Let them eat crap

I've been thinking a lot about motherhood lately, especially how we all have personal reasons for choosing to do this, that, and the other things. And how, like climate change, it can transform wildly. Cause when I became a new mother, I had many grand ideas of how I wanted to be. This planning, of course, started when I was pregnant. I only wanted my baby to have the most natural of surroundings. So first, the nursery was set up with non-toxic products, paints, toys, and furniture. Then, I explored cloth diapers (I'm not that hardcore!), no plastic toys, and all his clothes were natural fabrics. This might have also been heavily influenced because I only craved healthy green foods while pregnant with my son. I was waiting for the pickle and ice cream thing to come, but it never did. Instead, my cravings came in the form of avocados with lime and jalapeños or toasted dark rye German bread, whole grain mustard, sharp cheddar cheese, and sauerkraut (I ate it every morning - delicious!). I also planned to have a natural birth (no drugs!) Blah blah blah blah blah.

All was going as planned until mid-way through my pregnancy when I found out my son was in the breech position (head-down, butt up). He remained in the frank breech position for months, and I did everything, everything to try to change him. I went to acupuncture, stood on my head, my husband burned some Chinese herbs on my toes, found one of the few remaining OBs who performed breech births, and had an MRI at 20 weeks to prove that my hips were wide enough to pop a breech baby out of my cha chi (they are!). But, in the end, when I finally went into labor, he busted a move into a different position which changed it all - he became a footling breech (toes down, head up). Therefore, all I was attempting to control had to be thrown out the window, and I had to embrace my fate - a c-section. I lay on the cold gurney in the OR, uncontrollably shaking from the spinal drug, completely disconnected from my body and listening to all the doctors around me talking about their freaking vacations. It was, to say the least, not my plan. But my baby and I didn't have any compilations, and I was most grateful he was out, and it was over.

For the first few years of my son's life, we lived in a little bubble of that world I wanted to create. Side note: the few plastic toys I received from seasoned mothers had become my son's favorite ones (of course). I stayed home, breastfed, made homemade organic baby food (he happily and willingly ate), and went to a Waldorf-inspired playgroup (hippies!). Then, I got pregnant with my daughter, and things shifted. One glaring difference was that I was even more exhausted since I was chasing a toddler, but also, the only foods I wanted to eat were heavy cream, pork, butter, and beer. Not a green vegetable in sight with her. She also remained in the "correct" head-down position, so I was determined to have a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). Everything went pretty smoothly until the last few weeks before her due date when I fell down a few old wooden stairs while we were at a nursery shopping for house plants. I lost my balance and seemingly twisted to the ground in slow motion, smacking on the hard concrete below - protecting my massive belly by bracing with my hands and knees. My husband and son ran to my aid, helping me up. And though I felt fine other than I couldn't put any pressure on my ankle - they took me to the hospital to ensure the baby was fine too.

The nurses immediately hooked me up to machines, and lo and behold, I had to stay overnight as one of the tests returned questionably. It was a sleepless night, no doubt, not to mention my ankle was swollen and getting increasingly painful by the minute. I also found it strange that no one cared about my ankle - it was about the baby in utero, not the mother (much like the overturn of Roe). I had to beg one of the nurses to "at least raise my ankle to reduce swelling" - the nurse suggested I should get an x-ray on the ankle in the morning. I wondered if that was a good thing to do while pregnant (?!) She replied with, "it should be fine," which is not a reassuring answer (the cunt). In the morning, they confirmed all was well with the baby, and I could go home after the x-ray.

Then, this stunning Native American man (the x-ray technician) wheels a large x-ray machine into my room and starts to ask me a few standard questions. In the process of his questions, he realized that I was pregnant and stared at my belly. As he spoke, I noticed his shirt was unbuttoned, and a large tattoo of a Native American Chief stared at me on his chest. Like a severe stare, as if he was attempting to tell me something (yes, I am a new age bitch). I asked the technician if he thought getting an x-ray during pregnancy was safe. He immediately said, "Your baby is reminding you to rest. Rest. If your ankle still hurts after she is out, get an x-ray. But I think you are fine now to not." Side note: My ankle healed and I never ended up getting an x-ray.

So, when I went into labor weeks later, I wore my hiking boots (the only comfortable shoes) and used a walking stick that my birth doula had from some shaman. Then, during the 11th hour of labor, with the help of a pump and the strength of the visiting nurse from Africa next to me chanting in her native tongue - I was able to successfully pop out my plump, almost 8-pound girl (no drugs!). Everything seemed good until I started bleeding profusely, and my OB didn't know where it was coming from. So she checked all the usual culprits (my uterus had contracted). It turned out I had popped the central vein in my cha chi which meant that I needed to get wheeled into the OR so they could put me under, find the bloody source and stitch me up.

There I was, laying on my back in the OR (again!). But, this time, I was in my hiking boots, holding a walking stick, and delirious from exhaustion. The anesthesiologist hovered over me and said he would "give me a spinal so I don't feel anything" (the same drug I got for my cesarean). I looked up at him, deadlocked his eyes with all the strength I could muster, and said, "I had just had a successful VBAC with no drugs, so no way is that going to happen. I would like some propofol (Michael Jackson sleep drug) so I'll have a nap; the doctor can sow me up, then I'll wake up and feel my body". He stared at me in awe and looked at my OB; she agreed, and then he did just that. So, you see, in the end, everything went as planned. HA.

Look, I didn't intend to write about my birth stories. I was "planning" on writing about how controlling I was as a young mother. And how the “organic way” became an unrealistic pill to swallow. But, in reflection, I guess it all starts with the lessons we mothers learn at our children's birth - we have no control over how it's all gonna go down, and all we can do is do the best we can. How we must always go with the flow and embrace the fact that the babies we raise will very quickly become independent individuals with tastes and desires of their own. How these little people become older and get influenced by YouTube, friends, social media, and ads for fast food!

But, most importantly, how it's easier to stop arguing and just make them some damn frozen nuggets and boxed mac and cheese. Cause (for the most part) they don't want to eat the homemade organic meals you made for them anymore. The guilt keeps building within, but we carry on, and all we really want to do is sit down at the dinner table and eat the homemade organic meal we made while it's still hot. So, I say this, LET THEM EAT CRAP!