Teaching Through Trauma: Sexual Violence and Sex Positive Parenting

You may recall that over the summer I caused a bit of a stir with my article, "Sex Positive Parenting, or, We Don't Touch Our Vulvas At The Table." In that post I talked about sex positivity and not shaming children for exploring their bodies, and how honesty empowers and protects children.

I've done a lot of talking about this in the months since. I've spoken at conferences, gone on the radio, interviewed on podcasts... it's been a wild ride.

But part of what I've been doing has been very quiet. And that's what I'd like to talk about now.

Since that article came out, people have been writing to me to ask advice on how to talk to their children about sex, with massive caveats.

Parents who were victims of childhood sexual assault.
Parents with children who were born from rape.
Parents with adopted children who came from a foster system that permitted gross sexual misconduct.

I had advocated honesty, total honesty, about sex and biology. I talked about explaining IVF and cesarean sections to children.

So what about these questions? What do you tell a child, honestly, when the honest truth is both horrible, and unacceptable?

I spent a lot of time thinking about this.

I always told those parents at least one thing, "Whenever you are ready to talk to your child about this, make sure you know that it is not their fault. Make sure you let them know that, no matter what happened to them, or to you, they are not to blame, and they are not diminished by having this as part of their personal history."

I recognized as I wrote these words, in endless variations, over and over again, how little they could do to heal the gaping wounds their parents have.

But as more and more parents wrote me, I felt more and more the need to discuss being sex positive with children in the context of a world filled with sexual violence.

You see, in addition to talking about sex positive parenting, I'm a member of the RAINN Speakers Bureau. I talk to groups of teenagers about rape culture and sexual violence. I talk a great deal about consent and power dynamics and the reality of rape versus the popular mythology.

And I always explain, when talking about sex positivity, that this is a way to protect children from rape culture. That when you empower children with the correct names for their organs, and an understanding of what is and is not appropriate, you can protect them from becoming victims. And more importantly, you can stop them from becoming predators.

This is little comfort to children who are already, in some way, victims.

So when speaking to a child about human biology, about how a sperm must meet an egg, and how that sperm usually comes out of a penis when it is inside of a vagina, is that the time to talk about rape?

As much as I, as a parent and a human being want to say no, it's not the time, I can't. I think that it is the time.

I think sooner is generally better, within reason. I wouldn't attempt to explain rape to two year old, but when a child is able to intellectualize human reproduction, I think it's not too soon to come clean with the facts.

And the facts are this- reproduction is beautiful. It is intimate and loving, it is a way to show that you care, and that you don't want to hurt somebody. Just like a hug, or a pat on the head. But sometimes, people do violent things that look like nice things. You can hug somebody too tight and hurt them. You can hit, instead of patting. These are things nobody should do, and that all of us must learn not to do. But sometimes, people do these things. And sex and rape are like that. Rape is not sex, it is turning sex into a violent act. The way a slap and a pat on the cheek are not the same, however closely they may seem to resemble each other in their mechanics.

These are comparisons a child can understand. And so long as the explanation of what rape is, and how it is related to the reproductive process, blame and shame for the child can be minimized or eliminated.

The problem is, rape is shameful. Not for the victim, but for the rapist. It is a shameful, awful thing to do to another human being, and yet people do. And because of the profound shame and discomfort regarding sex we share in our culture, the shame and blame is often misplaced onto the victim. This happens not because it is shameful to have been raped, but because as a culture we are all so afraid of sex that we cannot distinguish between an act of affection and an act of violence.

Telling a child that they are the product of a rape is never going to be easy. It should never be easy, because talking about sexual violence shouldn't be easy. But we still need to do it.

We desperately need to do it. Especially with children.

I've heard the advice, especially among adoptive parents, to associate the rape with the birth mom. To make it about her, not about the child. I understand this impulse, but to me it reeks of victim blaming. We should never associate a crime with the victim, always the perpetrator.

I have a confession. Until I began working on writing this post, months ago, I had not talked to my five year old daughters about rape. Not explicitly. I had done it obliquely, in terms I thought they would understand. I explained rape culture in terms of "hurting" rather than "sexual violence," because explaining to my children what rape is was something that I thought could wait.

I don't think it can anymore. Not as I've forced myself to sit down and read letter after letter from parents who can't wait. Who don't have the luxuries that I do.

And so, I told my daughters about rape. The five year olds, not the two year old. We read "Where Did I Come From?" and I paused after we finished the page that describes sex.

"You know," I said, "Sometimes people do that to hurt each other."

SI looked at me like I was insane. "They do. Sometimes, one person will want to do that, and the other doesn't, and it hurts them. The book says it feels good, and it does, when both people want to. The way hugging feels good. But it doesn't feel good if your sister chases you and pinches you, right?"

"I don't like that when RH does that," DD agreed.

"Yeah. So sometimes, people try to do that to other people who don't want to. And that's not okay. That's not the same thing as sex, it's something else entirely."

And we moved on.

I didn't use the word "rape." As I've discussed before, it's a hard word to use. I've gotten better at writing it down, the more and more and more I practice at it, but it's so much easier to write "rape culture" than it is to write "rape." And it is infinitely more simple to write than to say.

I did not use the word "rape," and I did not say that it had happened to me. Although I know if I'd let the conversation linger, the question would have come up, and I honestly don't know if I could have answered it.

I really, truly, genuinely don't know.

But this is important. It is vital that our children know what rape is, and that it is fundamentally different from consensual sex acts.

I can't recommend my script, because it is still full of holes. I still have no idea how I will one day tell my children that I was raped, twice no less. But it's something I've known since before I became a parent that I must do.

I, and all parents who have survived sexual violence, need to be the face of survival for our children. Not because we choose this, but because we are and always will be their role models. Because what we say and do is what they believe is the right way to say and do anything. And if we maintain a silence about being assaulted, we teach them that what is right and proper is to be silent. But it is not easy. It is never easy.

And if I cannot tell them this without the constant weight of my own misplaced shame, what would I tell them if they were born because of rape?

I know I would tell them that it wasn't their fault. I know I would tell them that I love them, and that nothing that anybody did to me before they were born has anything to do with who they are now.

And I know I would try to have those conversations now, while they would simply inform the facts of their existence, rather than complicate their already difficult adolescence when they must somehow correlate the facts of their burgeoning sexual identities with an understanding of the nature of the act that created them.

This is not easy. This is not simple. This is not fun. There is no solution to how to teach your children something traumatic. Ever.

There is no easy way to explain death. To explain that yes, someday mommy and daddy will die. Yes, someday they will die.

There is also no easy way to explain that human beings are capable of profound suffering, and worse, inflicting it upon each other.

The one question a parent asked me that truly haunts me is this, "There was a line in your blog about how only your daughters have the decision to have sex, but obviously that is not true in the case of rape. I know someday I will have to explain that women are supposed to have the right, but they don’t always. Any thoughts from you in this case?"

My thoughts are these- rape is not sex. The act may look similar, but it is not the same.

There are many ways for a baby to come into the world. They all begin the same way- sperm meets egg. But that can happen in so many ways.

Sex. IVF. Intrauterine insemination. Rape.

None of these are the same.

It is not your doing if your were born thanks to IVF. It is not your doing if you were born as the result of rape. You do not carry the weight of that act. You are loved. You are so loved. And when you are old enough, you will know the difference between what is affection and what is abuse, and in that way you are more than anything that came before you. You are empowered and precious.

This is what I would say, my thoughts.

To those parents whose children came from sexual assault, I would say I have no idea how difficult this conversation will be. I cannot begin to imagine how painful it will be. But remember, the fault always lies with the person committing the crime. Not you. Never you. And not your child.

We can be honest, even if it hurts. We must be honest when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

Because children are not obtuse. They see us struggling with our honesty, and it teaches them something important. It teaches then that no matter how hard honesty is, it is essential.

When we are uncomfortable, or in pain, and continue on- it teaches them about bravery.

They are watching us all the time, and they are always learning.

Let them learn the unspoken. Let them learn how utterly horrifying rape is by watching us struggle to even say the word. Let them learn how important it is not to use reproduction as a weapon by seeing how repulsed we are by it. Let them learn how much we love them by holding them and loving them through our own pain and trauma.

Let them learn bravery by watching ours.

I will keep trying. I will keep trying to do better.

And keep sending me letters. I will read them. I always read them. And if I think I can help, if I think there is anything I can do to lesson your burden, I will.

I hope someday, that is a lesson I can pass along, too.

End of the Month Controversy: Obamacare

I love this man.

Sixteen hours after he proposed to me, M awoke in an ambulance, rushing from his company softball game to the emergency room.

What looked initially like a stroke turned out to be a seizure, caused by several masses in his brain.

Six days later, an exploratory surgery told us that those masses were stage four astrocytoma- an incredibly malignant and aggressive brain cancer.

Three days after that, my fight with M's insurance company began. He was on an HMO, and while he had elected into "emergency" coverage, the company wanted to deny any payment for his surgery or cancer treatment.

Because the surgery wasn't an "emergency." And because, once he had the surgery, the cancer became a pre-existing condition.

We were lucky. I'm absolutely bloody terrifying, and I managed to frighten enough HMO representatives that I actually reached a person who could do something, anything, about the $100,000 bills coming in the mail for the surgery alone. That didn't even begin to cover the week he had to spend in the hospital, recovering. In fact, the only way I was able to secure their coverage was to convince M's primary care physician- a man pre-approved by the HMO- to tell his employer that he had been negligent with M's care.

The radiation guide/shield that kept M's head affixed
in the correct location to irradiate his tumors

The fact he was willing to do that still amazes me. I am grateful every day.

So there we were, newly engaged and spending every minute of every day dealing with doctors, insurance companies, and hospital staff. As I waited in lobbies day after day, I read articles in magazines about how many people were beginning to use bankruptcy to cover their cancer treatments.

They continued their treatment, going deeper and deeper into debt, and if they succeeded in saving their lives they lost their savings, their homes, everything.

But really, that seemed like a small price to pay to be alive.

Only it's not. Last month CNBC covered a study- the findings were that the most common cause for personal bankruptcy in the United States is medical debt. "Medical Bankruptcies," they're called.

But back to 2007, when M was fighting for his life.

He was in chemo and radiation, but he could not quit his job. Without his job, he would lose insurance coverage. And the minute he lost coverage, he could never get it again. And so despite the fatigue, the nausea, the pain... despite the frustrations and humiliations of going to work and suffering through seizures, he kept at it. Not because he was so tenacious (although he was), but because he had no choice.

For eighteen months, he went to work through chemotherapy. We only paid hundreds of dollars a month for his medication. Without insurance, his anti-seizure drugs would have run to the hundreds per day.

Each dose of his chemotherapy had a "street value" of more than $30,000. Each dose. That meant that over eighteen months, M's chemo alone would have cost approximately 17.2 million dollars.

And miraculously, he got better. For a whole year, things were stable, until the economy collapsed and M lost his job.

I was pregnant with DD and SI, and I couldn't walk let alone work. We both needed medical coverage- it wasn't optional. So we paid off the outrageous COBRA bills every month on credit cards, going deeper and deeper into debt. We had no choice, it was debt or death. When I rushed into the hospital in the middle of the night, hemorrhaging through a placental abruption. it was crystal clear. Having insurance was mandatory.

Handsome bald devil.

Through the first year of parenthood, M and I watched each session while Congress battled out whether or not they would extend unemployment benefits. And each time they did, I cried with relief. Even when M got a job, they did everything in their power to avoid paying for insurance. We kept shelling out thousands of dollars a month to keep our medical coverage. We tried to find other insurance, cheaper, private insurance. They would cover me and the kids, but not M. Not with his pre-existing conditions. And later, after my melanoma diagnosis, they wouldn't cover me either.

M will always have a pre-existing condition. I will always have a pre-existing condition.

Until Obamacare went into effect, just being a woman WAS a pre-existing condition.

This past week, the GOP in Congress tried for the fortieth time to get rid of Obamacare. It was an empty gesture, but one that spoke volumes.

"We don't care about you at all," they said.

"We, politicians who have accepted hundreds of millions of dollars from insurance company lobbyists- we care more about that than whether you live or die."

"We don't care if you have to lose your home, your savings, everything. It should be WORTH IT just to be alive."

So what are they trying to ban?

Starting on the first of next year, a ban on denial for coverage based on pre-existing conditions.
A healthcare marketplace for people without insurance to find coverage, and subsidies for people like us a few years ago- unemployed and uninsured.
And coverage that must include prevention services- mammograms, prenatal care, the neural pathway test that could have diagnosed M as much as a year earlier.

...so where's the controversy?

The controversy is that everyone wants to make sure that this is paid for. They want to be certain that this isn't going to run the country into the ground. And yes, it is paid for. In fact, it's going to save this country (and individuals) millions to billions of dollars.

But here's the truth- the country is already being run into the ground with medical debt. Not just because of the two million people this year alone who have filed for medical bankruptcy. It's also because people who don't have coverage still get sick, and those sick people flood into publicly funded hospitals, and we as a society are paying for it anyway.

Everyone alive and healthy.

If I didn't have insurance, would I have run into a hospital, 35 weeks pregnant with twins and gushing blood? You're damn right I would have. And the hospital would have treated me, and then had to make up the difference in the $89,000 I wouldn't have been able to pay them.

That's me- one pregnant woman. And five days in the hospital cost me two years of M's gross unemployment. And that is absurd.

The controversy is that the way we buy insurance in this country is ludicrous- we never know what anything costs, what anything is worth. You go to one hospital and they charge you $2,500 for an MRI to find out if cancer is growing in your brain, you go to a different hospital for the same kind of scan in the same month and they charge you $20,000. And there's no way to know until it's happening.

You can't waltz into an ER and say, "I'm shopping for the best deal on emergency care. How much do your ambulance rides run?" or "Does YOUR mammogram come with a complimentary radiologist evaluation, or is that going to be extra?"

It's as far from free-market economy as anything gets.

So now the GOP is going around, trying to scare people away from signing on and getting coverage, now that the Obamacare marketplace is going to open up.

Don't listen.

Instead consider what you have to gain.

Life, AND livelihood.

When cancer, or diabetes, or lupus, or a car accident, or pregnancy strikes- don't tell yourself that it's worth it if you get to stay alive.

You deserve both.



Learn more about the healthcare marketplace here: HealthCare.gov

Ridiculously Awesome

I know we haven't, but I like to imagine that we've all been at that same special point in our lives.

You know, the one where your old fat jeans became your regular jeans, and you didn't really mind because they were your fat jeans when you were 22 and you hade made two babies with your body since then...

And then your new fat jeans became your regular jeans, and that wasn't such a big deal, because you were kind of busy making another baby anyway, so you could deal with that.

...and then one day, your latest fat jeans are so tight that as you sit in the driver's seat you can feel the horrific sensation of your back fat being squeezed up behind your shoulder blades and smooshed into the seat.

We also all know that moment when
you realize that some days  "lunch"
is five twizzlers, a third of a  banana,
and twelve blueberries... right?

And then, you cry. Oh, how you cry. And you go out and get a new HIGH IMPACT SPORTS BRA OF DOOM and you relegate an hour every morning to getting yourself in shape.

But, it's easier said than done when you have three very very little people leaving half eaten bowls of goldfish crackers all over your house, and any attempt at a workout routine becomes "jump on mommy or howl in misery" time.

And then, you come up with the brilliant idea to DANCE!

So, you dance and dance and dance with your kids, hoping that this will magically whittle your waistline and you can give those fat jeans that made you cry the finger.

But it doesn't work so well, because while dancing with mommy starts out as being a good hour of cardio a day, it becomes mommy dead lifting thirty five pounds and then spinning in circles with a weight on her shoulder for half an hour, followed by another half hour of vaguely nauseated tottering to a beat.

Yes, we've all been there.

And so I began wondering, what do we do now? When we're still angry at our not-fat-day-but-regular-day jeans, when our workout routine has fizzled, and when we have just as little freedom to leave our homes and go to gyms or zumba classes as ever before?

That's right, folks, workout videos.

I began my hunt for the perfect workout video. It had to be dance based, to fool the kids. They would think we were still having dance parties, but we would just be having them with the movie.

I picked out the one I wanted. It was the P90X guy, so I figured it would work.

But I kept not buying it.

I kept going to the website, and hovering my cursor over the "checkout" button, and just not clicking, and I couldn't figure out why.

I asked M, "Do you think this is a good idea?" and he said, "I dunno... looks kind of sleazy..."

No. Just... no.

And that was it. He had hit the nail on the head. I couldn't bring myself to buy a video to watch with my kids with the goal being "sexiness," filled with testimonies of girls who finally felt "hot" in bikinis, with the never-ending rhetoric around looking like... well... the the people on the video.

I didn't want to send that message to my daughters. I didn't want to let them think that I was losing weight to look sexy, to look like somebody else's ideal. I didn't want them to think that there was a right way to look, and that was it.

Let's face it, they're my kids. They're going to have hips, and breasts, cuves everywhere. And if they're lucky and they've got some of Mike's shape to them as well, they'll also have AWESOME butts and maybe broad shoulders.

They certainly won't look like Jillian Michaels.

I wanted to lose some weight so I could feel good. So I could feel happy in my clothes, in my skin. So I could take a walk without feeling the telltale jiggle of having made three children in the lumps over my butt.

Gross, right? Exactly.

I wanted to feel good, and I know if I feel good about myself, I feel pretty much perfectly happy with the way I look. No matter what number is on the scale.

So, none of those "hot body" workout videos.

A few friends suggested specific dance workouts. Belly dancing, for example. I decided that we had to stick with something that my kids would recognize as dance- and keep in mind, they have learned from me that "dance" means "pseudo-rhythmic flailing, the occasionally hopping or kicking, and the intermittent jazz hands."

You know, this:



So no, it couldn't be African Dance for Beginners.

No, I needed a workout video that just kind of looked like dancing, with music that the kids could just distract themselves with and dance to without paying attention. Something with people who aren't all gussied up in greasepaint makeup and exposed, rock hard tummies. Something a little bit ridiculous.

And then... it hit me. Like a bolt of lightning. The perfect workout routine.

That's right... we're Sweatin' to the Oldies.

It took me ten seconds to find a GREAT deal on a box set of DVDs, and less than two days to have it in my hands. (Thanks, Amazon Prime!) But it took me more than a month of staring at it to put it on. Why?

Because it was utterly humiliating. I mean, Richard Simmons? REALLY? Could I look at myself in the mirror without shame? I mean, the man is the biggest running joke in... almost anything.

Really.

And then I told myself to suck it up and go sweat to some oldies with Richard Simmons, because if I just laughed through feeling ridiculous and dated and weird, then the kids would laugh too, and they would think that exercise was something fun and goofy that we all did together.

And really, that was the whole point.

And so, lovely readers, the kids and I have been doin' the pony with Richard Simmons for several weeks now.

And you know what?

It's kind of awesome.

First of all, the music is totally perfect. I mean, perfect.

Second of all, by the end of it the sweat is pouring off of me. Which feels pretty awesome.

I'm sore all the time. I also shower more regularly.

But the best part is, I have no choice but to keep going. Because now every morning begins with SI putting her nose in my face and saying, "Wake up, mommy! It's time for exercise!"

She doesn't care if I was up until after midnight watching roving hordes of Chicagoans take to the streets to celebrate winning the Stanley Cup.

She doesn't care if I was up until two in the morning reading all of "Bossypants" in one sitting and had idiotically started after she went to bed.

She doesn't care if I just ache all over and don't want to do it just this one morning please please please?

Photo from Nina Falcone

Best personal trainer ever. Instead of shouting at me that I'm fat and lazy and that I need to PUSH or
STRETCH or COMMIT- she just cries that she wants to do exercises with me. Please oh please oh please.

And so yeah, I drag myself out of bed, put on my HIGH IMPACT SPORTS BRA OF DOOM (of which there are now two), and do a million freakin' knee lifts.

And after about five minutes, the girls lose interest in exercising and instead sit on the couch, watch me, and quiz me on the weight lost by the rainbow of people, in an amazing variety of shapes and sizes, sweating along with Richard Simmons.

They squeal in delight whenever the fattest fat lady is standing next to him. "She has a plump tummy! She has a plump tummy!" they yell, and I say, "Yes! And she's exercising to be healthy!"

And they list all the people they know with plump tummies. The list always includes Poppa. "When we see Poppa in Greenbush, we will tell him he needs to exercise to make his tummy smaller!"

"Good idea! We can bring our movie, and you and me and Poppa can all exercise TOGETHER!"

"Yeah! And SI!" contributes DD.

"And SI," I huff through my unceasing kicks and the tune of "Mr. Personality."

Thanks, guy.

"And Grandmommy!" she adds again.

"Yeah," I wheeze out, remembering to breathe slowly despite my impulses to gasp for every particle of oxygen in the room, marveling at how hard it can be to balance on one foot with your arms straight out to the sides, despite being in motion.

DD always jumps in when it's "It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To." SI always does the cool down. We always smile and laugh and they constantly show me "new exercises" they've invented. Usually, it's some sort of bridge.

The hour that we're exercising together flies by. Every morning.

But the best part, the absolute icing on the cake, is this...

We've recently acquired a teenager. She's staying with us for a chunk of the summer, a friend of a friend of sorts.

Anyway, she's started joining me in Sweatin' to the Oldies.

And that kid? She can't keep up.

Every day I am outclassing a fifteen year old in my workout routine.

And that feels more amazing than looking at my reflection and not being grossed out by it.

Lunch: cherries, toast with goat cheese and a fried egg,
and cucumber/cantaloupe/parsley juice. That's better.

I also pulled my old juicer out, and began replacing meals (or those seven hour windows where I skipped meals) with fresh juice. My go-to breakfast these days is a beet, three carrots, and two grapefruit. In liquid form. I cut out most of the sugar, carbs, and cow-dairy in my diet. I switched to almond milk and goat cheese, and spent a few weeks taking pictures of every single thing I ate, that shamed me into making way better choices, and the habit of looking at something and thinking, "Do I REALLY want a picture of me eating this?" made a pretty big difference.

That said, I still took the kids out to Kilwin's for ice cream cones yesterday, and totally had a scoop of toasted coconut in a waffle cone. The whole point is to enjoy life, right?

In less than a month, I've lost about ten pounds, and I feel great. I'm trying to lose another twenty (I keep upping my goal) before I move forward on a breast reduction. I am definitely looking to go down to something in the first half of the alphabet in the cup size.

And the kids know it's not about how I look. To them, I'll always look the same. Like mommy.

It's about how I feel.

And I feel pretty damn great.

"Hey everybody! Come see how good I look!"

Rockin' The Bump (Again!)

Way back in the day, I linked up with Shell for Rockin' the Bump, where I showed off my killer twin bump.

Well, let's do a side by side comparison between my first bump and my second!

I ROCKED IT!!!!

BOTH TIMES!!!!


Don't act like you're not impressed. :)

6 weeks pregnant w/ DD and SI

6 weeks pregnant w/ RH

3 months with DD and SI

3 months with RH

5 months with DD and SI

5 months with RH

6 months with DD and SI

6 months with RH

28 weeks w/ DD and SI

28 week w/ RH

30 weeks w/ DD and SI

30 weeks w/ RH

32 weeks w/ DD and SI

32 weeks w/ RH (and for REAL anemic!)

34 weeks w/ DD and SI

34 weeks w/ RH

35 weeks w/ DD and SI

35 weeks w/ RH

40 weeks w/ DD and SI (and The General)

40 weeks w/ RH

42 weeks w/ DD and SI

42 weeks w/ RH

43+ weeks w/ DD and SI

43+ weeks w/ RH

Review: Prenatal Oxylent

As you probably remember, I suffered some really horrific PPD after RH came into the world.

I have all sorts of theories of how it got started. It could have been the full blown panic attack I had during the c-section. It could have been the insane difficulty of establishing nursing. It could have been that my recovery from that c-section was HORRIBLE in no uncertain terms. It could have been that I felt fat and awful about myself for so long after the delivery that I forgot how to not feel awful about myself. It could have been that M and I were fighting.

It could have been plain ol' hormones messing up my life.

Whatever it was, I got out of it. Thank God. But how?

Some months ago (I'm a terrible, terrible choice of spokesperson), I agreed to review a prenatal vitamin supplement. Oxylent.

And as I was doing the bare minimum to take care of myself, I didn't try it. And I didn't try it. And I didn't try it.

And then, Ani Difranco reminded me that I chose my life, and I should be happy with it, and try to just do myself a favor and chin up. (I'm paraphrasing, of course.)

So I started taking my vitamins.

And you know what? I started feeling a million times better.

Not only did I feel SO MUCH HEALTHIER with the energy that comes with healthy B vitamin absorption, not only did I feel SO MUCH HAPPIER without the constant minor health symptoms that come when you don't ingest any vitamin C or zinc, suddenly, I was a hell of a lot more hydrated.

You see, unlike most gross vitamin pills that I would never in a million years use regularly, Oxylent is is a powder that you mix into a glass of water.

You know, like Airborne or EmergenC. Only it's actually a multivitamin. A prenatal mutlivitamin, no less.

I had a hell of a time finding a prenatal multivitamin. In fact, I never did. I only used quadruple doses of gummy vitamins, because the fish oil made me so sick. But Oxylent doesn't have fish oil! And prenatal vitamins are still ideal to use when you're nursing.

And so, suddenly I was having a much better time. I was drinking at least two glasses of water a day, I was ingesting all these good vitamins, and I felt like a million bucks. Well, at least like a crisp new $20 bill.

Really, it helped me get my life back on track. I felt like a lump of a human being. A useless, hopeless, miserable lump. And with regular hydration and vitamins, I felt like a lumpy person, and then just pretty much like a person.

I'm not saying that vitamins can cure depression. But I am saying that physical health and mental health are related. If you're going to take care of your physical needs, your emotional needs will become less onerous. At least you're a healthy body containing them, right?

So I totally recommend Oxylent. It's surprisingly delicious, sugar free, and makes water easier to chug when you're chasing two preschoolers with an arm full of baby.

Prenatal Oxylent: it has the Becoming SuperMommy seal of approval.

Curtain Call

These are your options.

My pregnancy with DD and SI was no cakewalk.

There was the IVF, first of all, which sucks. Then there was the sub-chorionic hematoma, then there was the SPD, then there was the gall bladder disease, and then there was the cancer.  And then there was waking up in the middle of the night, soaked in blood, and rushing to the hospital for an emergency c-section.

And despite all that, I knew I wanted to have more kids.  I was optimistic that my next pregnancies would be easier. That not using IVF would improve things, that only gestating one baby at a time would improve things. That it would be a cakewalk.

Oh, how wrong I was. I didn't have to deal with fertility hormones, or with a sub-chorionic hematoma, but everything else was worse. Worse SPD, because I was aggravating it by chasing children. Worse gall bladder disease. Worse skin cancer.

And then there was feeling a pain in my stomach as I laid in bed in the middle of the night, and realizing that it wasn't "normal" contractions- that it was my uterus about to split open. And rushing to the hospital in the middle of the night, and another, worse emergency c-section.

And despite that, the first time I held RH in my arms, I knew that I wasn't done. I knew that I wanted to have more kids.

But M was doubtful. He was scared. He was scared of all the pain I had suffered, he was scared of the cancer. His fears were legitimate and reasonable. But I held out hope.

Until my OB sat down to give the news. Because of the condition of my uterus, if I ever got pregnant again, we would have to plan on scheduling a premature c-section. We couldn't risk my having even one real contraction- it might immediately rupture. We would plan on taking a baby out early- earlier than the twins.

When my OB left the room, M looked at me and said he thought he ought to get a vasectomy.

I dithered. I hemmed and hawed. I didn't want him to get a vasectomy. I wanted to have more babies.

But... I knew. I knew that we had to be done. Did I want to take those risks? Risk more diseased internal organs, more months of not being able to walk- this time while chasing three kids? Did I want to risk the health of that baby to bring it into the world early, in order to keep me from a potentially fatal complication?

Did I want to risk worse skin cancer?

We got so lucky last time. The mole was so visible right there on my collar bone. The intern was so enthusiastic and thorough. The mole had just become cancerous.

If we'd waited until after the pregnancy, I might still be having chemo right now. I still have half a dozen moles that are funny but without the pregnancy effects to my immune system, remaining somewhat stable.

Melanoma... it's so aggressive. It's a very, very scary cancer. Was it worth it to me to risk a near certainty that it would start growing again, that I might start the engine of my own death machine, to make another baby?

It should be a simple answer. There should be no question. There should be no hesitation.

I should have started singing a Vasectomy Song every day, dancing a Vasectomy Dance, and withholding sex until it was all said and done. Instead, I kept thinking... what if we didn't?

But finally, we had to talk about it. I had a brief pregnancy scare, and let me tell you- you do not know what the words "pregnancy scare" can mean until it involves going over your life insurance to make sure that if it killed you your husband would be able to afford the child care so that he could continue working after you died. Weeping to yourself that the baby at your breast might not have a single memory of you that could last before you passed away. That is a pregnancy scare.

And so, I scheduled the vasectomy.

I tried to be happy about it. No more fear, no more worries. No more birth control- BIG hooray to that. I told myself over and over what a good thing it was, and I wrote M a goofy card, and I stuck it in his Christmas stocking for him to open under the tree- with his family. Because that's hilarious.

And part of me was so relieved. And so happy.

And part of me... wasn't.  I kept fighting these crazy impulses. Insane urges. I kept hearing this little voice in the back of my head, saying, "You could just go off the birth control now... just let things take their course. You probably wouldn't get pregnant... probably... but it's your last chance... last chance... last chance..."

The night before the vasectomy, we talked about it again. We agreed, if it wasn't for the health risks, we wouldn't do it. We'd have more. We'd both be happy just making babies until we couldn't take it anymore. Our children are so good, and we love them so much, why wouldn't we keep a good thing going? But it just wasn't worth it anymore. It just wasn't worth the risks, if another pregnancy would let the cancer run wild in my body for most of a year. By the end of the pregnancy, it could be anywhere. And it could be too late.

One week ago today, my husband got a vasectomy. It didn't go exactly right. When you've got a few rearranged neurological pathways (thank you brain cancer!) sometimes local anesthesia doesn't work quite right.

My poor, poor husband had a pretty rough vasectomy.

But I took him home and I hugged my children and kissed them. And I cried.

My children have never been replaceable. There is only one SI in the world, only one DD, only one RH. There will never be another. But suddenly they seemed even more so. They are my children, and I will never make another.

These are all I get.

I am still certain I want to adopt. I want more kids. M wants more kids. I've always felt compelled to adopt. Honestly, even without the vasectomy, we probably would have tried to adopt before trying another pregnancy. Honestly, we'd agreed to stop producing babies on our own by the time I was thirty. It was our previous standing arrangement. We haven't really changed much of anything.

But it's still a sad sort of thing, for me. Because I know I would love any child entrusted to my care. And I love the ones I have so much, it feels almost as though all the children I ever wanted were just waiting in the wings, and now... I've ended the show, and they'll never take the stage.

This is the end of my baby making. It's over.  But hopefully, so is the story of my melanoma. But stopping now, what we're truly doing is giving ourselves more time.

This is the right thing for our family, and I'm happy about it. But I am also sad.

It's a bittersweet thing. And now, it's over.

Good News for People Who Love Good News

Hello lovely readers!

I wanted to share some good news, even if it's not my own good news.

Because this is the new millennium and all, my friends are bringing you this news in film and music.  Isn't technology great?




D has been amazing through this whole thing.  She kept a blog, chronicling their struggle to stay positive through infertility.  She decided to make the most of her opportunities without a baby- going through this process, she has played paintball, eaten all sorts of strange foods, toured wineries... all sorts of things that are unsafe or impossible when pregnant or with a newborn.

It's been inspiring.  And occasionally heartbreaking.

And now C and D are preparing to welcome a new baby into their family this winter.

C and D at the races, back before their baby story began

I am so, so happy for them.  And I just want to share their happiness with the rest of the world.

-L

Nope- still pregnant

We've been busy.

...is what I'm considering changing my voicemail message to.

I know I didn't post today.  We didn't do anything exciting.  I spent a lot of time laying down and being miserable.

Baby X is posterior, past due, and probably a giant of a baby.

...this means that whenever she kicks, on top of my stomach looking as though an alien is about to burst through, I suddenly have a terrible flu.

Fluid rushes behind my eyes, my ears, and my throat, and I lose my voice.

That, and the pain is excruciating.

So... still pregnant.  Sorry.

Here's a quick visual recap of what we've been doing since the week before this baby has been totally ready to evacuate my uterus:

I graduated from college

We went to the Children's Museum on Navy Pier

We went for a cruise down the Chicago River

M graduated with his Master's

I had a baby shower

We went to a baseball game

We visited with Great-Grandmommy and Great-Granddaddy

We saw Jonathan Richman at Millennium Park

We went to the Chicago Botanic Gardens

We went to the Museum of Science and Industry

We went to Margie's Candies

We went bowling

We went to the beach

We went to the bumpy slide

We went to Indian Boundary Park

I achieved approximately the size and shape of a bloated, dead Beluga whale

Have a happy Father's Day weekend, lovely readers!

Hopefully by Monday morning, Baby X will be here and I can quit complaining.  :)