In the Age of Induction

Check out this piece of mine that was published last week by the wonderful Brain, Child Magazine...

In the Age of Induction

Seven days late

At 41 weeks pregnant, my auto-generated, pregnancy week-by-week email seemed certain this could only mean that I had neglected to click the link declaring my son’s arrival. Had I stayed with the OB practice I started my pregnancy with, there’s a decent chance my baby would have been two days old, having arrived by way of induction sometime conveniently before 5:00 pm last Friday.

But I was a midwife patient. Waiting it out old-school style. With no end in sight.

There’s something embarrassing about going past your due date. Something beyond the unwieldy way you move and the way all clothing looks ridiculous by the end.

My body was supposed to be doing something and it wasn’t and everyone was watching and there was nothing I could do about it. I was humiliated. I wanted to hide.

Friends and family gently inquired, sending notes saying “Just thinking of you,” “Come out, come out wherever you are,” and the insipid, “Any news?” And, of course, “Any talk of induction?”

Eight Days Late

It was 6:00 am and I had been up since 4:40 when I noted the time of the one lonely contraction I had last night. After waiting an hour for anything else to happen, I cried to my husband, “I can’t be pregnant anymore.” He told me we’d talk in the morning and rolled over to sleep. I got up to eat breakfast and tried not to Google “natural labor induction.” Again...

Read more here...

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

The Stacked Deck of Motherhood

I have long believed that the whole game of pregnancy, childbirth and parenting holds at least one bad card for all women. For some, getting pregnant is the hard part. Other women have traumatic childbirth experiences that require years of recovery. And there are those for who pregnancy is a breeze, birth is nothing complicated, but parenting doesn’t come so easily. I have yet to meet even one woman who hasn’t struggled somewhere along the way.

When you struggle in the early stages—with getting pregnant, with staying pregnant, with a difficult pregnancy or a difficult childbirth or with breastfeeding or a difficult newborn—it’s hard not to see it as a sign of something. That you shouldn’t be a mom. That you’re a bad mom. That motherhood doesn’t come easy to you.

I’ve held my fair share of bad cards.

I have two kids, but have been pregnant four times. My first was at 19 and ended with an abortion. Even as an ardent pro-choice woman, that decision still colored me, felt like a failing.  I had thought of abortion as something fine for other people, but not something for me. Until I was there.

It wasn’t until many years later, when I wanted to be pregnant, that I realized how much meaning I had assigned my earlier experience. All of a sudden, it was a punishment well-deserved (so I harshly thought to myself) that I didn’t get pregnant the moment the intention popped into my head. In retrospect, it didn’t take long. But for those few months of “trying” (a euphemism if ever there was one), I was worried. Worried that I missed my chance, that I wouldn’t get a second one.

When my second conception ended in a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, that feeling deepened. I was being punished. I wasn’t meant to be a mother. There was something wrong with my body. That experience, complete with the loss of a third of my body’s blood, surgery and a complicated healing process, left me scarred. The scar on my body was deep and made it look like I’ve had a c-section.

The internal scars were more painful, and that awful feeling was deepened by the mystery about when or whether I would ever get pregnant again. The months between my second and third conceptions were sad. It was hard to be around anyone that reminded me of pregnancy or babies or moms.

The third time around, I was much luckier.

That pregnancy brought me my daughter. While pregnancy was fraught with things that felt worth complaining about at the time, it turned out that all of it was a “normal” part of the process. A happy pregnancy in retrospect, even if it felt awkward to live through.

My labor, though, wasn’t normal. It was a 4-day prodromal affair, a possibility I’d hardly paid attention to in my childbirth class. Kind of like the possibility of the ectopic pregnancy before it.

Again, I saw myself as someone who drew hard cards.

Motherhood had a way of easing me out of the feeling that I was being followed by a dark cloud, even as it had plenty of storms of its own.

But I finally felt lucky. I’d made it to motherhood. From early days, my daughter was easy—smart, beautiful, healthy, happier than I could even understand, a pure blessing. Being a mom was hard, but she was easy. Luck of the draw.

Then we gambled again. My second full-term pregnancy wasn’t nearly as cute as the first one. All those “normal” symptoms were even less fun that time around. But I made it through and wound up with a second birth that made me feel strong and capable and blessed. Another lucky card.

And then came nursing. With my second baby, I got mastitis five times before I gave up nursing. I also suffered some pretty terrible postpartum depression and anxiety. Quitting breastfeeding to return to the antidepressants I needed was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

When I was agonizing over the choice to stop nursing, I felt so judged. I’d nursed my first baby a few months beyond the one-year ideal. And I made it to nine months the second time around—farther than a lot of women can manage. I should have been happy, but it wasn’t my timetable. I was failing in my own mind, and again, my body was failing me. Failing to be able to do this womanly thing it was meant to do. I wasn’t strong enough to give my second child what I gave my first.

With all of that weighing down, I sent an email to our local parenting list-serv about my struggle to stop nursing. I live in a crunchy, hippy kind of town, where midwives and La Leche League rule the roost. I thought I would be attacked from all sides and encouraged to nurse through anything, no matter the cost to me. I secretly wanted to be told to keep nursing, so my contrarian self could somehow feel vindicated in quitting.

Instead, I got nothing but support. Dozens of emails encouraged me to do what was best for me, congratulated me for what I’d already done, sympathized with my struggle with mastitis, empathized with the guilt and the feelings of failure. Not one person told me to keep nursing through the pain—both physical and emotional. Not one woman said the slightest thing to make me feel bad about my body or what it was capable of doing. Not one.

I can’t explain how meaningful their camaraderie was to me.

Those early years of failed pregnancy, pregnancy and mothering of infants felt so fragile. I was so quick to think: Is there something wrong with me as a woman that I can’t do this pregnancy thing easily? Does the fact that I can’t keep nursing mean that I am less of a woman? Some kind of weaker mother?

Looking back now, I think: Those were my cards. That was the hand I was dealt.

Everyone holds different cards and no one has a perfect hand. Just because we can’t see that someone else has struggled—with fertility, with pregnancy, with depression, with nursing… with motherhood—doesn’t mean they’re winning some game we are losing. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. It’s just not easy. At least, all of it isn’t easy. Not for anyone.

Motherhood is a stacked deck. We’re dealt the hand we’re dealt. I think it helps to think that every woman around has had at least one bad card, something she would discard is she could. And we all have our best card, too. Something to hold on to, to build a hand around.

The best part is—we get to discard what doesn’t serve us well. And we get new cards all the time.

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

Why I’m Jealous of Pregnant Women

I should start by saying that I don’t want to be pregnant again, nor am I one of those women who claim to love being pregnant. I still remember all the crappy parts, but I confess I do get tiny pangs of envy when I see a happy, glowing pregnant woman. You know the sort, halo floating above her thick pregnancy hair and adorably round belly and not extra roundness. 

Pregnancy is so much cuter than motherhood. It’s not just the glow. It’s easy to feel pretty and charming when you’re pregnant—easy-breezy-beautiful! When you’re pregnant, you have so much time to do your hair! No one is tugging on you while you get dressed or crying while you blow-dry.  

When I see lovely, well-dressed and pulled together pregnant ladies, I think “Yeah, just wait ‘til the baby comes and see how long that lasts. Good luck with the whole cute thing after that." Do I sound bitter? Don't answer that. 

When I gave up my maternity clothes a year ago, the hardest part about it wasn’t letting go of having more kids. It was remembering who I was when I bought those clothes—a professional with a job I loved, living in New York, indulging my desires for nice things that made me happy. My pregnancy clothes were worlds away from my stay-at-home fashion statements.

When my mom was pregnant, she tells me, she had one dress, which she made herself, to get her through four summers with a third-trimester belly. Lucky for those of us who need an hour to sew a button, maternity clothes aren’t awful these days, and it’s the best shopping excuse you’ll ever have. 

Pregnant women today don’t hide under tents. They dress to accentuate their beautiful round bellies. It’s such a lovely shape to be. When there’s a baby in there. After the baby exits, not so much. Then, it’s all about clothes that are good a hiding whatever roundness remains. Or sags.

Luckily, a baby is a very handy prop to distract everyone from your impaired ability to pull yourself together. “Don’t try to guess when I last showered! Ignore the spit up covering both of my shoulders! Look at those adorable baby cheeks!”

(Tangent: I think we need to stop repeating the “you never get to shower” cliché to new moms. Veteran moms should encourage new moms to shower every day. Even if it’s only for two minutes and the baby has to scream, it’s an early way to learn that it’s okay to do things for you.)

Showered or not, it’s a rough transition. One day everyone is telling you how beautiful you look, and then silence.  

Stepping on the scale as it ticks upward when you’re pregnant takes a little getting used to, but you can try to tap into the confidence that your body is doing what it’s meant to be doing. Not expanding for reasons involving ice cream.

Still, it’s hard to go from feeling beautiful to feeling like you’re stuck in someone else’s yucky body. The only thing that helped me through that postpartum funk was remembering (and feeling grateful for) the amazing thing my body had just done.

Thinking back to my pregnant self, soaking up the happy stares from strangers as I walked city streets on my lunch break, I remember trying to imagine what not being alone was going to feel like. Even as carrying a baby belly did slow me down, it’s nothing compared to trying to do things with an infant. It’s good preparation actually, the pregnant shuffle, for the slow pace ahead.

The slowdown that happens during pregnancy (literally: you can’t walk as fast) prepares women for the slower pace of life with a baby. The exhaustion that overtakes pregnant women prepares their bodies for the sleepless nights ahead.  And all the changes that you make to adjust your life to pregnancy, those are just preparations for how much room you need to make in your life to fit in motherhood.

A pregnant belly can fit into your old life. It’s almost like you have a fabulous new accessory—you get lots of compliments, but it doesn’t change your life. Once that new accessory is on the outside, it no longer improves every outfit. Good thing babies are so freakin' cute.

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook to see future posts to Crazy Like a Mom.

The Myth of Choice Parenthood

My mom was 21 when I was born. By 25, she had four kids. Today, that has shock value. I get tired just thinking about it.

I was a full decade older than my mom when I was a tired new mom with babies who wouldn’t sleep. It’s no wonder I was always tired. Being up all night in your twenties is easy. I was otherwise occupied on my 20-something late nights.

When I became a mother at 32, I certainly didn’t have the energy (or the body) that I had at 22. Three years later, pregnant again at 35, I was even more tired. The exhaustion of parenting is cumulative. Being pregnant starts it off with a bang, followed by seemingly endless night wakings, and then they learn how to talk… and you learn about a whole new depth of exhaustion.

Coming up on my 40-somethings, one bad night’s sleep can really throw me for a loop.

When I was 20 and pregnant, I made a choice not to have a baby. I had an abortion, stayed in college, and took the time to (kind-of) figure out what kind of life I wanted while it was still all mine. 

Even at 27, newly-married, I still wasn’t ready for a baby. I remember the feeling very clearly—on my honeymoon in Paris, failed birth control left me in tears in fetal position in one of those short, deep French bathtubs. The idea of a baby was terrifying.

We are only two or three parenting generations into birth control being legal for married couples—and (mostly) reliable. The Supreme Court is still ruling on cases that impact women’s access to birth control. And yet the sense that we can control our family planning is almost taken for granted.

Don’t get me wrong—birth control is awesome. But it doesn’t always work. It just doesn’t—there are plenty of unexpected babies to prove it. Still, what it has done for women could fill volumes.

Many of my generation spend a sexually active decade avoiding pregnancy, with the naïve assumption that it will happen when we’re ready. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t.

The idea that you can choose when to get pregnant, naturally or otherwise, choose when to give birth or how, choose what your life will be like when your baby is born, whether you’ll nurse, how much sleep you’ll get, what your children will be like and what they’ll need…it’s all false freedom.

The first lesson of parenting—you have no control, surrender is your only hope. 

So, when I read (here and here and here) about the controversy surrounding decisions by Apple and Facebook to pay for employees to freeze their eggs, my so-called choice feminism told me that more options available to women is always good. Except when it’s not.

There are good medical, economic and cultural arguments against egg freezing as a catch-all solution. For some, IVF is a gift, but for others it’s a disappointment—either way it’s far from a sure thing. And I agree with all of the cynics who see this as a way for companies to take the pressure off being a parent-friendly workplace. It does seem like a ploy to keep younger workers away from that struggle, to insist that pregnancy and parenting are things you can postpone and that will be there for you when you want them…In fact, why even time to date and settle down? You’ve got another decade at least. Just stay at your desk. We’ll take out your dry-cleaning. Go play ping-pong if you’re worried. 

The result is a line is drawn between parents and non-parents, further sidelining those who would ask for more flexibility, day care options, sick leave, and other things that make work work. Even for non-parents, it maintains a cultural work ethic of having no life outside your job. No time for family, friends, whatever you want to do can wait. I hear marathon training is pretty all-consuming. It doesn’t have to be a parents-only argument against reasonable work expectations. Most workers would prefer a life that offers more—whatever that means for them.

It seems to me that we need a re-centering. The articles about the science of egg freezing, the struggles of IVF, the reality that it may not be as easy to have a baby a decade later, those are needed voices. But there’s more to having a family than how hard it is to get pregnant. If you have a partner and want a baby, or even if you don’t have a partner and want to have a baby, it’s misleading to be told it’s all the same.

Forget about getting pregnant and giving birth, having a baby is harder when you’re older. Being up late nights, having the energy to run after a toddler… all of parenting requires energy. While we may be more emotionally ready to parent at 40, we can’t ignore that our body was more ready at 20.

Similar to our focus on the wedding and the honeymoon and not the marriage, our attention to procreation is heavily weighted on the pregnancy and childbirth side of things and not to the life of parenting that follows. No one cares about that until they’re there. And apparently it annoys non-parents when parents so much as open their mouths. 

I spent a good six months planning my wedding. A year is hardly uncommon. And I paid good attention in my prenatal classes, even took notes. Six-weeks focusing on everything up until the baby is in the world. Anything else is left for the steep-learning curve that begins when the baby arrives.

Maybe we should devote at least one week to the “happily ever after” of parenthood. Maybe pregnant couples should be required to do an internship—spend a day with actual parents, ask them questions. They could use your help anyway. Childcare’s not cheap (nor should it be—those ladies work hard!).

Parenting is hard in the same way marriage is hard. Making and birthing a baby—the only things we care about pre-parenthood—have virtually nothing to do with parenting. It’s like saying that someone who could plan a lovely wedding is likely to have a happy marriage.

The baby is easy, it’s being a mom that’s hard. And sometimes the baby isn’t easy. How are Facebook and Apple going to help with that?

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook to see future posts to Crazy Like a Mom. 

What to Expect When You’re Expecting Baby #2

“When you have your first baby, you worry about everything. When you have your second baby… you worry about the first baby.”

I don’t know where I first heard that, but I was pregnant with my second and there was a constant hum about how different everything is with baby number two.

If the cliché of becoming a parent is, “It changes everthing.” The cliché of having a second baby is closer to, “It ain’t nothing but a thang.”

In those early days of life as a mother of two, I remember feeling intensely worried about my first baby. And I definitely worried very little about the new baby. I had done the baby thing already, so no problem, but the sibling adjustment thing was all new.

I can still see myself sitting on the couch nursing my son and watching my daughter play on the floor, looking so sad and lonely, and thinking, “Why is this strange baby keeping me away from my real kid?”

As the first child and grandchild on both sides, my daughter had been getting too much attention and I looked forward to her sharing the (sometimes literal) stage with a sibling. But watching the withdraw of that attention after my son was born was physically painful for me.

The transition from one kid to two was, for me, as big a life-changing event as the change from pregnancy to parenthood. If not bigger. Seriously.

Two kids is no joke.

Of course, as with all things parenthood, it depends on what you get. I got a very flexible, social first kid who I could take anywhere and a second who wouldn’t let me sleep and had a special knack for finding knives in unexpected places.

Maybe it would be different if I hadn't struggled with post-partum depression after our second was born. But that's the thing about parenting. Once you’re pregnant, you don’t get to choose much of anything. You don't know what you're gonna get.

It took me longer to bond with my second baby. I caught myself feeling reluctant to focus on him too much, so as not to hurt my daughter’s feelings. Until I realized how important it is for her to see how much we love him, to watch us loving him. How would she learn to love him if we were holding back? And how long would it last anyway, this pretending the new baby doesn’t change anything?

One day I remember, when my son was still new, I was pissed at my husband and not dealing well with my daughter. So I left them at home and went out alone with my son for the first time.

We went to Nordstrom, which was my happy place as a new mom. It may sounds odd, but they have this lovely ladies room (yes, bathroom) with a comfortable changing and nursing room and another room with cozy couches. There are other moms there, too, and everyone is really sweet and friendly, as if it’s in the air when you enter the room. And when you’re hungry, the in-store restaurant is full of older ladies unfazed by screaming babies. An odd oasis, to be sure, but it was mine.

Changing my son’s diaper in that happy bathroom, looking down at him, feeling free for the first time to be openly affectionate with him, without any worry about anyone else, was one of the first times I felt a strong bond with him. I was just his mom, just changing him and looking at him, and he was so easy to love.

Before I joined their ranks, I remember looking at those cool cucumber moms of two and wondering what happens with the second baby that makes everything look easier than it feels for first time moms.

But, starting with pregnancy, it wasn’t easier for me than the first time. There are all sorts of body parts that are a whole lot stronger with a first pregnancy. I had more aches and pains and what are euphemistically called “symptoms” the second time around. Why does no one tell you these things? Or do we not hear it until we’re there?

Expect... it's not all very sweet kisses.

There are some things that are much easier the second time around—labor, for instance. I actually felt like I knew what I was doing! And I bounced back from the delivery so much faster. Instead of feeling like it was hard just to walk for weeks, I had to stop myself from doing too much after day two. I felt great, but I had been warned to put a lock on those first few weeks. I thought of it as the “Don’t do dishes!” rule. You think you can do anything, but as much as you can, take that time to rest, because whatever help you have immediately after will disappear soon enough.

After the first few weeks of feeling surprisingly good, I began to crash. Parenting, especially parenting two, is cumulatively exhausting. I’ve written before about the Fifth Trimester. The hardest time I’ve ever had with kids was during that time with the second baby.

I often hesitate to say anything about that to moms expecting number two or moms with two kids around those ages. I always start with a “maybe it’s just me…” But when I do confess, other moms have been grateful to hear it. I’ve found that moms who struggle with adjusting to mothering two babies (and many other things) often think it’s just them. When actually, it’s just a hard time. It’s just not discussed.

So… Pregnancy? Harder. Labor? Easier. The first year? Harder!!! And the second year…? It does finally get easier.

I don’t know why, except to say that time is a tricky magician. It changes things when you’re not looking. The first birthday of your last kid is a big parental milestone. Not that anything changes on that exact date. For me, it happened in fits and starts until, one day—one of those good days—I looked around and realized that the crazy hard part was just somehow over.

When I had one baby, watching just one kid more was stressful and required careful strategizing. Now? Need me to watch your two kids along with both of mine on no notice? Bring ‘em over. Easy peasy.

I’m no superstar, but these days, I can do some of those things that make second moms look like they can handle anything. I can change a diaper in pretty much any condition in 30 seconds flat. I can (sometimes) keep them both happy. I can shop with two kids, even at Target. And often do. Even if I do tell my self “This is the last time!” every time, we all seem to make it home somehow.

If you want to read my next post, don't forget to LIKE my Facebook page.

On Being a Pro-Choice Mom

I read something recently by a woman who wrote that becoming a mom made her politically prolife. At first blush, I get that. It makes some kind of sense. Babies and all.

But I disagree completely. Being a mom has made me adamantly prochoice.

The piece also got me thinking about this question—when did you begin to feel like the pregnancy inside your body was something other than your body... that it was an actual baby?

My husband and I first heard our daughter’s heartbeat when I was about 8 weeks pregnant. He cried. Listening to the sound of the fetal heartbeat was moving to him. For me? Not so much. It was weird and hard to process. I felt little scared and a little excited, but I didn’t feel like there was a baby in my body at that moment.

Six months earlier, I’d been pregnant for seven weeks. It was an ectopic pregnancy that ended with a dramatic emergency room visit. When I lost that pregnancy, it was a real loss. I was sad. I mourned. It was not devastating, as I can only imagine the loss of a child or the loss of a full-term baby during childbirth would be. Of course, anyone suffering from any of those losses will feel the loss in their own way.

For me, it’s really hard to pinpoint when my pregnancies felt more like a baby than my own body. In some ways, I’m not sure it really sunk in until the baby was out of my body, in my arms and breathing, with a face and a voice and a name. Even with my second baby, when I should have somehow been more ready for that moment, it still felt like a surprise when I gave birth and saw this little person, exactly as he had been inside my body moments before, now outside me and in front of my eyes.

The question of when life begins—when a pregnancy becomes a baby—may be a controversial political question, but it’s also a deeply personal experience for every pregnant woman living in her own body. And while I don’t think public policy on a woman’s right to an abortion should be decided based on my—or anyone else’s personal experience, it isn’t exactly separate either. (This article is a must-read discussion on the question of when life begins and the prochoice movement.)

For most people, when it comes to deciding whether to call themselves prochoice or prolife, they’d rather answer, “It’s complicated.” As Robert P. Jones wrote in his Figuring Faith column in the Washington Post last May, “Support for legal abortion has remained steady even as Americans’ identification with the politicized “pro-choice” or “pro-life” labels has fluctuated.” My personal stance on abortion has changed throughout my life, but my politics have always been prochoice.

My most deeply held belief about abortion rights is that if you can’t become pregnant, you’re welcome to call yourself prochoice or prolife, but in terms of advocating for legislation that will never impact you, just don’t. If you have no way of ever knowing what you might do if you were pregnant and didn’t want to be, then you’re in over your head.

When I was a teenager in high school, learning about all of this complicated life stuff, I thought that women should be free to decide for themselves what they believe and what’s right for them. But, of course, I thought, I would never make "that" choice. I would never have an abortion.

And I continued to believe that until I had barely exited my teens and got pregnant. I was 20 and halfway through college when I chose to have an abortion. Despite my previous thoughts on the subject, and how sure I was of them, I knew my decision from the moment I knew I was pregnant. I'm so grateful that I had a choice and grateful for the choice I made.

Because, you know what? You don’t really, truly know what you’d do until you’re staring at a positive pregnancy test.

When I got pregnant again in my early thirties, I was happily married and the baby was well-planned. And when that pregnancy turned out to be ectopic, I was really scared the whole baby thing was never going to happen for me. I thought constantly about the decision I'd make a decade earlier. I felt cursed, I felt punished, I felt bitter at the irony, but mostly I just felt really, really sad. And then I got pregnant again and gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

Finally and very happily a mother, it started to sink in how hard this parenting gig is. I knew more deeply than ever that I had made the right choice with my first pregnancy. How could I ever have managed a baby at that age, with that guy or more likely alone? How could my life have moved past that point, to any happy place, after an unplanned baby was born and took over everything? As they do.

As a mother, I was lucky to be able to be at home full-time with my daughter, with the support of an amazing husband and everything we could possibly need, and it was still hard. Amazing, beautiful, magical, wonderful, yes, of course all of those things, but also hard. Really, really, really hard. The lack of sleep, the crying, the isolation, the every day, in-and-out, the same thing and no way out ever. Not to mention the “can I really do this and not screw-up this beautiful little human being?”

In all seriousness, we did ok. We did our best. We had love more than anything else, for our baby and for each other. And as someone put it to me when I was pregnant, "You'll do fine. You're not a crackhead and you have the Internet."

Just before our daughter turned three, we welcomed a second baby into our family. Our son was also planned—we were ready and we were thrilled. With my son’s birth, I experienced sleeplessness like I never knew, and for this and other reasons, I went though a really tough postpartum depression.  Somehow, I made it through that time, but I might not have. The hormonal changes that happen during pregnancy are powerful—and for some, especially those with a history of depression or anxiety, they can be scary.

Being pregnant is a little like playing Russian roulette—you don’t know what’s gonna hit you when you pull the trigger. It could be that the baby you get needs more from you than you imagined or the changes could be within yourself. No one knows what’s on the other side of pregnancy when they decide to have a baby.

I used to think I wanted to have three kids, but I know now that I’m done. If I got pregnant again, I would not, could not, choose to have the baby. To have a third baby would be wrong for me and for my family. I'm not sure I'd survive it. Not in a strict "life of the mother" kind of way that abortion restrictions have in mind, but I came too close to the scary bottom last time and I won't go there again. I love my kids too much to risk them losing their mother.

And I have made every effort to ensure I won't get pregnant again, but 98% effectiveness is not a 100% guarantee. We can do our best to avoid pregnancy, but unless anti-abortion crusaders think I should stop having sex with my husband, we can't be certain.

I never want to have another abortion. I’m sure it would be harder to go through now that I know firsthand what happens when a pregnancy ends with the birth of a baby. But I know that’s the choice I’d make. Or, rather, I think I know. The truth is, it’s hard for anyone to know what they would do if they became unexpectedly pregnant.

I wish no woman ever needed to have an abortion. But I live in the real world, with billions of other women, and we all deserve the right to make our own choices about our lives and our bodies, even if those decisions end up being different than we could have ever imagined. Life in the real world includes birth control failures, rape, medical problems, human imperfection and all kinds of decisions that are unimaginable until they are facing us.

The experience of becoming and being a mother may change the way a woman feels about ending a pregnancy, but I would hope it would also bring with it deeper understanding for women who face that decision. As mothers, we know what it feels like to be pregnant and to give birth and to love our babies. We also know how hard being a mother is and how much change comes with a baby, how much they need and how much they deserve.

No one should have to take on all that being a mother requires, or even all that pregnancy requires, if they don’t desire it fully. And that any baby would be born unwanted into this imperfect world is heartbreaking. And that's why being a mom has made me more pro-choice than ever.

If you want to read my next post, don't forget to LIKE my Facebook page.

The Fifth Trimester

After three exhausting, emotional trimesters of pregnancy, comes the widely-discussed Fourth Trimester (there’s a book! and another book! and a guy who has all the answers!), where babies still seem like they could live inside your still-too-roomy tummy, except they’re noisier and you get to see their amazing faces.

Pretty please (with baby on top), just a little

more sleep?

It’s hard. But the Fourth Trimester has a lot going for it… Everyone is excited and in awe and it’s all new and it’s all precious. Most new parents spend these months feeling, among the millions of other bouncing emotions, like they have no idea what they’re doing. And the babies—well, there’s the smile and maybe the laugh, but mostly… they don’t really do anything.

And then comes the stage no one tells you about, the one that even other moms who talk about everything don’t talk about. I’ve started to think of is as the Fifth Trimester. Somewhere around the fourth, fifth or even seventh month, everything just… Seems. So. Hard.

Five reasons why the Fifth Trimester exists and is the hardest one of all:

1. EXHAUSTION IS CUMULATIVE. The baby hasn’t figured out how to sleep like a baby! Even some babies who had been champion sleepers are suddenly waking at night (and now you know what "sleep regression" means). Even for those whose babies are still sleeping well, moms often aren't. Worry, hormones, habit--there's a lot going on in your mind and your body. And now you've been not sleeping well for months. And it’s adding up.

Sleep deprivation is cumulative. The list could end here. This makes everything harder. So many moms who talk about struggling at this phase mention not sleeping as an afterthought. It could be the entire reason why things feel hard. Not sleeping changes everything—your mood, your appetite, your patience, your perspective. Try to get more sleep—in any way you can! It’s the most important thing you can do to take care of yourself.

2. WHERE DID EVERYONE GO? The early days and months with a new baby, especially a first baby, are busy. People want to see the baby. They bring gifts, they bring food, they may even do your dishes. Every outing is an occasion or at least it takes a whole day to get out the door and back in, so it feels like one. 

Time is fast and time is slow, but it’s not what it was before, and just that feeling makes the days go by before you have time to think. When the excitement winds down, you might be feeling alone, and if you haven’t made efforts to find some good mom friends, do it now! Being a mom can be very lonely. Your mother can’t be the only person you go to for parenting advice. You will need mom friends and you will need them more and more every day.

3. I FIGURED IT OUT! … AND THEN… Your confidence was finally on the rise and then everything changed. Finally, you can change a diaper in less than thirty minutes! The baby’s feedings seem to be on some kind of schedule, at least sometimes! You know what goes in the diaper bag! (Even if you sometimes forget to put it there.) Then, all of a sudden... the baby doesn’t just fall asleep for naptime? You have to figure out if they’re ready for solid foods? And how does that fit into the whole diaper bag situation? And wait… the baby’s moving now?

This is a time of rapid development for babies, and for parents, it's really the first time you realize that you're never going to have this parenting thing figured out. If you think you know what you’re doing as a parent, give it a few weeks (it will change). On the other hand, if you’re in an unbearable stage, give it a few weeks (it will change).

​Baby, on the move. Already.

4. FMLA SETS THE STANDARD. Aka, expectations. The Family and Medical Leave Act was no doubt a compromise between those who believe parents need more than 12 weeks to adjust to parenthood and those who think women should be back at work in a week (or not at all). For some women, one of the challenges after the first three months are up is that time at home is up too. Going back to work, leaving a three-month-old baby for most of the day and then coming home to a second shift is no joke. For others, the challenge is that friends with similar age babies are going back to work, which can shift your perspective on what you’re doing at home.

I would also argue that the FMLA is so deeply engrained in our culture that even when we’re not confronted with it’s impact directly, we feel something in the air that brings up questions: Shouldn’t I be…by now? Shouldn’t the baby be…by now? Fill in the blank, it’s different for everyone, but we can start to feel inadequate now matter how happy we may be with our choices.

In my experience, it helps to realize that’s what’s happening and let it go. It’s still hard—your baby is still brand new! Most women do not fit back into their pre-pregnancy clothes, and eventually give in and get some new things so they can get out of yoga pants 24-7 mode. Accept that it will take time to get your body back. And ask questions about what to except from this stage from sources that won’t lie. Ask another mom how she’s feeling and tell her the truth about how you’re feeling.

5. NO EXIT. It’s not getting easier (it will) and they’re no way out (which is also what makes parenting as amazing as it is). This is the time when you realize it’s always gonna be hard and you’re gonna do it, with any luck, until the day you die. It’s also the time when you start to figure out how to make it easier—there are shortcuts, ways to cheat, times you need a break—because the only way to stop it from being so hard is to learn how to be easier about everything.

Parents of older kids need to stop telling new parents that it never gets any easier. The first year is intense and the kind of hard it is will change you, but it will also prepare you for the next year and the next. Your old life is gone and it’s okay to miss it. It takes time to adjust to your new life. As parents have told non-parents forever, “It changes everything.” Now you know. You really, really know.

​More hard times will come, but you're stronger than you think and you're not alone.