The Truth About Sex After Kids

People like to joke that once you have kids, you stop having sex.

Obviously this isn't true, or there would be no such thing as younger siblings or vasectomy parties. (Yes, I contemplated throwing my husband a party to commemorate his vasectomy. I am certain this is actually a thing people do, and I'm not just a lunatic. There are menses parties, for god's sake!) I sometimes think this is a myth created by people who just don't want to imagine that their parents actually had sex for pleasure on a regular basis.

Movies like "Date Night" perpetuate this myth, with such hilarious scenes as the mouthguard incident, or the look of shock on Tina Fey's face when her friend says she's getting divorced in part because she and her husband were only having sex two or three times a week. And yeah, I laughed my ass off, because I'd recently had twins and my husband and I were living in shifts in order to take care of two sets of dirty diapers and whatnot 24 hours a day, and yeah, we weren't having sex every night. But judging all of parenthood by the first six weeks is like judging all baseball teams by the Cubs, or judging all of "Up" by the first ten minutes.

So I'm going to set the record straight.

Sex is a minefield at first. First off, there's the awkwardness factor of attempting to move in concert with another person in such a way that both of you can avoid making strange and humiliating noises (and not just with your mouths) and trying to look sexy while you do it. Then there's the goodie-bag of body issues most of us go into sexual relationships with, making things just that much harder by necessitating a completely dark or poorly lit sex environment. On top of that, there's shame based indoctrination, that tells men they're never big enough and they don't "last long enough," and tells women they should be capable of half a dozen orgasms pretty much all on their own with no help, or that they're not really supposed to like sex to begin with, depending on their cultural backgrounds.

Basically, until you get comfortable with your partner, sex is kind of... awful.

That's not to say it doesn't still feel great. Because let's be honest, most of the time it does. But parts of it are embarrassing and confusing and involve lots of talks about what it all means, and whether you're having enough of it, and you avoid the conversations that might actually make it better.

After kids? Forget all of that. Sex is completely different. Why?

Because you have completely lost all sense of shame or embarrassment towards your body and what it does. The fears you used to have about whether or not he'll stop liking you if he notices your fat stomach are replaced by the knowledge that this person has watched you screaming in pain while you carried multiple human beings around inside of you, with random parts swelling up and growing hair no human should grow and with that wild hormonal glint in your eyes that threatens actual physical violence, and you know what? They still love you!

So fuck it!

Once the realization that your partner loves your body and what it does, regardless of what you think of it, really hits?

The sex is incomparably better. You can simply ask for what you like. You can explore your fetishes and kinks and preferences, even the ones that previously embarrassed you, because nothing embarrasses you anymore. Not when you've both sat staring at each other at the crack of dawn, covered in the same infant's vomit and feces. Not when you've had more conversations than you care to count about the kids' diarrhea and whether or not the shits you're both experiencing indicate a virus, something psychosomatic, or yet another side effect of prolonged fatigue. Not when you've been responsible for popping each others' back pimples, harping on each other to get to the gym, and sitting on the couch after the children are FINALLY asleep, each eating your own entire pint of Ben and Jerry's. Once you hit that point, the sex is epic.

And that makes people feel icky. To know that their birth heralded in a new and exciting era in boning for their parents is beyond uncomfortable.

So stop making it about them already, and make it about you.

All that said, there are still some deep truths when it comes to the levels of exhaustion a couple with children experiences come the end of the day. There is nothing quite like going to bed utterly exhausted and already covered in four people's fluids to make you NOT want to be covered in another variety.

There are levels of bone weary tired that only appear when a kid woke you up at three in the morning the night before because they had a hangnail, and then another woke you up at dawn because you promised they could have scrambled eggs for breakfast. SCRAMBLED EGGS. It's not like you need an extra hour to prepare them, for God's sake! Followed by a whole day of wrangling into carseats, evacuating from car seats, pushing around loaded strollers while doling out snacks and keeping tabs on space cadet kids who forget to follow you in the middle of a park because they thought they heard a dog somewhere.

That kind of exhaustion comes only with having children or providing instructions to astronauts in a busted space ship for what to do to keep their air breathable until they can make their descent back through Earth's atmosphere.

So when it comes to post child sex, there are really two varieties, and for your reading pleasure I will sum them up to you with the following entirely theoretical definitely not real certainly not from me and M conversations:


"Hey, remember that thing you did the other night that made me see God while I was orgasming? Can you do that again, only this time can I be blindfolded and can you use some ice?"
"Sure! Only you have to promise that tomorrow you'll do that other thing. Twice. And I want you to wear that thing we got on Valentine's Day while you do it the second time."
"Do we have to wait until tomorrow? Can we do it now?"
"Yes please!"


"I'm so horny. But I'm soooooooo tiiiiiiiired."
"If you decide you're more horny than tired, I can rally."
"You can rally? Okay... these pajama pants have a hole in the crotch. How about I just lie here and you make this happen through the hole in my pants, and we call it a night?"
"I'm not doing that."
"Probably for the best. That would make the laundry extra gross."
"snooooore"



So the truth is that it's inconsistent. Like almost everything in life. But it's not the sad, exhausted, infrequent joke it's made out to be.

Which is why vasectomy parties should totally be a thing.

Go get your freak on, people with kids. You have more than earned it.

A Lifetime of Coping #DayofLight

Your truly, at fifteen or sixteen.

I write, and have written, a lot about depression. About living with it, about overcoming it...

There are a lot of things to say on the subject. But it can be hard.

I struggled with depression as a kid, which led to my self harm and eventual suicide attempt.

After my second pregnancy, I had crippling DMER and PPD.

I've coped with depression my entire adult life.

I coped with it, and I know how it feels. How it feels impossible to just answer passing questions like, "How are you?" or "What's up?" I know how hard it can be to accept your feelings, as you're feeling them, instead of ignoring them and pretending they don't exist. I know how hard it can be to feel completely alone, consumed by your own grief at absolutely nothing.

I also know there is help out there. And I urge anyone going through anything like this, depression or PPD or PTSD or a bipolar episode or anything, to reach out to the people who want to help you. To the Helpline. To your friends, your family. To anyone and everyone.

Sometimes coping is eating a whole bag of marshmallows.
Really.

Even if all you do is tell them you need help, that's a huge step. It's an important step. It is a step that heals all by itself.

Not completely, but a little.

The first time I realized I was depressed I was eight years old- I've been coping ever since. And some days it's as easy as listening to some Pink Floyd and sweeping the floor. Some days, it's sitting in a heap of dust bunnies and crying while my children watch Super Why.

Coping happens every day, but it happens. And that's what counts.

Get help. Reach out. And then it doesn't feel so much like coping. Then it feels like real life. And when that happens?

You're know you're going to be okay.

All About DMER

When it comes to D-MER, there's a lot you can't see

During my second pregnancy, I had few to no worries about breastfeeding. I thought I'd been through it all with my twins. One perfect nurser, one vicious crocodile. I'd had clogged ducts and infections, I'd supplemented my preemies with both expressed milk and formula, I'd nursed exclusively for a few months, and they weaned themselves at almost ten months.

I might not have been the world's foremost breastfeeding expert, but I thought I had a handle on things.

Then came baby #3.

As the exhaustion of pregnancy wore off, and as I recovered from my second c-section, I simply couldn't get a handle on nursing. She was terrifying, she would root and latch poorly and then tear herself away, and in the first weeks I was a sobbing, hysterical wreck. But I reminded myself day after day, things would get better. They did with my little crocodile, after all.

Until, one night, it happened.

I was sitting on the armchair in the living room, watching my two and a half year old twins playing. The baby was in her swing. It was a perfect domestic scene.

And then it wasn't.

I felt hairs rise on the back of my arms, my shoulders hunched into my neck, my vision went flat and fuzzy. My heart pounded in my chest like I'd just run a marathon. I gasped for air, and the world seemed to funnel down into a tiny black spot before my eyes.

I screamed.

Then I felt the familiar clenching in my chest, my milk let down, and everything returned to normal.

My husband stared at me in shock. "What happened?"

"I think I just had a panic attack," I told him. I put my hand on my chest and felt my heart racing, and slowly returning to normal. "It's time to feed the baby."

The next day, it happened again. I was making breakfast for the twins, and a rushing sound filled my ears. I dropped my egg covered whisk onto the floor, and burst into tears.

For nearly a minute, the world spun. Then again, my milk let down, and the world came back into focus.

The third time it happened I thought I was ready for it. As the panic set in, I told myself, It's okay, this is only going to last a minute, in just a few seconds it'll be over... And it was. As quickly as the feeling came, it left. And I nursed the baby.

As the days passed, they came more and more frequently, until every single time my milk let down, it was preceded by a thirty to ninety second panic attack. I screamed, I sobbed, I collapsed on the floor. I couldn't control it. But I kept telling myself it was okay because they were so brief.

And each time, I began to fear that this time, this one, it would last forever.

I mentioned it to my doctor and he told me I must have PPD. I mentioned it to a lactation consultant, and she gaped at me blankly. I went to a La Leche League meeting, and while the women there sympathized, they had no idea what was happening to me. When I called a doula friend of mine, desperate for help after five months of near constant panic, she referred me to a website about something called "DMER."

Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex.

I read every word on the website, flooded with relief that I wasn't alone, that this was a real thing, a real problem, that I wasn't simply going crazy.

In general, women experience happy emotions when they're breastfeeding. The hormones that accompany the let down reflex cause feelings, connectivity and security and joy- euphoric sensations. But with DMER,  you get the opposite.

It was temporary. After the ejection, after the milk came in and the baby latched, the good feelings came too. I learned to connect with that feeling, to find it despite the exhaustion of ten to thirteen full fledged micro panic attacks each day.

It took the constant support of my friend the doula, my husband, and all my friends to keep me going. Each time I had a panic attack, my husband would bring me a glass of water and rub my shoulders and let me know it was okay.

I soldiered on through the DMER, and nursed my third child for just over ten months.

It was an incredibly difficult time, mostly because of how little awareness there is for the condition. It's terrifying and confusing to have such a wonderful thing, feeding your baby, cause your stomach to knot up in dread. Especially because once it's happening and the nursing is going well, everything is absolutely fine. It's just that tiny window, that one minute eternity.

Not all DMER is the same. Some women experience depression. For some women, it's a mild feeling of unease. But all of us deserve to know that what's happening is physical, that we are experiencing a real symptom of a real condition. You deserve the knowledge that there's nothing wrong with you, or with the bond between you and your new baby.

Make sure you family knows what's happening. They're support will keep you going. See your doctor, and ask them about your treatment options. The most important thing is education- just knowing what's going on with your body is half the battle to managing it.



For more information about D-MER, please visit d-mer.org.




----

Voting for Blogger Idol is still open until midnight! Head to Blogger Idol and vote for me!

Thinking About Tomorrow

Me and my favorite girls

Today, my little RH is seven months old.

I know, I've been a terrible blogger.  You all hardly know anything about her.

RH- 7 months

You don't know about how she laughs, trilling and purring and puffing.  A friend of mine started calling her "Helga Hufflepuff."  It's accurate.  And adorable.

You don't know about how she's finally realized the benefit of tummy time, how she wriggles around like she's maybe actually thinking about crawling, how she rolls around the room to get to contraband items, how when she arches her back and whines her big sisters will roll her over so she doesn't have to.

She's a wonderful little person.  She loves to grab my (or daddy's) face in fistfuls, pull me close to her, and plant big, open mouthed kisses all over me.  How her gums are filled with little teeth getting ready to just bust through.

She's amazing.  I feel like I'm really relishing these baby moments more now than when DD and SI were so small.  Maybe because there were two of them to distract me from each other, maybe because now I truly know how fleeting they are.  Hell, this time next year RH will be walking and talking.  Potty training.

DD- 3 1/4 years

And my big girls... my big, big, big, big girls.  I don't know how it happened.  Suddenly they're on the verge of wearing 5t clothing.  Suddenly they have all of these vocal opinions, and make jokes, and have bad dreams and need hugs.  Sometimes they even read.  They are dedicated big sisters, reading to RH, giving her toys, playing with her... they're her favorite people in the world.

DD told me today that her favorite word is "idea."  I like that.  She told me that shortly before she had a meltdown about not wanting to eat a sandwich, and then ten minutes later walked up to me and gave me a giant hug and said, "I'm sorry."

She's FINALLY mastered the potty.  Yeah, sometimes she still poos in her pull-ups after her nap, but last weekend she woke up, got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and pooed in the potty without even bothering to wake me or M up.  She's so competent.

SI sings.  Like, she really almost sort of actually sings.  Look:



I taught her nothing.  She just loves to sing along with Annie.

She gives so many hugs, so freely.  Her laugh is infectious.  She learns so quickly- she's constantly working on her speech.  You may notice in the video- she doesn't make a lot of sounds properly.  But she tries so hard, and with a little help the changes happen quickly.  You'd never know that two months ago the "k" sound was completely beyond her repertoire.

They both love to sing.  And they have excellent taste.



I can have conversations with these people.  They're self-centered, fairly superficial conversations... but still.  They tell me stories.  They tell me about their likes and dislikes, their plans, their ideas.  SI likes to tell me about how she'll get bigger and bigger and bigger and then do something to be like me.  It melts my heart.

And so, I have been thinking a lot about the future.  Not just because it's so hard to imagine RH becoming a child the size of DD and SI- not just because I have no idea how it happened the first time. Not just because they've reached a growth rate differential that means I actually have to consider parceling out their clothes into DD's and SI's, and figuring out how one does hand-me-downs to twins without new clothes feeling preferential...

M had his every-six-months MRI again on Monday.

Such an awesome daddy.

This one was a little different.  Before you start worrying, you should know M is fine.  Not just in the "just fine" way I meant when he was going through treatment, but in the truly moment to moment way that people mean it in general.  There are no changes.  At least, not to him.

For the first time since July of 2007, M has a new neuro-oncologist.  His old doctor, the one with the silly name, is gone.  Moved on to greener pastures.  So we got to start from scratch with a new doctor.

She's charming and sweet and competent, all you could ask in a bedside manner and attitude and human being in general, but also eminently practical.  And that meant none of the sugar coating that Dr. Grimm used to have.  None of the old friends, constant optimism, we're-all-in-this-together-ness.  You can't go into a meeting with somebody who has inoperable masses in their brain with that kind of attitude.  You have to go in with caution.  And that is what the new doctor did.

She sat us down and talked to us, straight off the bat, about when.  Not if, when.  As far as she's concerned, that's a foregone conclusion.  It's not *if* M's cancer comes back, it's not *if* there's new growth, new contrasting areas on his MRIs.  It's when.

This is my happy place I go when things seem bad.

And in the thirty seconds it took for that icicle of a thought to slide down my spine, settle in my stomach, and imprint itself permanently and horribly inside of my ears forever, she moved on to all the good news.  The good news that Dr. Grimm never would have thought to tell us.

In the beginning, when M was getting ready to start radiation and chemotherapy and his experimental protocol, the doctors told us about what we would do if the treatment failed.  What the options would be if there was a recurrence.

A second round of radiation was off the table.  Unless M survived "a really, really long time."

We'd have to dig deeper, find more aggressive, more harmful treatments.  But there would be options.

Now?  Apparently, that "really, really long time" was incredibly relative.  So relative that M has doubled it.

The who SuperMommy family, partying down.

It's been so long, a paltry five and a half years is so long, that when there is a recurrence we can do exactly what we did the first time.  Do exactly what we know worked for M.

It's been so long that so much more is known about M's cancer that we can be confident there's no genetic element, that the children won't need any kind of extra screening.  (Not that it will stop me.)

When we cross that bridge, we'll cross at full strength, as though the first time had never happened.

But we won't.  It won't really be like that.  Because we'll be older, because I don't know if I still have the unfailing optimism and conviction that I did when I was 23 and newly engaged and fundamentally certain that M was going to be just fine.  Because on top of being M's rock and dedicated helpmeet and nurse and advocate and everything else he might need, I'll have another three people who need me for more than everything, who need me to help them cope with this sort of illness in their father.

When is scaring the everliving shit out of me.

And I know what when means.  It means inevitably, it doesn't mean tomorrow.  It means down the road, somewhere.

We did this on purpose.

But we can't know when when is.  And we knew that the first time we got pregnant.  We had babies when we did so that when M got sick again, they would have had the most years possible with him.  That when he inevitably passed away, they would have meaningful memories.  They would know who he was, and how much he loved them.

And so, in a way, I really was prepared for that talk.  I really was prepared to hear it out loud, that all those fears we had addressed were still real.  That they hadn't just faded into memory.  That we were still living with them.

The new doctor didn't say, "tomorrow."  She didn't say, "next year," or "in ten years," or "in fifty years."  She knows exactly what we know.

Nothing.

None of us have a clue what kind of timeline M has.  Nobody does.  People haven't been surviving brain cancer long enough to know what survival rates look like.  What recurrence rates look like.  M is already so far out on the bell curve that there's no way to know whether or not he's just plain off of it.

Here's to another day.

But I suppose we're ready now.  We're reminded that M isn't free from his diagnosis, he's still living with it every day.  We're reminded that we're doing this together, this family building, baby having, life experiencing thing, and we're doing it on purpose.  We're doing it because we want to milk every last drop of joy that we possibly can from our lives.

I'm going to go hug my children and make a keugle.  Because M and I love keugle, and I love hugging my children.  I'm going to eat Cherry Garcia for dessert with M, right out of the carton, and we're going to watch Community and the Daily Show.  And I might cry a little and pass it off as hormones, but I'll bury my face in his furry, furry chest, and feel overwhelmed with gratitude that I have my life for another day.  For another six months.  Until his next MRI comes and I go through it over again.

Don't Cry

RH

The thing about depression is that it's only invisible when you're outside of it.  When you're inside the depression bubble, it's more than visible- it's tangible.  It's a cloying, noxious cloud of mud.

Everything that you see, you're seeing through that depression.

I know, because I have a lot of experience with it.  I was seriously depressed from the time I was eight until I was in my twenties.  I also didn't sleep.  I began contemplating suicide at eight and a half.  I tried once, at fourteen.  Nearly succeeded, too.

Depression?  It comes in a million different flavors, and they are not mutually exclusive.

So when I realized that I had been feeling depressed- truly, genuinely, severely depressed- I did my best to explain it away.  To come up with reasons that I wasn't depressed, I was just... something-else-not-nearly-so-bad.

And I had lots of convenient scapegoats.  The best of which was a little something called D-MER.

D-MER is, for me anyway, a pretty severe problem I'm experiencing but had never heard of until recently.  That acronym stands for "Disphoric Milk Ejection Reflex."

Basically, every time I'm about to have a let-down, I have a panic attack.  A crying, panting, sweating, freaking-out panic attack.

Every. single. time.

And, as other nursing mothers of three months old know, that means that I'm having all-out panic attacks as often as ten or twelve times a day.

They're blessedly brief, all things considered, but it's made life more than a bit hellish.  Every few hours, a panic attack.  And then the adrenaline rush wears off, and I'm exhausted.  Or antsy.  Or both.

I coped with it pretty well for about six weeks.  And then, the depression kicked in.

I have a confession to make.  It was so bad, one of those dancing videos I put up?  I edited out a bit where I stopped dancing with my daughters to just sit down and weep.

It was awful.  Their concern, their fear, their sadness, that all made it worse.  But when they would ignore my crying and go about their business, that just made it worse too.

I felt constantly judged but other mothers.  By comments about how being a mom is the greatest job in the world, about how lucky we mothers are, about how we chose to have children, about how some women would give anything to be in our shoes.  I was overwhelmed by guilt at feeling so completely trapped, and I did feel trapped.

I found myself thinking awful things, I realized how close I was to actually considering (not causing, but considering) some sort of self inflicted harm.

And I know that this is probably going to sound totally implausible, but I'm doing much better now.  You know, one week later.

I can tell you what shook me out of it, too.  It was Ani Difranco.  At her show, she sang "Joyful Girl," and it was like I heard the lyrics for the very first time.  Or like she was actually talking directly to me.  In the song, she's talking to her reflection in the mirror, and says, "Would you prefer the easy way? No, well okay then, don't cry."

How can I have been listening to that song for more than fifteen years without really hearing that one line?  Those last two words?  I swear, I had never heard Ani sing those last two words to me before.  And for some reason, it worked.

The fact of the matter is, life is hard.  And parenthood is hard.

And you know what?  Parenthood isn't what you expect it to be.  And life isn't what you expect it to be.

I always knew I wanted to be a mom.  I always knew I wanted to have children.  But in my head, they were always... older.  Between three and eight.  Those magic years when they're still so young that much of the world is an amazing place, but old enough that you can talk to them about it.

And children don't emerge from the womb ready to play make-believe and visit the zoo.

When I was pregnant with the twins, I prepared myself for what I thought would be six months of purgatory. Six months of wee little babies.  And I wasn't particularly fond of babies.  But I was pleasantly surprised- I actually enjoyed them as babies.  I actually enjoyed cleaning all the poo and nursing and rocking them to sleep.

And now they've reached that stage, that dream age I always wanted my children to be, and they are every bit as wonderful as I could have hoped.  But I wasn't happy.

And here I was, with another baby.  An amazing baby.  Big, healthy, and easy.  Good lord is that kid easy.  She'll just lay swaddled under her mobile, smiling at the little owls, and put herself to sleep.

I'd watch my incredibly wonderful children playing together, and I'd feel an intense sadness.  A hurt so strong, and so deep, it was a physical pain.

I was depressed.  And, for now, I've sort of snapped out of it.

I'm still not back at 100%, but I'm finding joy in my day to day again.  I'm not just dragging myself from chore to chore, I'm making priorities and actually enjoying myself.  Pretty much every day.

Just like that, one day I woke up ready to crawl into a hole and never again.

And last week I woke up, ready to try to be me again.

Depression is awful.  Depression hurts, even physically.  It's something nearly impossible to explain.

But it does get better.  Knowing that I survived depression, once upon a time, helped me get through this bout.  Knowing that I've been through this, or something like it, before... it's not so much a comfort as it is a promise.

I know it's going to come back.  It always comes back.  I know I'll find myself weeping openly into unmatched socks, just wishing I wasn't so dreadfully alone.

But I did something really important, something new.  I saw that I was depressed, and I acknowledged it.  I let it be visible- I let my friends and my husband and my children know.  I didn't hide it.

Depression is like an abusive boyfriend, keeping you from your friends, and telling you that you need it.  And once it gets its claws in you like that...

I didn't let my depression become my secret addiction.  Not this time.

This time, I listened to Ani.

My loves

I didn't want my life to be easy, but what I wanted wasn't real.  What I wanted was a fantasy that only existed in my mind.  A fantasy where I played with my littles, and where I lived in the woods, and my life was totally impossible.

And the thing is, I knew that.  Of course I knew that.  But the desire to start a family is about more than wanting your genes to carry on, or wanting family pictures on the wall.

It's about moments.  Moments where your life is utterly full to the brim of meaning.  Where every little action seems to matter, but not to be full of dire consequence.

Moments like today, when I snuggled up with my three daughters on the bed and read No Roses for Harry.

I'm not better yet.  But I'm getting there.

Today was a good day.  Yesterday was a good day.

I'm pretty optimistic about tomorrow.

Confession:

RH

Let's face it, babies are nice.

The confirmed DINKs of the world (that's "dual income no kids," for those of you who don't know any of them) are quick to pass judgement on babies.  They scream, they poop, they're expensive, they make outrageous demands on you, and they are a commitment.  You don't just have a baby for a year or two to see if it works out.  There's no going back from having one.

And so those no-baby folks have plenty of reasons to fall back on for why they will never have kids.

And all of those reasons are valid.

But aside from that?  Babies?  They're nice.  

There's nothing quite like holding a sleeping baby.  And there's nothing quite like being the reason that the baby is asleep.

The act of comforting an infant is profoundly empowering.  And there are so few things in life that are simultaneously empowering and pleasant.  Usually, empowering activities come with an element of danger.  Climbing a mountain is empowering.  Firing a gun is empowering.

Gently rocking a baby to sleep?

You feel like a freakin' rock star.  Like a God.  You are all that is great in humanity.

And all that you did was make the baby sleep.  Or keep the baby asleep.

When you're holding a sleeping baby, you are the embodiment of human goodness.  You are more than that, you are the embodiment of potential.  What you look like, where you came from, any conglomeration of details about who you are... they are meaningless.  You're just a safe, friendly, and somehow beloved creature.

For this reason, babies are addictive.

Really, really addictive.

Which means that baby fever is a disease.  Those who suffer from it are victims of an addiction- and may in fact require help.

And no victims of this affliction are more pitiable than new mothers.

Sleeping

Today I can stand before you and I can say...

"Hello.  My name is Lea, and I have baby fever."

I am one month into my renewed adventures in motherhood, and I can admit it.

Here I am, having slept maybe a scattered six hours in the last twenty four (hooray growth spurt!), roasting in my post-surgical garments in the 90 plus temps, still half brain dead from being pregnant, and with my hips slowly returning to their pre-pregnancy and painless alignment (I hope), and I can tell you this...

I am so not done with babies.

This baby?  She's a month old today.  She's bright eyed and beautiful, on the verge of smiling (she gets her lips to twitch smile-ishly, and you can see in her eyes how much she likes you), she likes nothing more than watching her big sisters play.  Well, except eating.

I've got nine pounds of cute and cuddly that routinely screams at me and requires me to clean up its feces.  And having two nearly-three-year-olds, I know that this keeps going.  For a long time.  Forever.

And yet?

I look at her sleeping, her long torso and her little froggy legs, her tiny fingers curled around mine...

And I want more babies.

Not today.  Not while this one is so pleasantly baby-ish.  Not while all she wants is to be snuggled and held and carried around our suddenly fascinating home.

But the fever...

...it has begun.

Perhaps it's made worse by knowing that now this baby factory has shut its doors.  Perhaps it's compounded by how much the big sisters like their new baby sister.  Perhaps it's due entirely to the fact that I've had round the clock help for this entire month.

Really, this should be enough for anyone.

Whatever the reason, it's there.

The burning urge to get more babies into my clutches.

Oh, I can wait.  I can wait.  But it's always going to be there.

Even if you haven't had a drink in ten years, you're still an alcoholic.

And if you haven't had a baby in a decade...

The sickness may still remain.

Waiting to strike.

My name is Lea, and I have baby fever.

May God have mercy on my soul.

I Could Have Had A Baby Today

This post is illustrated with pictures from yesterday's trip to the 63rd St. Beach.
Which was amazingly COMPLETELY DESERTED on a Tuesday morning.

I could have had a baby today.

I mean, there's still time and all.  I still might.  But I could have.

SI playing in the surf

Last week, Baby X was breech and partially engaged.  My OB, without telling me, went ahead and scheduled me a c-section for today.  Because if she was still breech, we'd be doing that.

But miracle of miracles, the baby flipped.  At 40 weeks.  Again.

And now we're back to the waiting game.

...but I could have had the c-section.  And he thinks I should have.  Not because she's unhappy or unhealthy in there, but because he says he's "getting a bad feeling" about this delivery.

Because there is something very unusual about a baby flipping at 40 weeks.

Because there is something very unusual about having a cervix like a rock when it appears that you're carrying a nine or ten pound baby.

DD contemplating the waves

Because there is something very unusual about having such poor uterine muscle tone that you are able to accomodate a rotating baby and plenty of fluids after 40 weeks.

...and so, he says I really should think about a c-section.  Not because of the previous cesarian, but because he's beginning to wonder if I am going to be able to labor this baby out.  Because things seem weird.  (His word choice, not mine.)

I talked to my doctor.  I talked to my doula.  They both asked me the same question when I asked their opinion.

"Do you want to have any more kids?"

And of course, if I do, I should try for the VBAC.  And of course, if I don't, it really doesn't matter.  The problem is that I just don't know.

And so I could have had a baby today.  But I decided to give it another week.  See if things get going.

I don't know why I love this picture so much

Keep eating allegedly labor-inducing foods.

Keep having fun and active outings with the girls.

But now I am beginning to really worry.  To doubt.

And it all seems so important.

I don't know why it seems to matter so much.  Why should it matter at all whether I labor this baby out?  Why should anything matter other than that we both come through it, healthy and relatively unscarred?

It matters because everything seems to matter in parenting.  Everything seems so consequential.

Everything is a choice that you have to make.  Every choice has fallout.  Every fallout brings the need to make more decisions.  And so on.  From the moment you start thinking about how you're going to behave during your pregnancy until, presumably, you die.

DD's grin slays me every time

Until you're wondering if maybe your kid wouldn't get ear infections if they had been born vaginally.  Or if your kid wouldn't have ADD if you'd opted for a c-section and an earlier delivery.

Or if your kid would have gotten into a better college if you'd breastfed for longer.

And it's ridiculous.  But it's there.

I could have been having the baby today.  In one hour.

Instead?  I'm taking the girls to the playground.  Or the zoo.  Or something.

...and I'm waiting.

Carefree

Sunday Blogaround 4.8.12

Welcome to another edition of the Sunday Blogaround!

This has been a wonderful week for other bloggers- if not for me.  I've been so busy with Passover and whatnot that I've hardly had time to enjoy the fruits of other writers' labors.

But here they are- the best of the week as determined by yours truly.  Enjoy!






"Baseball Immortality" - Daddy Knows Less
This week marked the start of Baseball Season.  Baseball Season... that which provides us hope in the darkest depths of a midwestern winter.  That which reminds us that better times are coming.  And of course, opening day (a disaster this year of pointless changes) is the best day of the year- when your baseball team is undefeated for a few glorious seconds.... at least, if your team is the Pirates and they have the rotten no-good luck to play the hated Phillies for the first game of the year.  At any rate, here's a lovely post filled with baseball and fatherly love.  Which in my experience, pretty much always go together.

"Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?" - Try Defying Gravity
My favorite post from the first night of Passover (not that I got to enjoy it that day), and also as short as everybody wishes their seder could possibly be.

"Simplicity Parenting: Keep it Simply" - on Diapers and Daisies
I agree so strongly on this one.  So many parents insist on stimulating their children to the point of no thought at all... I'm not sure that I'm with the author when it comes to the finer details, but when it comes to just leaving your kid alone and letting them be for a few minutes/hours?  Yeah, that's how I try to parent.



"The Bully Project" - The Family Pants
In case you haven't heard of it, recently a film came out about bullying in schools.  It's a heartbreaking documentary, and it's the sort of tool that can be used for genuine good when it comes to the lives of our children.  I've written many times about bullying, and about the examples that we as adults need to set.  I'm very happy to have the Family Pants share their voice and story in support of this kind of education and awareness.

"Keeping Up with the Joneses" - Rediscovering Our Family
Another post on the "keep it simple" theme.  Only this time, for your family as a whole- not just for your children.  I love it.

"Returning Thanks" - Weak and Loved
I go through this process whenever M and I find ourselves waiting around in the Oncology center at our hospital.

"If I Had $1000000" - Dude of the House
The Dude of the House agrees with me when it comes to "kids music."  He regularly posts songs that he likes to share with his children, and I have yet to disagree.  This is a particular favorite.




"Nightstand Face Lift" - The Crafting Hobbit
Super cool DIY!  If I had the time... I would so do this.  In fact, once I find a dresser for Baby X's room, I just might do it for her.  :)

"Meeting Emma" - Dad of the Decade
Okay, now this is something completely different.  Dad of the Decade has been writing about the experience of the first months/years of his daughter's life.  She was diagnosed with an incredibly rare cancer in the womb, and Dad of the Decade has been retelling this story both beautifully and painfully.  This is a vignette- it stands alone.  But be prepared with tissues and somebody to give you a hug.

"The Neediness of Twins" - The Kopp Girls
Need some cheering up now that you've read "Meeting Emma?"  Here you go.  Nothing warms my heart more than twin sisters being best friends.

"Second Guessing is Lame" - Michelle Mossey
We all do it.  She just puts it really well.  (On a side note, this reminds me very much of a few nights ago when, utterly exhausted, I was trying to put the children to bed.  As I left the room, SI said, "Mommy- you want to kiss me!"  I had forgotten to kiss my daughters goodnight!  "Me too!" added DD!  "You're right," I said.  "I do want to kiss you."  I gave them kisses, and they went almost straight to sleep.  That night, no second guessing for me.)

"Late Night Baby Party"- Short Fat Dictator
A reminder of what I'm looking forward to this fall and winter.  Babies and toddlers, each with their own sleeping issues.  Complete with the passing desire to kill your spouse.  At least she makes it funny!

"Silent Week" - Suburban Rebel Mom
As any of us with kids know, sometimes all you think you want is a break.  A week, without your kids.  Where they leave you alone, where they're somebody else's problem.  Well, she got just that.  And it wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  Suburban Rebel Mom actually wrote a lot of stuff this week that I wanted to share with you, but this is the best.  So once you've read it, you should check out the other stuff she's been writing, like this post about star gazing, or this one about dress shopping.  Trust me, you'll enjoy it.

"I Think It's Going Around" - 649.133
First of all- in case I've never mentioned it before, I think this is the cleverest parenting blog title I have ever heard.  Library nerds, rejoice.  Moving on- Janel writes about Baby Fever.  Particularly, the Baby Fever of one who already has babies and therefore knows what a dumb idea it is to have another one.  I need to remind myself to revisit this post when Baby X is about four months old.

Hard Times

Last time I was pregnant- on the right with the extra poofy feathers

Recently, I have found myself totally overwhelmed,

Overwhelmed by my schoolwork.

Overwhelmed by my children.

Overwhelmed by my pregnancy.

Last time I was pregnant, I could participate in weddings
with alpacas and homemade wine.

I'm not ashamed to confess that I've spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and crying and eating frosting right out of the canister.  The thought that keeps floating through my head is...

"Why is it so much harder this time?"

Well, today I finally figured it out.  It's harder this time because EVERYTHING is harder this time.

Last time, I may have been pregnant with twins, but I wasn't in school.  And most importantly, I didn't have any children.  I had two jobs to do, to move and settle my home, and to be pregnant.  Yes, it involved a subchorionic hematoma.  Yes, it involved SPD and a few gall bladder related trips to the hospital.  But still, it was the only thing I needed to do.

Once we had moved, M lost his job and suddenly not only was I constantly assisted in both of those tasks by my favorite person in the world. they were still the only jobs that I had.

Now?

Last time I was pregnant, we could get away with friends
for the weekend

Now I am wrangling two (very well behaved all things considered) toddlers.  Now I am scrambling to finish my degree.  Now my husband is not only not available to me all day as he's working, he also is unavailable all night and evening because he's finishing up his degree as well.

And on top of all of that, this time around I'm dealing with regular mole removals, with dietary and health problems, and with all of the drama that comes with changing insurance companies two times during the course of a pregnancy.  Yes, getting $2K bills for ultrasounds is enough to give pretty much anybody heartburn.  And of course, I still have the SPD.

So as I sat on my couch, willing my children to go to sleep and just be quiet, and wishing that somebody would magically bring me a root beer float, I realized...

It IS harder.  I'm NOT crazy.  I'm NOT lazy.  I'm NOT somehow much older and weaker and less able to handle being pregnant.

I would be exhausted and stressed and borderline insane even if I weren't *also* pregnant.  And yet, here I am.  Also pregnant.

Last time I was pregnant, we could
catch a ballgame

So I hereby remind myself to take my last minute New Year's Addendum to heart- I am going to be a little easier on myself.

I am going to give myself a little slack for sitting down and weeping on the couch into my Girl Scout cookies.

This is hard.  School is hard.  Toddlers are hard.  Never seeing your husband is hard.  Having skin cancers is hard.  And being pregnant is hard.

And doing it all at the same time?

Well...

On that note, I'd like to apologize for the lack of posts so far this week.  And that the lack shall continue.  You see, Friday is Passover.

And because I had so much free time and energy and all, I decided to host my family seder.

(Really, there was more to it than that.  With Passover starting on a Friday night in the buildup to finals, with two small children and me reaching the size and shape of a beluga whale, there was no way we were going to be able to travel.  It simply made more sense to have everyone come to us.  That said, I'm hosting a seder for 27 on Friday.)

Last time I was pregnant, no matter how
much it sucked it was a hell of a lot easier.

(It should be fun.)

Next week I will make up for it in spades by posting all about my family's seder- from the recipes to the tradition to how on earth I squeezed that many people into our condo.

Next week, I will write all about my wonderful family and friends who are trying so hard to make things easier for me by cooking and cleaning and watching my children.

This week?  Becoming SuperMommy is going to be... scarce.

I'll be busy crying into a box of Tagalongs.

...because this time?  This time, pregnancy is really, really, really hard.

This time, life is harder.

In four weeks, M will be done with school.  Four weeks after that, I will be done with school.  Four days after that, Baby X will be due.  And ten weeks after that, my monkeys will start preschool.

This time, I'm just limping along to the finish line.  But I'll get there.  And it will be just as wonderful as last time.  I just need to keep remembering that in the end it's going to be okay.  And it's going to be okay.

It's My Pregnancy And I'll Cry If I Want To

Foreshadowing

While getting pregnant might be the most fun that two people can have without breaking the law (well, in most states), being pregnant is no party.

I suck at being pregnant.  I would never wish it upon anyone who didn't actively wish it upon themselves.  And even then, I still feel bad for them.

But without a doubt, one of the most frustrating things about pregnancy is also one of the most frustrating things about being a fourteen year old girl.  You can't look at your reflection, or a picture of yourself, or even your shadow, without being critical.

And I'm not saying, "Oh, we're on day four without a shower are we?" critical, I'm talking full blown paranoia critical.  Like, "MY BODY HATES ME AND WANTS ME TO LOOK BAD SO NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE ME!" critical.

What- never been a teenage girl?  Never parented one?

Well if you, like most of my readers, have daughters, you have this to look forward to!  (Or back on, if you're a woman.)

Here's what I mean about that whole fourteen years old and self loathing thing... fourteen year old girls, on top of hating themselves, are crazy.

Take this photograph, for example:

15 years old

That's me and my little sister's best friend.  We were all playing dress up.  Because that pretty much never gets old, no matter how old you are.  And in this case, we are thirteen and fifteen, I think.

I have this photo on facebook, in an album dedicated to old pictures of me and my friends from our high school-ish days.  There are three comments on it.

B: "You're just so cute!"
Me: "I was just so THIN!"
B: "You'll notice I used the present tense."

Now, I have put on a bit of weight since then.  Probably forty pounds.  And at the time, I did think that I was fat.  Why?

Because teenage girls are paranoid psychotics!  That's why!

What did my ridiculously attractive (by my today-me standard) think of that photograph?

Allow me to recap all of those criticisms for you...

Hair- too frizzy.
Face- weird.  (I don't know how, it just always looked weird.  Makeup just made it worse.  If you've never experienced this phenomena, ask a teenage girl if she thinks she looks weird today.  Then watch her develop an eating disorder.)
Boobs- absurdly large at a DDD (HA!).  Sometimes, I was okay with this.  (Not when standing next to girls with small boobs.)
Stomach- fat.

...

And that, my friends, is insane.

I think about the Sunscreen Song (if you're of my generation, you know exactly what I'm talking about), and it has that line in it...  "You are not as fat as you think you are."  At the time, I thought that was dumb.  With better than ten years of hindsight... that actually was pretty deep.

Now, there is one distinction I feel I must make.  Those crazy self loathing hormones only generally apply to the self.  I didn't look at that picture and think that my sister's friend looked bad at all.  She looked the way she looked, and there was no problem with that.  It's the distinction between a fourteen year old girl, and a mean fourteen year old girl.

Mean girls pick on the flaws of others, which is an incredibly effective way to make yourself not think that you suck so badly.  Most girls just pick on themselves.  Because there is nobody you spend as much time with as you, and when you're constantly around somebody that you despise, you can't help yourself but to finally snap and start being mean to them.

Just imagine being stuck on a boat with Carrot Top for a two week voyage down the Amazon.  Now tell yourself you wouldn't throw one of you into the piranha infested waters.

Which brings us to... pregnancy.

Now, pregnancy and adolescence share a lot in common.  Most sinister of these commonalities is... the hormones.  Crazy hormones.  Hormones that don't make sense.  Hormones that makes your body do weird things.

But sadly, it's not just your body.  It's also your brain.  Your suddenly deranged, adolescent mind begins to do what overly hormonal female minds do best.

It hates the body it is trapped in.  Oh, how it hates.

It hates like a supervillain who has been foiled once again in its schemes for world domination.  It is disgusted by every single element of human life into which it is being initiated.

It does this to itself, consantly:


That, when applied to every move a fourteen year old girl makes, coming from inside her own head, is why teenage girls are mostly evil and insane.

And it is impossible to stop it.

M, bless his heart, knows that this isn't intentional.  It's not just my mind whirring around, and therefore looking for some kind of validation by asking over and over and over again, "Do I look really bad today?"  He knows I'm restraining myself.  Because what I really want to ask is, "Will you please put this bag over my head, so that I can walk through the streets without shame?"

And he is grateful that I don't ask him to do that.  So he kindly tells me day after day that I am sexy and beautiful and that no, my face doesn't look weird.  It looks pretty, he says.

Does this help?  No.  No, it does not.

28 weeks pregnant with Baby X

Take this image, for example.  This is a lovely picture.  There's the early morning light, the gentle corona of my hair, and my beautiful children, watching from the breakfast table. So idyllic.  And that dress is definitely my color.

Unless the person looking at this picture is its paranoid psychotic pregnant subject.  Because I have matured to the point where, for short bursts, I can ignore my hormonal brain and think with the animal part of my brain that does not contain the incredibly human capacity for self loathing, I am able to recognize this.

But I can only be rational in short bursts.  What I see is...

I have a chorus of teenagers in my head.  And they're all mean girls.

Hair- hasn't been cut in ten months
Eyes- giant circles underneath them from sleeping badly due to occupier in uterus, leg cramps, back pain, etc.
Chin- stray hairs.  They make me want to annihilate my face.
Arms- flabby.  Somebody hasn't been to the gym (or even done yoga- YOU try it with your hips dislocating) in almost as long as they haven't had a haircut.
Scar- only bad on some days.  These days are unpredictable.
Boobs- completely overwhelm the pre-pregnancy bras, resulting in both the oh-so-attractive quad-boob effect, and also in just sort of making me look lumpy all over.  Also, the very large lumpy shelf of breast tissue camouflages my stomach, making it look smaller.  I am actually only about an inch and a half smaller than I was with twins.  Not very significant.
Belly- extra lumpy, thanks to a belly button that doesn't pop when I'm pregnant (never did with the girls, either) and the addition of the lumpy lower belly pouch that was left after my c-section.
Butt- where is it?  No really... where is it?  And how can it manage to take up so much more space?

On top of that, my skirt has a giant hole in it, my children are actually covered in maple syrup, and my house is a mess.

If I shut down all that criticism, I can see that in the picture I am practically glowing.  I am glowing like a pregnant lady is supposed to glow.  I am awash in maternal glory.  I am a goddess, creating life.  I am Gaia, I am Aphrodite, I am Venus.


...I am a gigantic lump of worthlessness.

I am, however, better off than a teenage girl.  I know that this ends.  I know that in the near future, I will stop being hormonally driven to loathe everything about myself.  My pregnancy hormones will give way to a weirder wave of post partum hormones, and then from there I can revert to my former, mostly-happy-with-myself-actually personality.

It's just that it's going to suck until then.

To all the people of the earth who ever must interact with a pregnant lady, I urge you... follow my rule number one of dealing with pregnant ladies.

And never, EVER, tell a hormonally charged female person that their face is weird.

Because, ew.  Seriously?  That is so gross.

Top Ten Pregnancy Offenses

This being my second time down the pregnancy trail, I've learned a great deal about the power of selective memory.

That, and how drastically my own pregnancies can differ from those of other women.

This pregnancy, my SPD and my heartburn are MUCH better than last time around.  But I am SO MUCH MORE TIRED!  This time, I've had more friends go through pregnancy, and I've been up close and personal with a lot of other women dealing with the kind of crap that pregnant ladies have to go through.

Every pregnancy is different, even for a single person who gets pregnant on different occasions.

But there are some universal pregnancy facts- nay, warnings.  There are things that, no matter what, you should never ever ever say or do to pregnant women.  And here, for your enjoyment and in no particular order, are the worst of them.

"You look great!"

1. Do not comment on a pregnant woman's size.  Period.  No, "Oh, you're barely showing!"  Or, "You're so big!"  Or God help you, "Are you having twins?!?"  Nine times out of ten, regardless of your intention, you're going to be being an ass.  I cannot STAND it when people tell me I'm barely showing.  Yes, I know to you it looks like there's not much bump there, but it IS- it's just cleverly camouflaged by my rapidly swelling breasts.  Yet another thing I do not need you to comment on.  So while I merely look like I've put on a bunch of weight everywhere, I haven't.  It's all right in the front- in those female parts that get bigger when there's a baby on board.  There is, in fact, only one thing you should EVER say to a pregnant woman about her appearance.  "You look great."  Whether or not it's true.  Whether or not you have any idea what she looked like before.  "You look great," or a similar variation thereof, is ALWAYS a compliment.  But it is more than a compliment, it is also a validation that despite probably being exhausted and probably having vomited recently and probably feeling entirely un-cute in her pregnancy- and not necessarily MATERNITY- clothing, she looks great.  So that is what you say. Period.

2. Never touch without being first invited to do so.  There are some implicit invitations.  If you are invited to the baby shower, and you are AT the baby shower, you may touch the belly.  It is relevant.  If you are doctor who is likely to be attending the birth of the baby inside of the belly, you may go ahead and touch the belly.  If you are absolutely anybody else- you MUST get permission before attempting to touch the belly.  Lucky me, this was never a concern.  No strangers ever ran up to rub my belly.  Perhaps this was because I always looked so angry and irritable and ready to eat lone strangers that they avoided me.  And if they had put a hand on me without my permission, they would have lost it.  No matter how well you know a pregnant lady, ASK before you touch the belly.

3. Never make a negative comment about a name.  No matter how dreadful you think it is.  It is just not any of your business what somebody names their child- so unless you have something nice to say you just keep it to yourself.  I could be planning on naming my child Wadsworth Daffodil Bumbledum, and you have no business telling me that it is in any way a bad idea.  MY child, MY reasons, MY preferences.  Yours just plain do not matter.  Do not tell me that my preferences for names are to "ethnic."  I'M ethnic.  Do not tell me that my choices for names are too old-fashioned.  They are probably the names of deceased loved ones, who thankfully, died in their old age.  Of COURSE they're old fashioned.  Do not tell me that you once knew somebody by that name and they were a big jerk.  I forgot, everybody named Caitlin or Matthew is an enormous d-bag.  I'll change my selection immediately to suit you.  Do not tell me that my child's name is "weird," I promise you that I think there are weirder names out there.  Do not tell me I should change the spelling, or use a similar name from a different language.  I have not just pulled a name out of a hat.  I have put thought into this, and you are criticizing something with a lot of personal meaning and import.  And for the love of all that is decent, do not tell me that my other child/ren have beautiful names, and it would be a shame for only one to have a horrid ugly name.  Not. your. place.

4. Do not make fun of pregnant ladies for their flatulence, frequent urination, heartburn, or acne.  If the pregnant lady in question is a friend of yours, and SHE makes fun of HERSELF, that is one thing.  But do not instigate these jokes.  She is undoubtedly sensitive about how awkward it is to be pregnant.  Like being a teenager.  Only pregnant.  And without the stamina.  Give her a break.

5. Do not smile knowingly while she complains about how miserable she is.  If she is telling you that she is in pain, or that she is uncomfortable, or that she is unhappy, don't patronize her and tell her to enjoy herself.  She knows that pregnancy is temporary.  She also knows that she is NOT ENJOYING IT.  That is precisely what she is telling you.  If she tells you that she is having a bad time, SYMPATHIZE, tell her that when it's all over it will so worth it, and then move on.  Don't act like you know better than she does how "precious" this time is.  She knows.  She also knows that her heartburn is peeling the enamel off of her teeth and that she has stretch marks that will forever keep her out of a bikini.  She's an adult, not a kid who didn't get the flavor ice cream she wanted.  Wipe that smirk off your face and tell her she looks great.

6. Don't make blanket statements about the possible appearance of her baby.  No, "Oh, wouldn't it be a shame if it had your hair," or, "If it has it's grandma's nose, it better be a boy."  First of all, there is no doubt she has her own preferences in this department.  She probably has all sorts of her own issues with her appearance, and she doesn't need you reinforcing them.  Second of all, nobody can control what the baby will look like.  And even if the baby comes out with six eyes, nine legs, ambiguous genitalia on both of its feet and an extra mouth in the middle of its stomach, you will be obligated to tell the parents how cute it is.  And that will be much harder if you have to eat your words.  Pretend it's already here, and however it looks is adorable.

7. Do not smirk at the other children of the pregnant lady in question, and remark, "Looks like you're going to have your hands full!"  As anybody with ONE child knows, she's already got her hands full.  As any woman pregnant with her first child knows, she is about to have full hands as well.  Every woman knows that a baby is a lot of work, none better than a woman who has had a few already.  And reminding her that things are about to get much more complicated for her family- which as you stand there smirking already consists of several children who are covering themselves in their lunches and running amok in the grocery store- is just not nice.  If you must say anything, tell her that it seems she really has a handle on her incredibly well behaved children, and the next one will be a breeze.  Lie, if you must.

8. Do not criticize her parenting choices when it comes to the new baby.  If she's having it at home, don't tell her that she's stupid.  If she's planning to formula feed, don't tell her she's abusive.  If she's planning on starting it in music classes when it's four months old, don't tell her that she's crazy.  No matter how much you disagree with her, do not tell her that she is doing the whole parenting thing wrong.  We all go into this blind.  If she's trying to do anything genuinely nuts, she'll figure it out soon enough.  And if not, you're just making things harder for her by criticizing her in advance.  Lay off.

9. Never regale her with tales of births gone wrong.  She doesn't need to hear all about your friend's aunt who died because she couldn't deliver the placenta, or your mother's cousin's great-niece, who got septic from delivery and lost three of her limbs, or your dentist's brother's daughter-in-law who's baby got stuck in the birth canal and is now blind and has some sort of palsy.  I promise you, she already has enough birth related anxiety.  If there is ANYTHING AT ALL that she is actually in danger of suffering, her medical provider and personal medical history will have warned her.  You do not need to make birth terrifying. For most pregnant women, it already is.  Just keep your mouth shut.

10. Do not ask her when she'll be getting pregnant again.  Just let her get through this one, and when she's ready to talk about starting the whole magical show all over again, she'll let you know.  If she wants to. Because once again, this is just not any of your business.

Now, me and all the other pregnant ladies can go crawl back under our rocks.

Pregnant- again.