No! Don't Touch That! That's Dirty!

A gentle reminder that this is a satirical blog. Please don't freak out at me if you feel targeted. You aren't. Move along.

OK. I'll admit it. I'm a mom. I say things that I really shouldn't have to on a daily basis. Some of my favorite gems are: "Did you poo?" "Don't put that in your mouth." "That's the dog's dishes, not yours", etc. While I strongly discourage filth being in and around the Ninja's mouth, she still manages to get it in there, sometimes with gusto. We have been really lucky (knock on wood) and she hasn't been sick that often.

But what makes me laugh really hard, is when I'm at the mall (this was back in the breastfeeding days in the breastfeeding room) and another mom pleads with her child not to touch the floor. But two seconds later, she is encouraging the child to play with the bead roller coaster on the table just above the dinky car mat on the floor (that he was just playing with). So, the thing that the other germ bombs have been merrily wiping who knows what on is OK. But the floor mat which is clean (because it's totally off limits) and there for the expressed purpose of playing with is not OK. I'm not sure I follow.

Dear Tiger Helicopter Dolphin Mom, I get that you want your kid to remain moderately clean when you are out of the house (sometimes playing a game of clothing/diaper roulette and leaving the house sans diaper bag. Newsflash, he/she isn't there yet) and don't want the misery and hassle of the little darling being wet and possibly soiled. But know your surfaces before you go spewing off what is dirty. Do you want the fruit of your perfectly coiffed loins to develop a full blown case of mysophobia? Oh my no! Not another thing to worry about in addition to the 20,000 other things you fret over daily, like how your ass looks in those yoga pants.

Here's my thinking. Wipe the table before her mouth goes on it with a spare wipe. Then I know it's my level of clean. Don't discourage exploration by shouting slanderous remarks about germs. They're natural and make up most of us. Do I encourage gentle play around the toilet? No. But then I have a secret superpower called "common sense." I am not one for walking up to a complete stranger and letting my beliefs, of exposing the children to anything and everything, loose all about her head and ear regions. I'm all about the vaccinations. But I'm also about not worrying every 30 seconds when my kid is about to touch something that is dirty. I do worry about her button pushing habit on the TV box. Not cool Ninja, not cool.

So, if you happen to be one of these parents (and don't need to be because your child is perfectly healthy) then stop. Stop worrying about germs and start worrying about something more pressing. Like the economy. Or how much his tuition is going to cost in 16 years. Or keep it up and continue giving me something to judge and then write about.

Vasa Previa: One Year Later

This week marks the one year anniversary of the official diagnosis of things going awry in my uterus. Looking back I wouldn't have reacted any differently. I am still very much of the mindset that doctors are paid to worry. I was just there to grow a Ninja and make my before weight shoot up. It was for the baby...honest (mows down more cupcakes).

One year.

So much has changed.

"Well, duh, you totally had a baby!" You reply.

But it's not having the baby that changed things so much as finding that things needed to change. We are on time more often now. Leaving the house is something that requires more planning, which, as it turns out, we needed. Before, we would leave in a hurry and I would inevitably forget my wallet (much to Wade's chagrin). Now I have to schedule feedings around our habit of eating out a few times a week. No one wants my fussy kid interrupting their meal or my baby fuel tanks out on display in the middle of the Keg. I can hear the breast feeding feminists gnashing their teeth. I don't care. I'm more comfortable being modest (I know, shocker) and she's OK being under the cover. Deal with it. Having a diaper bag, which I treat like an EMS jump kit, helps with remembering my important things [Read: Wallet]. Wade doesn't see the big cow eyes and hear "I'm a kept woman?" Blink. Blink.

I can solidly say that I am parenting the way that I had envisioned. I know what makes my baby fussy (hunger, moistness and fatigue). I mitigate that but don't keep a rigid schedule. She sleeps like a champ. Sometimes she isn't happy that I am abandoning her in her crib for naps or the night. Sometimes I have to give her an extra cuddle or two. I haven't seen the terrible behaviours that those who have gone before me have warned me about. Being 6 weeks behind has its advantages. We haven't gone through teething yet. No mischief with getting into things due to her slow progress at mobility. She has started clapping and pointing. The pointing was creepy for the first time since I had never seen her do it. I was in the kitchen (she was in her chair) and turned around expecting someone behind me. No one was there. Just me. Creepy.

I didn't think I would savour my time with her. But I am. I may let her fall asleep on me just to watch her breathing. Even before she was born I was savouring that time. Not working since last May has slowed life to a delicious crawl. The lack of guilt of returning to a job that I would despise for interrupting that time, has been refreshing. Instead, I am looking forward to re-entering the hallowed halls of learning. I know now that my true passion is, and always has been, healthcare. What that will look like in 5-10 years, is unclear. But I know that being a stay at home mom is not what is going to keep me completely happy. It's not that I don't want to continue savouring this time alone with her. It's that I know that in order to be a good mom, I have to be happy. I have learned that the time I will have with her, when my new career is in full swing, is sacred.

There has been nothing totally shocking about the past year. You just do what you have to do. Even if it means dealing with bodily fluids that aren't mine. Being able to take a step back or a time out when the old patience are running thin, is a gift. Everyone should try it. And the naps! Oh how I love my naps.

But best of all, I have seen my Ninja go from an endangered fetus to a healthy baby in due course. The struggles seemed insurmountable to those on the outside looking in. But we made it look easy because that's how we roll.

Breast Feeding: Fun Bags to Feed Bags

Boys, this is about boobs and the other job they are supposed to do. Apparently they don't just hold shooters, sell beer and help me get out of speeding tickets.

Breast feeding is not a picnic. Sure it helps to bond you to the baby and you get to slow down (read: ignore) your daily tasks. But it is a minefield of engorgement, leakage, wet shirts and saying things like "I need something to increase my milk production" to complete strangers.

My life as a dairy had a bumpy start. From not being told what kind of pump gets things going to being threatened with medication (which made a huge difference) to having my baby pulled off of donor milk because "it's too expensive". The LPNs were on and on about getting the trickle turned into a raging river. Have you seen your doctor about the drugs? Have you tried the tea? Have you hung upside down like a bat? Have you incorporated the services of an old priest and a young priest? Then there was the lactation consultant.

To my lady friends who have a less than ample bosom, lactation consultant is the job for you. All you need is a nipple apparently. I met with a particularly poorly endowed one at the PLC after I had a slow start to the expected raging twin milk eruptions. She stood there and showed me the common sense things I already knew. Thanks YouTube. She daintily pinched at her nipple region to demonstrate how to shoot milk across the room. She moved on to man handling and warm cloths and more man handling. Has your husband got in there and helped? And is the pump attachment the correct size, is she latching properly, blah and blah and more blah. By the time she was finished fiddling with her nipple, I was done. I went to my doctor and got the drugs. Within days I was producing more. Not a huge quantity since my body is wiser than the medical professionals about how much the Ninja needs. I started to feel better about all things milk related.

Once we were away from the heap of inconsistent messages that is the hospital, things got better. Feeding has been easy. Growing was slow to start but has been better over time. Thanks butter! Our timing has gotten better with social interactions. I try to avoid feeding her in public lest someone should notice and say something. Thankfully the hooter hider I employ looks like a giant bib. Eating for the Ninja at a moderately high end restaurant is a snap. No one has said anything so far. I'm not sure if it's because they are too shocked or just don't care. But if you wait on us without speaking out, you will get a larger tip. Sass me and I'll drop that to 10%.

So here's what I have learned in six months of being a Boobie Bistro:

1. After a cold c section, things don't just start up. Those sweater cows may feel engorged but they're just kidding.
2. Colostrum is liquid gold. Don't spill it or drop it or fail to capture it. You have been warned. Ring your shirt out if need be.
3. You can't breast feed a baby with a feeding tube in her mouth.
4. Nurses have their opinions, LPNs have opinions and lactation consultants have their opinions. None are consistent. Take what is useful and discard the rest.
5. As soon as you sit down to eat, if the child has not yet been fed, you will not be eating first. Baby eats first.
6. If the above happens and you're stubborn like I am when it comes to eating, cover the baby so there are no food stains on the clothes.
7. Eating happens everywhere. Embrace it.
8. Bébé Au Lait makes a good cover. Get two.
9. There is no need to be an asshole about feeding your baby.
10. Be patient. The dairy will open eventually.

The Making of the Ninja

No, not THAT kind of making of her. Perv.

We started trying to make a baby in June of 2010. It was pretty casual the whole time since Wade was attending Royal Roads for his masters. We didn't want to aggressively add to the financial fun that was tuition payments, residency and travel. But once he was finished his last residency we were a bit more serious, albeit not like rabid rabbits. If it happened, it happened.

After year 2 passed and I was still not pregnant, we decided to seek out medical advice. Our regular doctor referred us to the local fertility clinic. It took three months to get in. He said we would probably get pregnant before the appointment. Not so.

We went in for our appointment. We were probably the only couple in there who weren't passionately pursuing parenthood. There were quite a few couples in for various reasons. IVF or that procedure where they rinse off the sperm and inject them right by the Fallopian tube (since apparently sperm don't ask for directions) or fertility drugs. We just wanted to make sure the plumbing was up to code. No heroics were going to be pursued. Our doctor was a quaint little man. He had a bit of a sense of humour, which is more than welcome when we are talking about the delicacies of our respective undercarriages. He wrote out the requisitions for the tests. There was to be a barrage.

OK, barrage is hardly what it was. For Wade. There are 5 tests that are completed. Four for me and one for him. The four for me were two blood tests, an ultrasound (transvag, whoo hoo!) and an Hysterosalpingogram (HSG). For Wade; an orgasm. In a clinical setting. Hardly a blip on his day.

The blood tests were fine. The ultrasound was performed by an angry lesbian who clearly had sworn off women. OK, I'm not actually sure about her sexual orientation. I just assume anyone that angry with a probe clearly hates vaginas. She was also not very nice. I limped out of there thinking the worst was over. HA!

I reported to the 4th floor X-ray at the Foothills Hospital for my HSG. The pamphlet had described the procedure as "simple" with "slight discomfort". My friend had also assured me that it was no biggie and I would be fine. They prescribed Naproxen for any discomfort.

We were called in four at a time. Remove the cloths from the waist down, put on this here gown. Leave your bra on, take your valuables, put on another gown backwards to prevent drafts and have a seat.  Yep. Four of us, in a hall, sans pants. It was weird, knowing that there may have been a bare ass or two previously perched on the chair that I was currently occupying. We were called in one at a time (obviously) clutching our valuables, oblivious to what we were going to go through. The girls that went ahead of me went in without incident and came out on the other side, seemingly unscathed. My turn came.

I walked in and was directed to a steel table with an x-ray hanging overhead. An HSG is an x-ray of the uterus and surrounding structures. It allows the doctor to see whether the Fallopian tubes are open or not. They do this by injecting iodine into the uterus and watch for it to flow out through the tubes. Simple, right? Pfffft.

I assumed the position. Slid down. Slid down some more. And relaxed. Warning: The next bit is graphic.

After having the usual tools of the gynaecological trade inserted uneventfully, my cervix was shucked open. OK, this must be the discomfort they were talking about in the pamphlet. The pipette was inserted through my freshly shucked cervix. More intense discomfort. The iodine was then injected. I may have been a bit loud with my expletives. I immediately began Lamaze breathing (who needs a course?) and hoped my uterus wouldn't explode. I also thought if this was what contractions (never mind pushing the baby out) would feel like, then I would be tapping out rather quickly. The x-ray was taken.

"Oh look there," said the Spanish Inquisition style doctor.

I looked. The iodine was coming out one side. I was still breathing rather hard and swearing (under my breath now).

"If you want, I can inject more dye to open up that left side."

"NO!" I was ok with half off my fertility.

"Are you sure, I have quite a bit that I can inject to try to get that open." This guy was slowly morphing into a Nazi doctor at a death camp.

"No, no, I'm quite fine with this," I said, as I started moving to get off the table with everything still in. Leaving with his instruments seemed like a good plan. I could deal with them later.

He was quick to encourage me to relax as he removed everything. I sat up slowly since I started feeling nauseous and a bit faint. The nurse gave me a wash cloth for when gravity caught hold of any residual iodine. He mentioned that he would send his findings to my doctor and sent me on my way.

Moderately traumatized, I got dressed and left. I spent the rest of the day curled up in a ball with the cramping. The naproxen did nothing. If it did, I don't want to think of what kind of pain I would have had.

A few weeks later we went back to discuss the findings with the fertility doctor. Wade's results were normal. My blood tests were normal. My ovaries had some follicles. Then he came to the HSG results.

"I'd like to repeat the HSG," he said while turning the monitor so we could see it,

Fuck that, I thought to myself. I calmly explained the false advertising in the pamphlet and how much it had hurt.

Then he said, "you may have just had a little cramp."

A little cramp?

I wondered how he would feel with one of his nuts squished into his eye. "This may pinch a little," I would say.

"A repeat on the HSG would show us for sure if this Fallopian tube is blocked."

"Fine." He gave me the requisition and I booked it.

The second one didn't hurt even remotely as bad. Shortly before I was set to have it, I managed to injure my shoulder and rediscovered that I am allergic to the naproxen. So I took a Tylenol instead.

December 17, 2012 we went back and he confirmed that it was blocked, it was good information to have. He gave me a prescription for fertility drugs, which I eventually shredded.

At the same time that all of this fun had been going on, I had been taking my temperature and recording it an app called My Fertility Friend. I was curious to see if I was having all the signs of ovulation. I was.

Shortly after I was diagnosed with "unspecified infertility", two of my friends had babies. The day the second one was born, we conceived Adriana. It took a couple weeks to get a positive pregnancy test. The first one was negative. The second one was positive. I showed  it to Wade and his response was "what am I looking at?" I explained and pointed and he said "I'll need three tests and they'll have to be peer reviewed." Typical scientist. A couple days later I give him 2 more tests. One was a bright pink plus sign, the other said Pregnant 1-2 weeks.

Then the fun began.