broke.

YES!! I was ecstatic. I power waddled myself at warp speed into the living room to announce the news that it was time to go….and also that Tim should probably grab some beach towels to protect his leather seats from the fire hydrant bursts that were now erupting from my nether regions. Towels and packed bags in hand, we headed out. The contractions started literally after turning out of the driveway…..you forget how much those hurt even after only three years!! We had a 20 minute drive to the hospital. I timed my contractions at 5 minutes apart. Perfect. About 10 minutes still to drive, they ramp up to one minute apart…uh oh! Pretty sure these towels aren’t gonna protect anything if I have this baby in the floorboard of the passenger seat. Tim goes into Nascar mode and we skid into the patient drop-off area.

After a brief stop to hunch over, contract, and shoot the stink eye at my loving husband who is pain-free and therefore able to stand up straight (ever so smugly in my opinion), we make it into the lobby. Now, let me say that I filled out my pre-admission paperwork AND this time called ahead to make sure they had received it. They had. However, we still must sit in the small admission cubicle…masks on…to fill out more paperwork. I hesitated to sit in the chairs…because…gush….and the ever so understanding and kind receptionist quickly brought a puppy pad to my rescue. Perfect. About 20 minutes later a nurse (after being called for a second time) appears with a wheel chair. I basically knock her down to sit while she asks me if I’d rather walk. I’m positive the look on my face could have melted her skin off. I thud down into the chair and we’re off.

We get into the room and I know the drill from here. I strip at warp speed so they can test me to make sure my water has indeed broke…..the tidal wave I leave in my wake is clue number one, but I understand protocol. Yes, I am indeed in labor and after a quick puppeteer act from my nurse we learn that I am between 6 & 7 centimeter dilated. It’s about 10pm at this point. I immediately let the nurse know that I do indeed want an epidural and I want none of this “it’s past that point” mess. My arm sucks down an IV bag and then my hero arrives. A quick stab of the knitting needle later, my legs turn into immobile chunks of meat and I am pain free. I’m at 9 centimeters at 12:45am. Push for 30 minutes, and then our sweet Rose arrives. It was insanely quick this time around and felt quite surreal that this newest member of our family was so reluctant to be born, but did so with rapid gusto once she decided it was time. She arrived at 1:15am….about 5 hours before I was supposed to arrive to be induced.

Now, let me preface the rest of my story with I admire the hell out of healthcare workers. I could never do what you do. Let me also say that I chose to deliver at a smaller hospital. Things may go differently at a larger campus. I mention all of this to make a point about self care and moms. More on that shortly.

Immediately after the birth, skin to skin time, and basking in the glow of the miracle that has taken place, I realize that I am beyond famished! We had packed snacks, but some Larabars weren’t going to cut it. My angel of a nurse (no sarcasm she was awesome!) brought me the best option that she could drum up at this hour…..a cold turkey and American cheese sandwich on white bread…with no condiments. Now, I don’t eat white bread, nor am I fan of processed deli meat or cheese. Both of which happened to be smushed together in a soggy mess. However, I’m sure I rivaled an inmate on death row getting a Surf and Turf and crème brûlée the way I wolfed down and simultaneously savored every bite that Tim lovingly hand fed me…..I was holding Rose. After my meal, we were ready for some rest. I had just gotten things situated to turn the light out when we were told we would have to move rooms to allow for the morning rush. This was at 3:30am.

At 4am, we were finally in our new room and beyond ready to sleep. Now, let me preface this next segment by saying just as there is no right or wrong way to deliver your baby, there is no right or wrong way to feed your baby. I tried to nurse with Lyla and it wasn’t working. I ended up pumping for three months and calling it a day. I felt like a complete failure of course. Here I am attempting to be as natural as possible and I couldn’t do what moms have been doing since the beginning of time. I was going to try again with Rose, but promised myself I wouldn’t put the same pressure on myself. At 4am after getting settled, it was time to try to feed Rose. Toes curled in pain, I did the best attempt at my motherly duty. Afterwards, the nurse asked if we wanted Rose to stay in the room or go to the nursery. Mom guilt hits again. Of course I wanted her in nursery. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep, but the tone of the nurse as she says “ok” felt as if I was the most selfish woman on Earth. She begins to cart her out of the room and quickly lets me know she will be bringing Rose back in at 5:30 to try to feed again. Ummm…perfect.

An insanely quick hour and half of sleep passes and she’s brought back to attempt the feeding again. Tears from pain are streaming down my face, but we get through. Again desperate for rest, we try to nap while baby does. However, the nursing staff switches at 6am, so we go through that procedure then for the entire morning a slew of workers are in and out usually about 30 minutes after the previous one has left making it literally impossible to sleep. I also meet with two lactation consultants who make every effort possible to help me nurse. I’m told later in the day that Rose may be tongue tied and a quick laser cutting surgery should be able to fix our breast feeding issues…..ummmm pass. Ultimately, we pumped for a couple of weeks and went to formula. The guilt of course was still there, but it was the right choice for us in the end. Yes, breast is best and I would still pick that method if I could have. But, it doesn’t always work out the way you hope. Accept it and move on. If you’re happy and thriving, your baby feeds off of that…..no pun intended. If you are in pain and stressed, your baby will pick up on that too. Do what works.

Now, for some notes on self care…..

I am beyond grateful for every nurse, doctor, Imagination Library volunteer, auditory specialist, birth certificate creator, and housekeeper that graced our presence during that first day. And while I was tended to physically, not once were my emotional needs addressed. I fear this may be the norm and that it sets the tone for motherhood in general. Yes, we fill out a postpartum sheet at our Pediatrician’s office. Yes, my OB asks if I’ve been depressed. But, our mental state, other than a clinical diagnosis, goes unattended to. After nine months of hosting and then literally bringing a human being into this world, I was offered a cold soggy sandwich and an hour and a half of rest. There is no allotted time for moms to mentally recover as this is not a priority. While I get that hospitals are not therapy wards, we can’t let this being thrown to the wolves approach shape our mindset about becoming mothers.

You are tired. Your body has morphed into that of a stranger. Your emotions are all over the place. But: You are amazing. You are taking care of this helpless creature to the best of your ignorant ability. You deserve any break you can get. To sleep, to eat, to take a bath, to read a book, to walk aimlessly around Target. To do whatever fills your cup. You are responsible for claiming this time. We are taught to feel guilty…or maybe it comes naturally. Whatever the case, we must remind ourselves. We must take care of ourselves before we can take care of others. Put your oxygen mask on first, right? We are in a hustle, girl boss world where we must be achieving things at all times. But, we need to take time to rest. To be quiet. To be present and not thinking about the next thing.

This is my message to all moms out there and it’s one that I’m still trying to learn: We do not exist to serve others and it is ok to take a break. Yes, we should be giving and dote on our family and children. It’s not about selfishness. It’s about mental health and not burning out. You will be a better mom if you allow the idea of self care to sink in and act on it!

New Moms: Things do get easier. Babies seem to be staying stagnant during those looong sleepless nights….weeks… months, but they are changing at warp speed. It’s ok to cry….it’s not weakness, it’s your body cleansing itself. It’s ok to feel lost in the immediate upside down switch that is your new normal. It’s ok to rely on others…..do it as often as you can! It’s ok if all you accomplish in a day is to stay awake long enough to keep this precious bundle afloat. It’s ok and you’re amazing!

Second, Third, Or Seventh Time Moms: Make time for you!! You may often feel like being a mom is literally the only thing that defines you, but it’s not. You are still a strong, smart, sexy woman who is also damn good at raising her some kiddos. Even for 20 short minutes a day, do something that replenishes you. Work out, listen to a podcast, sit in the car with the radio on…..alone! Whatever it is, be selfish and grab that time with both hands.

Lastly to all moms young and old: Don’t judge other moms. It’s so easy to do and often happens without us realizing it. Whether we’re side-eyeing the mom who wears stilettos at drop-off or rolling our eyes at the celebrity mom with three full time nannies. It’s not cute, so break the habit. We’re all doing the best we can with what we have. Let’s build one another up as a community of woman versus looking for every difference as a chance to judge. We all need that support because we are the only ones who “get it”.

Take care of yourself and it will enable all of the kindness, nurturing, and positive energy to radiate out. Happy, cared-for moms equate to happy (most of the time) cared-for kids and less stressful households. But, most importantly, do you for you! Shred the mom guilt. YOU DESERVE IT! Say it, repeat it, repeat it again, until you believe it. Write it on a post-it and stick it the bathroom mirror, fridge, and the back of your kid’s head. YOU ARE WORTH IT!! Period.