Bringing Baby Home

Once upon a time a beautiful little boy was born. It was July 4th, 2014 at 3:03pm. He was 7lbs and 6oz, 20 inches long, with the darkest eyes and fairest hair. He was named Boden Kenneth Lloyd Lindley, and he was loved intensely, immediately.

A birth story is typically just that, a mom writing about the actual birth of her baby, allowing those interested a peek inside an experience that is vastly different for every woman. But our story starts a few days before Boden, and didn't end after the cord was cut (quite perfectly by his proud daddy, I might add). 

On July 1st I had a nap. Since school was out for the summer, I'd been off work for 4 days, and those days had been full of naps! Just normal naps! But after this nap, I woke up in a lot of pain. My hips had been sore for almost 6 weeks, especially after laying or sitting still for longer periods of time, but the pain often settled after moving around and relaxing. This time however, the pain stuck with me. But, it was Canada Day and my husband and I had plans to go eat ice cream and watch the fireworks with my dad, so I sucked it up. Plus, hip pain is a normal occurrence during pregnancy, and that's what I kept telling myself! 

I needed help getting up the stairs (we reside in my dad's basement apartment) and into the car without crying, and our walk to and from the Dairy Queen was very slow, but the fireworks were loud and magical. We got home in no time, and went right to sleep. 

At some point in the middle of the night I woke up having to pee. Naturally I went to sit up and get out of bed, and that is when it all started. That moment is when our story really began. I went to sit up and get out of bed, and I couldn't. Even 3 weeks later, that pain is still a very vivid memory. My legs were completely locked together, and all we could do was call a ambulance. Well, first we called triage at the hospital, because I still thought I may just have been being a big baby, but when you're 39 weeks pregnant and anything feels wrong they tell you to call an ambulance. And that's when I wished that I'd gone to bed with pants on!

My husband opened the front door, and woke my dad up, and led the paramedics down to our bed, then followed us to the hospital. (Side note: we are still waiting on that ambulance bill..) It turns out, my hips were dislocated, and then became locked together because of the pressure from laying on my side in bed. There isn't anything that can be done about it, except for pain killers. Pain killers that get shot into your butt muscle while you're crying and panicking like a crazy person! And then the nurses tell you to get some rest, which in all honesty is just ridiculous, because falling asleep in a hospital, especially in labor triage where the woman next to you is 'breathing' through contractions, is impossible for most people, let alone someone with anxiety issues. 

We spent the night at the hospital, monitoring the baby's heart beat, as well as early contractions. After one last shot, this time in my hip (I still have the bruises), we left the hospital and went right to our OB's because we'd actually had my 39 week check up already scheduled for 9am. 

I needed help getting onto the examination table, and my anxiety was fairly obvious. Right away Dr. Ben told us that I could be induced the next day, and I got scared. I was still a week early, and suddenly very nervous about the labor and delivery pain that I'd avoided thinking about for the last 39 weeks, so he gave us the day to think about it. By the time we got home I realized that I wouldn't survive the pain I was already feeling, for what could be another week before labor naturally started, so we called his office and everything was scheduled. I think the deal-sealer was that fact that he would be on call the day I'd deliver, and having him help our baby out into the world actually meant a lot to me. This was the doctor that saved my life by diagnosing my Endometriosis, and had been my surgeon for the last few years, so being able to share such a happy experience with him for a change was a big deal. 

I spent the afternoon with a giant chai latte frappuccino, and a pile of pillows next to me on the couch, attempting to sleep sitting up/leaning over as I was unable to get my legs off the ground, let alone into bed. I did in fact get some much needed sleep, while the pain killers still had me feeling loopy enough to relax. 

But pain killers wear off, and hips fall a part again! So in the middle of the night (technically Thursday, July 3rd) we went back to labor triage, because the pain was even worse. I white-knuckled the bed handles while my husband and a nurse rolled and held me on my side, bawling, so another nurse could give me shots of a different pain killer (much preferred, same relief but less of the loopy high feeling that made me anxious). Baby's heart beat and my contractions were monitored for 2 hours, and I was sent home again, knowing that at 8pm I'd be coming back in to be induced. 

I didn't make it until 8pm. I didn't sleep all day, the pain was completely nauseating so I couldn't eat, and while I wasn't having real contractions, the pain in my hips was now shooting up my spine and down my legs. It was closer to 6pm that we were back in triage for one last round of pain killers, while we waited to be induced. My husband brought me fountain pop (my biggest/worst craving of the whole 39 weeks!) and we watched silly videos on our phones until about 9pm when they inserted a cervix-softening gel to get the party started. And then it was suddenly feeling very real. This was it, it was going to happen. It had to happen in the next 24 hours, or else I'd go in for a C section. We were going to be having our baby in the next 24 hours. 

Naturally, I panicked. And that's when we first experienced how wonderful the hospitals, and nurses' hospitality was. The normal protocol calls for the cervical gel and the patient go home for 12 hours, then if labor hasn't started, another type of induction method is used. With the pain, and now my anxiety ramping up, I swore that if I went home, I wouldn't be able to make it back. I pictured the contractions starting, on top of the anxiety, on top of the hip pain, and either having to be dragged out of my house by paramedics, or having the baby on my bathroom floor where I've always taken refuge during my most anxious moments. Alas! My mom came up to visit around 10pm, and she helped us move right into our lovely private room as I was admitted! Luckily we had packed the car with our suitcase and diaper bags and grocery bag full of snacks (mostly juice boxes and gold fishes). I was helped in and out of the bed when I had to pee, and I was very thankful for the pullout couch right in the room, so my husband didn't have to pull chairs together to sleep again, like in triage. Phewf! 

And that's where things start to get blurry for me. It has taken me so long to type this story because I have a new born to care for, and also because I remember so little of it. So little of the exciting part, anyways. A mixture of adrenalin, anxiety, and eventually the pain meds, and it's like I was black out drunk! Huge chunks are missing from me that day, which has actually been extremely heart breaking to come to terms with. A lot of what comes next in the story is thanks to play-by-plays that I've been lucky enough to get back from my husband, my dad, my sister and my mom. 

My husband found me peanut butter and crackers in the little family kitchen on the floor, and we watched Transcendence, with Jonny Depp, on his lap top. We text my dad lots to keep him posted, and I messaged my siblings, and my best friends. Brief messages, is all my brain could handle! Turns out, labor is the only thing that can keep me off Facebook and Instagram, lol. 

My husband fell asleep missing the end of the movie, and I became obsessed with my contraction-tracking app. I remember hitting that start and stop timer button over and over, flipping to the charts to see how much closer/longer they were getting. I remember the moment where I thought 'why the fuck do I keep hitting this button, I am definitely in labor!'

Around 1am there was a distinct new pain in my lower abdomen, like horrible period cramps (which was a walk down memory lane, since I'd hardly had a period in the last few years), and by 4am I KNEW it was active labor pains. I remember being so sure that the entire hospital could hear my screams and cries, and being respectfully embarrassed with every coming contraction, bent over the TV tray thing that held the lap top over my bed. By then I'd been trying to get through an episode of Greys Anatomy, and was trying my hardest to cry silently through these new pains for as long as possible, letting my husband stay asleep as long as possible. I'm not sure if I called for him to wake up, or if my yelling did it. 

I definitely reached that terrified moment, which I can only assume most moms do, questioning all of a sudden if its actually possible for ME to push a baby out. I remember saying that I couldn't do it, and that I didn't want to do it anymore. I changed my mind, let's just keep him in there forever! My husband reminded me that I started telling him I wanted a C section, because I couldn't handle the contraction pain let alone delivery pain. (I have of course since learned that a C section is no easier, for different reasons) 

One of the last vivid memories I have, is of my husband holding onto me, rubbing my legs, and crying with me. Sure, I'm the one with a watermelon trying to work it's way out of my body... but seeing the person you love most hurting so badly, and not being able to fix it, that's a pain only the daddies-to-be experience. I remember feeling the most in love with him, inside that moment. Two people who have created and carried a life for so many months, crying together as they prepare to make it all real. Preparing to start an entirely new chapter in life. I remember feeling the most in love. And I remember half a pink Popsicle... 

Looking back at my notes (I tried to type things out as we went, or would order my husband to jot down a time or event), I'm shocked to see that I made it 5 hours before demanding/accepting the epidural. Around 9am I still hadn't dilated at all, which was extremely discouraging and confusing, so it was needle time. And believe it or not, I have no recollection of the actual needle part! The part I'd been dreading since the day I found out I was pregnant! Actually, the line attached to the needle is taped all up your back, and having that removed afterwards was more traumatizing then having the needle inserted! While unpacking after getting home, I did find a comical reminder of how frantic things were at that time though..my black sports bra was at the bottom of my suitcase, cut in half! Seeing that I remember the nurses saying you can't wear a bra with an epidural, and being in too much pain to think of anything but, 'just cut it off!!' My husband told me that the nurses looked at him for permission to actually cut it off, and I assured them'it is too big anyways!' And that was that, the big scary needle was in, and the pain was gone. Ta da! 

I mean it when I say the pain was gone. It was only a few minutes until I honestly felt nothing! The pitocin drip was started around 10am to increase contractions. Not long after I was finally 4cm dilated, and as far as I know we just chilled. With lots of cold wash cloths laying all over my body, because there was no pain but plenty of heat! Again they tell you to get some sleep, because pain or no pain you're about to exert every drop of energy in your body once pushing starts, but the epidural didn't come with an Ativan, so my anxiety stayed awake. My husband got to sleep when my dad arrived, and I just laid and rested and waited. 

At 12:30pm I'd reached 9cm, and my dad had to call my husband, who'd gone to get himself some lunch near by, and tell him to get back quick! He said he ran back to the hospital completely panicked, because naturally you assume it can't take long to progress only 1cm more, but that there was still a good chunk of time before anyone announced I was the full 10cm. I don't even remember him having left, lol. 

I started pushing just with the nurses for a while, they got the bed all tricked out, the mats on the floor, and the room all ready. Its fascinating to look at the few pictures we got, and see ways the body accommodates what's going on.. I've been able to do the splits since I was in Kindergym, but my knees were behind my ears in that delivery room! Because I couldn't feel anything, I simply trusted the nurses and pushed when they said a contraction was coming, 3 big breathless pushes at a time, then a little break. And then Dr. Ben was called in once we were really ready. 

My dad remembers how cool, and calm the doctor was, which is impressive to us because we forget they've done this 1000 times. My dad stayed to my left, just behind my husband who was holding my leg. Not too long later, as things looked more and more promising, through the brilliance of technology my little sister joined us in the room too! My dad had her on FaceTime, on his phone and able to see it all happen from her home on the other side of the world. 

I remember Dr. Ben saying that he was going to preform an episiotomy (where they widen the hole by cutting it..stupid tiny vaginas!) and me freaking out, and crying about it. When I pushed, the baby's head would move down instead of out, so he needed a little extra space. Next I freaked out and cried some more when he said the word 'forceps'. I'm sure I made terrible jokes about him decapitating my baby. I was assured by everyone who was watching that the forceps barely touched his (perfectly round!) head, and just helped him slide right out. 

I don't remember the last big push, but do I remember the room filling with excitement and noise and cheering, and this one little cry as Boden was lifted onto my tummy. My sister said that Dr. Ben announced how handsome he was, just like his Grandpa, and that he couldn't wait for us to have another one! I remember grabbing desperately for him, trying to feel him, because without my glasses on I couldn't see him. I remember my husband cutting the umbilical cord which was WAY bigger then I'd imagined. And then I remember he was gone. 

The top of my tummy was cold again, as the nurses took him to the corner of the room, all flustered. Dr. Ben kept me distracted, talking the whole time while patiently stitching me back up. He told me how wonderful I'd done, and not to listen to what the nurses were saying, because everything was just fine. I told him I needed to hold the baby before they took him away (because I knew they were going to take him away), and I do remember him calling over to one nurse to 'let the mommy hold him before you go', but they didn't. After reassuring my husband that I'd be ok, he and my dad followed the nurses to the NICU (but we'll call it the nursery, because that sounds far less scary), then my mom came into my room, and shock set in. Actual shock, after the adrenalin dropped and the room went quiet, I felt my brain break down. There was sweating, and chills, and so much shaking. I remember my entire body aching, because of the shaking. There was a very pushy nurse left in the room with my mom and I, who freaked out a little ordering antibiotics and Tylenol because all of a sudden I had a fever...and a fever in mom means something would have been passed onto baby...and I kept trying to tell her that this was just a panic attack. I sweat and I shake, and I can't breathe when I'm having a panic attack, I kept telling her I wasn't sick! For the record, my blood work came back negative for any kind of infection. She made my mom leave the room even though I asked her not to (you took my baby away, and now you're going to take my mom away too?!) thinking that would help, and then she held my face yelling at me until the shaking stopped. I went to sleep. 

While I was sleeping, he was fighting. He was fighting, and his daddy was taking care of him. Two brave princes.

When Boden was on his way into the world, he took a few gulps of fluid into his lungs. The nurses also quickly noticed that his tummy was descended, and his ribcage was a little uneven. All of these things added up to our baby not being able to breathe well enough on his own. He also had extremely low blood sugars, which had to be tested and monitored constantly. The pediatrician was worried about an infection (because of my stupid panic attack fever), and lots of blood work and chest X-rays were ordered. My husband said that he spent time on a fancy bed that moved up and down, to help him breathe, and because of the pictures he took I know that he spent time with a huge oxygen mask on, and tubes down his throat. I remember crying when my dad came back to show me the picture he'd just taken, of my little baby, oxygen mask and all, sleeping calmly on his daddy's bare chest. Knowing they were skin to skin was such a huge relief to me, having imagined him being stuck in a box with no contact or comfort. 

Once I was awake, and ok enough my husband wheeled me to our new room, which was nice and close to the nursery. We settled in with all of our things, and then he wheeled me down the hall to meet our son. All of the nurses said congratulations as I came through the room, past all the other teeny sick babies, and they commented on how beautiful he was. We parked by his little box, I stood up with my eyes closed, taking a huge breath, and then let my eyes land on him. And he was. He was so beautiful. All mothers will always say that about their child, but I've been around babies in my work life for years, and I know that sometimes children have to grow into their looks! But Boden was just gorgeous, immediately. I still ask him, 'who made you so pretty?' Because really, how does something that wonderful grow inside a deep, dark tummy? Magic. 

There were still wires and tubes, and the IVs in his tiny foot made me so sad, but he was breathing on his own, and settled all warm and quiet. At this point all I was allowed do was reach my hand through the little plastic door and pet his hand with my finger, but his hands are still my favorite part of him, and maybe that's why. I just stared, and smiled. Not much needed to be said. One of the nurses went over all the medical things with me and I tried my best to listen, but his perfect nose and perfect pout and perfect ears and perfect belly were far too distracting. 

Later that night we wheeled back to the nursery, after attempting to eat my dinner, and I got to change his teeny bum for the first time! A dirty diaper has never made me so happy, the first excuse to really touch him. And then it was my turn to feed him. He got formula that they provided, wanting to be able to measure his intake easily, as his sugars were still low. I honestly couldn't have cared less about breast feeding in that moment though, he was in my arms and I would have given him a bottle of diet coke if that's what they'd asked me to do! He smelt even better then they say new babies smell...where does that smell come from?! It really is the most comforting, intoxicating scent. He was warm and weightless, and I never wanted to let go, but my body and my brain were still in recovery mode, and he needed to be hooked back up (we'd unplug the monitors etc every time we took him out to hold him), so we kissed and let him go back to sleep. 

That was the first night I slept, completely uncomfortably of course, but I slept. On top of the labor exhaustion, that mean nurse had also come to our room and told me that if I didn't take a walk around the floor I'd get a blood clot that would go to my heart and kill me, and I'd be responsible for leaving my husband alone with a baby. She actually said that. Who says that?! It's not like I haven't already cried my face off enough? But I obliged, and we walked until she realized I'd left a trail of blood behind me, because I still had my catheter in, and it was letting all the afterbirth blood leak down my legs. More crying. Lol

The next morning the nursery nurses called us down, and I tried my hand at breast feeding. And it was neat! That's all I can really say about the process. It is certainly fascinating, the body providing for the life it just finished growing. It was definitely wonderful getting to be that close to our baby, sharing body heat and nutrients. Very neat. (I will say now that in the end, we decided that pumping to feed was the best choice for us). 

The rest of the day was spent watching Greys on the computer, trying to eat, struggling desperately to get in and out of bed, and peeing on a schedule since my catheter had finally come out (which wasn't as terrifying as I'd imagined, by the way). I took Tylenol and Advil on a schedule as well, to deal with the SLOWLY dissipating hip pain, and the nauseating pain that accompanies an episiotomy. I tried napping, and was happy for the few visitors we got. Then every 3 hours we'd make our way to the nursery to change and feed our little man, each time eagerly checking what his sugar drip was at. The lower it was, the better his natural blood sugar reading was, the closer we were to getting him the heck out of there. 

Our Sunday was very similar, though I got outside for a little walk with my mom and my husband, which was helpful. I'd basically been living in the hospital for 5 days, and was going a little nuts. The hospital is one of the safest places to be when you're not feeling well, but an anxiety disorder does not understand that. My body was aching for my own clothes, our big clean shower (the shower I had at the hospital was rejuvenating, but the actual stall was dark and gross). I craved being in my own bed with my husband, and especially just having actual alone time as a family. I just wanted to be a family.

At 11pm, my husband set up the most wonderful surprise for me, and my craving was answered. He'd told me that while he was out in the hall fetching more ginger ale (it's likely I polished off 10L while staying there) a nurse let him know shed be in to check my vitals and such (there's no feeling like having your hard, shrinking uterus poked and squished every few hours), so I put my gown back on and my pump away, when there was a knock at our door. I heard the nurse coming in, but instead of pushing the blood pressure machine in front of her, she was pushing a little bed! Boden's blood sugar was where it needed to be, and his breathing was healthy, so they unhooked him and, finally, gave him to us! He was all ours, and seeing him without all the tubes and wires was absolutely breathtaking. 

That was a long night, as the NICU nurses still came in to double check his blood sugar levels (I cried with every heel prick) and vitals, then we'd change and feed him and try to sleep in between. By 7am the next day I was overly ready to go home, almost angry. It was wonderful having so much help for the first few days, we really were eased into the whole parenting thing. There were people caring for our baby, people caring for us, my meals were all prepared for me, and our loved ones came to us. But it'd been long enough. 

Around 9am the pediatric surgeon came in and let us know that all his lab results were good, and his X-rays were clear, and we would be discharged soon! Then, while I literally sobbed hysterically, she fixed his little tongue tie (which had been keeping him from feeding efficiently. The procedure took all of 90 seconds, and he was far braver then I was. 

We all tried for some more rest on and off, and I enjoyed my last tray of hospital food as we got our things together, and took lots of pictures. At 7:00pm we were officially discharged and my dad came to help us move back home! We got him dressed for the first time, and buckled him into his car seat for the first time. The drive home was quick and quiet, and we laid him right in his crib. And then we kissed. A lot. And shared a really good cry. Because we were a family, and we were finally home. 

                                                                 

                                                                     

                                                                   

                                                                     

                                                                       

                                                               

                                                                             

                                                                     

                                                           

                                                                   

                                                                 

#littlelindley lessons

This week we are so thankful, and lucky, and bowing down to the magic as we celebrate the little boy in my tummy being FULL-TERM! For 39 weeks he has grown, and danced, made be barf far too much, and caused my body and brain to fall completely apart. For 39 weeks I have grown, and we have all felt him swim around, without any complications. 39 weeks sounds (and definitely feels) like an eternity, and while it hasn't always been comfy, this adventure has taught me so much about life, and love, the world around us, and about myself. 

A lesson I learned possibly a little too late, is to accept that I am pregnant and don't HAVE to keep acting like I can do everything all on my own! No matter how hard pregnancy is, I think it's a natural reaction for a woman to say, 'oh no, don't be silly, I don't NEED that chair that you are offering to my currently giant and exhausted body!' Lol. It is very important to not only accept help with great thanks, but to ask for it when you need it. Whether its help getting bags of groceries to your car, or asking your husband to bring you a Kleenex at 5am, because getting out of bed to relieve your allergic stuffy nose is far too painful.
I have learned that a support system is key during the '9' months of pregnancy, and I don't just mean from your excited family and friends. If getting pregnant in the first place wasn't lucky enough, I also found myself quickly invited into a spectacular club of new friends (there's 20 of us now!), all due within a few weeks of each other over the summer/fall months. There are in fact many 'mommy groups' on Facebook, but being so close, timeline-wise to these women is what has made this particular group so special, and this pregnancy so much easier. Being able to share worries, and questions, and crazy cravings, and advice, and resources with ladies who know exactly what I'm going through, has left far less room for my anxiety to kick in. 

I feel extra lucky, because I'm in the middle of the bunch! Almost half have had their teeny babes already, and being able to hear their stories, and get their advice definitely makes my last days of waiting more relaxed. And soon enough I'll be able to feel useful, and chime in when the later few moms are in the home stretch with a million questions.
It's also all typed and shared without judgement. That's likely the best part. No question is too dumb, no worry is too ridiculous, and no complaint ever leads to a 'suck it up'. Because I've also learned over the past few months that being pregnant comes with so much judgement. 

The first time I walked into a sushi restaurant with an obvious bump, is the first time I really felt those 'what a terrible mother' vibes. Little did any of those lovely strangers know, I didn't eat actual (raw fish) sushi even before I was pregnant. And just last week while picking up a coffee for a friend, a nearby mother had the nerve to tell me that drinking coffee isn't healthy for a pregnant woman. I could have pointed out that the drink was for a friend, and that even before pregnancy I was never a coffee drinker. Instead I politely pointed out that smoking in front of her young child ALSO wasn't very healthy. 

Pregnant women are judged when they walk into a bar for their husband's Birthday party, when they eat Subway for dinner, when they crave something as unhealthy as McDonalds, when they choose naps over going out with friends, when they continue to take (though a lower dose) their anti-anxiety meds while with child, and when they take Gravol on top of the prescription morning sickness drug, because its just not working well enough. Pregnant women are judged when they wear tight or tummy-baring clothes, and also when they wear nothing but baggy sweatpants for a month straight. Pregnant women are judged when they choose to take some time off work because the throwing up is too exhausting, when they gain too much or too little weight, and when their farts are naturally way too smelly! Don't even get me started on the judgement and shame and flat out insults that get thrown around when someone you don't even know decides its time to throw words like 'circumcision' or 'vaccinations' into the conversation. 

The 40ish weeks of judgement however, only helps prepare a woman for the 40 YEARS of judgment that is sure to kick in as soon as she pushes her baby out into the world. Soon I'll be bump-less and be able to walk into any restaurant or any bar freely, but I'll be dealing with fellow grocery-shoppers who feel the need to comment on my crying baby, or the people who think you're an animal for taking a baby outside of your safe and secure home at all, before he's at least 6 months old! Ive spent these last months preparing myself to undoubtedly be told that the diapers I'm using are filling our landfills and killing our planet, and that it's wrong to bottle feed every once and a while, because anything but breast milk is basically poison. Surely a lesson in growing a thicker skin, and biting my tongue in public will come soon enough...

The lesson I had the hardest time accepting? Vanity = insanity. Worrying about your size, and stretch marks, and your complexion, and what your toots smell like will literally make you insane. 

I spent far too much time squeezing my tummy/bladder into normal leggings, because I didn't want to buy bigger sizes, or 'have' to spend money on actual maternity wear, which at the time feels like admitting defeat. And underwear! Nothing is more comfortable that undies that fit loosely and smoothly, but it took me too long to buy a size Large, after years of Smalls and Extra Smalls. Since getting sick with Endometriosis, I've spent years losing weight, so gaining weight was a big deal for me, no matter how wonderful of an excuse I've had. It's a very different feeling! I got to a point where I was TOO skinny, but I got very used to that, and gaining weight took much longer to get used to. Even now, 38 weeks later I jokingly cringe when the OB says its time to get on the scale, already knowing that I've always been in the 'average' weight-gain spectrum for my natural size. But maybe that's just a female thing, unfortunately. 

Stretch marks have been another crazy-maker for me. And I can only assume for most women...just because they're basically inevitable. I started with the extra moisturizing/oil rubbing routine as soon as I peed on the positive stick, proud I was so on top of things! And for months I smiled thinking I was one of the lucky ones, because my tummy stayed smooth and blemish-free (minus all the veins, lol it's insane how obvious the veins on my tummy and my boobs have become!). It was only a few weeks ago that I finally noticed the first red line, under my belly button (hiding!). I started to moisturize like, 4 times a day after that, but low and behold, a few more stretch mark friends have joined that first one now. Seemingly overnight! And I cried. More then once actually, especially knowing that there can be little secret ones that don't show up until after baby is out. 

But that's life! That's being pregnant! It's genes (and some people do in fact have magical no-stretch-mark-genes. Assholes.), and it's having a small tummy naturally that then needs to stretch extra. I don't think I'll ever be one of those 'I love my stretch marks, I'm a warrior that's earned her stripes!' moms, but I have learned that there's really no point in spending any energy being upset over such things. Every time I look in the mirror, and think 'UGH!', I just have to remind myself that (very) soon there will be a baby in this picture with me, a baby we are SO lucky to have, and everything else has been a small price to pay. 

I think the very greatest lesson I've learned, is to never again doubt myself. I was FULL of doubt in the beginning! I never doubted how badly I wanted a baby, and wanted a family with my husband, but I completely doubted my ability to survive the pregnancy part of it.
Nausea used to kill me even before I ever imagined being a mom..how the heck was I going to survive morning sickness (never mind for 6 months)? A gurggly 'possibly diarrhea, better find the closest bathroom' tummy used to crank my anxiety into high gear..how was I going to survive a BABY in my 'tummy', kicking and swimming and stretching constantly? A baby with legs and fingers and eyeballs, INSIDE OF ME?! The baby isn't even born, and I've already spent so much time worrying that I was going to fail this ultimate physical and mental test. 

But here I am! Here we are...basically at the finish line, because the next few days are just a bonus! There have been MANY anxious moments. There have been many moments anxious enough, to be angry that you can't take Ativan while pregnant. I'm also still on edge about what has to be an inevitable panic attack that will kick in once labor actually starts. But! I have already survived so many weeks of growing, and carrying an actual baby! He can come at any time now, healthy and happy. And I got him here. And if I can do this, have survived this, there is nothing else out there worth doubting myself over. (Unless you were to ask me to eat a tarantula. I may still doubt my ability to do that.)

I can say with quite a bit of confidence that I will still never carry another baby/endure a second pregnancy, but I have learned enough to know that doesn't make me any less of a woman. Not wanting to, or being able to do it again doesn't make this victory, and this adventure any less meaningful, or any less to celebrate. I have still done THIS, and will never consider it to be any less then impressive. And my last minutes of pregnancy tick by, regardless of how uncomfy these 39 weeks have been, regardless of how tough some of the lessons have been to learn, I will never consider this experience, and all the people involved, as anything less then magic. 

Ps. The pressure is on. There is an endless number of life lessons that I will have to teach him, in order to repay him for all he's taught me, even before he was born! 

Princess Portraits

I am very much one of those people who don't like pictures of themselves being posted, unless I personally find them attractive. And while my standards for 'attractive' have lowered since getting pregnant (I shower as little as possible, never wear my hair down, and I haven't put my contacts in since 2013), a 'selfie' usually requires taking 3 or 4 pics to choose from, or I pose with my 'good side'. 

Tonight was different. 

I was in a slight stage of undress, preparing to shower (for the first time since Monday, of course), and I caught a glimpse of myself in our fairly water-spotted mirror. And I was in awe. Not the cocky kind of awe. A completely natural, a little in shock, wow kind of awe. 

In the beginning stages of pregnancy, I was miserable. I make no effort to deny that, nor should I be made to feel as if I should! I was nauseous and puking all over the place, and I was just fat. Well, that's how it felt anyways. It took a while because of the morning sickness, but when I started to gain weight it seemed to come in the form of chub, and not a bump. Many people claim that a woman is most beautiful when pregnant, and I do find pregnant women completely beautiful...but not in the beginning. The weight starts off spread all over the place, and you're feeling huge and pregnant, but any stranger would assume you we're just a little thicker, not pregnant. No one thinks you're pregnant without a big bump! And that made me miserable. Things stopped fitting, but for no OBVIOUS reason. Before I was a good 16 weeks a long, I couldn't for the life of me understand why women wanted any maternity photos taken, never mind the kind where they're naked!

Looking pregnant makes it all a little easier. I very much dig my bump, and I've started preferring fitted clothes again. When I'm in front of the toilet now, being able to look down and SEE the reason behind everything, makes even the barfing easier to deal with. In fact, my Instagram page (@alwaysgeorge) is completely overflowing with my #bump pictures now. 

Tonight's selfie was a little different though. Almost one of those 'a-ha' moments Oprah is so fond of. I was standing in front of our bathroom mirror, in my (large!) sports bra and years-old grungy sweat pants, my hair clearly in need of the shower I was about to have, and no makeup...and I had never felt so beautiful. And not just beautiful, I felt so happy. And in awe. Because in that moment, I had my hands on my (what I think is a) perfect belly, admiring my new hard to believe shape, and he kicked. 

It wasn't the first kick I'd felt by any means. I've been able to feel the little bubbly (they're not flutters at all!) movements for probably a month, and at least 2 weeks ago I started being able to feel the movements on the outside of my tummy (which is so, so much neater!). Daddy and Grampa have even gotten to feel a few boots!

But feeling him kick, in that particular moment, really rounded off this 'whole' feeling. A completeness. And I was in awe. 

I was in awe of how obvious it was, what exactly was going on inside of me! Every so often I say to myself, 'Like, there is for real a real baby in there!', because its still so surreal. I was in awe of how accepting, and happy I finally was with the way I looked, too. Just round, and weird, and wonderful! I found myself wishing so hard that it would magically be 20 degrees outside, so I could run around in a bikini and let the whole world (or whoever was awake and on the streets still at 11pm) see me in my glory!

Mostly though, I was in awe because I was standing there, looking at myself actually enjoying feeling a baby moving around inside my tummy. Because 20 weeks ago, when I realized we had in fact magically succeeded in getting pregnant, I was suddenly PETRIFIED of what this baby, this experience was going to do to my panic disorder. It took me an entire trimester to get used to the idea of throwing up every day without dying from anxiety. Even after that feat, I was completely convinced that feeling the baby would destroy me. 

Before the baby is big enough to be able to be felt, you don't really have to think about it! You are sick, and bloated, and exhausted, and moody so you know you're pregnant, but you don't really have to think about exactly what's going on with your body. Once it starts kicking, you can't NOT picture that weird, teeny human being living and moving amongst all your other vital organs! You can't NOT get stuck on the fact that there is a set of EYEBALLS inside your tummy! As 100% natural as being pregnant is, it is NOT normal! Lol. Not for someone like me, anyways. Not for someone who panicked every time she remembered the tiny, not-alive IUD inside of her pelvic area! 

But there I was! In the dirty mirror, in my dirty sweat pants with my dirty hair, feeling my almost-son kicking me, and I was nothing but so happy. No sudden hot flash, no dizziness, no increased heart rate, no hating the fact that I can't take Ativan, just so happy. So happy, and whole, and in awe of all the things my body, and my brain, and my heart are capable of. 

Regardless of the poor lighting, the towels in the background and the faucet in the foreground, and no concealer over my terrible pregnant complexion, I had no reservations over capturing that image, that moment. And sharing it with my Kingdom. 

Prince/Princess

We officially have a date to count down to.. It's really a matter of days now until we (hopefully!!) get to see the sex of the baby! That being said, I've already spent the last few months trying to decide (because I keep being asked!) if I would be happier one way or the other...

I want a girl because I love the girl names we have picked out, more then the boy names.

I want a boy because I believe I am married to the most well-rounded male..besides being so handsome he is hard working, respectful, a wonderful care taker, great in the kitchen, and mature (when he needs to be)..and I am completely confident that he will raise a son to be all of the above. A son that every girl will adore, and every mother would be happy to have her daughter date.

I want a girl because no matter how hard Old Navy tries, girl clothes are so much more exciting then boy clothes!

I want a boy because most of our friends who have kids, have boys, and they are spectacular.

I want a girl because all the pink candles at Bath and Bodyworks smell better then the blue ones.

I want a boy because as one wise friend pointed out, it'd be my only chance to have a virgin penis inside of me. (I'm still laughing/thrilled at that revelation)

I want a girl because they are less likely to pee all over you during diaper changes. She might pee, but it goes all over the change table vs. all over your face.

I want a boy because being a girl is so ridiculously hard, and painful.

I want a girl because genetically, she'll be more excited to have her nails painted! That's a scientific fact, right?

I want a boy, because that way I'll still be the only princess.

I want a girl because then, we can gang up on daddy!

I want a boy because surely 20 years from now, February 14th will roll around, and he'll casually remind me that he will never love a lady as much as he loves me.

I want a girl because I often feel like it's my calling to raise a female to be all that I wasn't in high school, and all that I am now.

I want a boy, because if we were to adopt a little girl one day later, she'd have a big brother..and stereotypically that just always seemed like it would have been nice. A big brother to have looked out for me...and bring hunky friends around all the time.

I want a girl because it'll finally force me to learn how to French braid.

I want a boy because I'm scared that I'll pass along my Endometriosis. The look of absolute helplessness on my dads face when he's been stuck in the bathroom with me, is something I never want to experience.

I want a girl because the children's library I have been collecting over time, turns out to be quite girly overall. Not that a little boy shouldn't enjoy Disney Princesses.

Ooh! I want a boy, because then I could be his escort down the aisle at his wedding! Then again, that daddy daughter walk was perhaps a few of the most favorite minutes in my life...and something my husband totally deserves.

I want a girl because while she may walk down the aisle with her daddy, I'll get to graduation dress shop with her, and prom dress shop with her, and wedding dress shop with her! That seems fair.

I want whichever gender is less likely to inherit my obvious need for orthodontic work growing up. And whichever gender will be less interested in playing hockey as they grow up. I will not be a hockey mom. You can join the hockey team when you are old enough to drive yourself to 5am practices in an icebox.

So far six out of ten of the 'old wives tale' tests that I did say its a girl, however a girlfriend of mine got the same 'test' results, and then their ultrasound said boy!

Of course the very bottom line, is that I want a healthy baby. And a happy baby. And a baby that loves to nap.

It's honestly remarkably exciting, knowing that we're going to find out so soon. I really do understand the reasons behind some parent's decisions to not know the sex before the birth, but neither of us even questioned our wanting to know as soon as possible. For me, I think that I will feel as though I know the baby that much better. And I want to name it, and then never say 'it' again! And when I'm feeling extra sick, or extra cranky, or extra fat, being able to finally pick out crib linens and a little baby bathing suit will be SUCH a spectacular distraction!

If growing a child didn't magically leave my body so constantly exhausted, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to sleep for the next week and a half. My heart is feeling very reminiscent of my 8 year old self, waiting in my bed with my little siblings, counting down the minutes until we can run downstairs on Christmas morning. Either way, its going to be the shiniest present ever. 

Pregnant Princess!

I've been drafting my first official 'pregnant blog' since the day that little plus sign slowly faded onto the pee stick two months ago. Now that we have announced our joy to the world (because Facebook = the world), and I am free to 'talk' about it, it's actually really hard to decide which of my iPhone notes to publish. I've been rereading and rewriting for the last week, but in this moment, laying in bed wishing I was asleep instead, I've decided to just be honest for a few minutes. And maybe a little blunt. And probably a lot sarcastic. 

There is a lot of pressure put on women, in regards to babies. Society puts pressure on us, and we throw a lot of pressure on each other and ourselves. 

First it's the pressure to get pregnant. Society (or Jesus) says that its our duty as a female, with our glorious female organs, to reproduce. That's why we were created in the first place, so that we could recreate! If you're a woman, and you don't have kids, the human race WILL end, and it will all be your fault! Just ask your grandparents (who's patience for great grandchildren is clearly growing thin).

It's an archaic pressure. Is archaic the word? 

(I googled. I'm right. )

It's an archaic pressure. And as advanced as we have come as a society, that particular pressure lingers. It used to be the woman's ONLY job..grow up, get married, make a family. Now women are expected to create a career for themselves (because that's what we've fought for), AND procreate. The women who come to the conclusion that they in fact don't want children, are looked down on. We label them as job-obsessed, cold-hearted baby haters. We pity them, because they'll never know the fulfilling magic that is motherhood. 

I can admit that that's part of the reason I decided to get pregnant, not wanting to miss out on that apparent magic. 

And it is. It is the most remarkable kind of magic. 

As women we have been lead to feel as though pregnancy is a right of passage. We had to fight for the right to vote, fight for the right to share professions with men, fight for our right to get paid what men are paid, but pregnancy is the one right that's just been handed to us. So how dare you not take advantage!

I also felt as though, pregnancy is the reason we suffer monthly, for years.. so I'd be stupid not to take advantage. Not getting pregnant would be a complete waste of the (estimated) 120 weeks-worth of tampons, and maxi pads, and sleeps around heating pads, and junk food binges, and break outs, and roid-rage mood swings, and bloating, and Advil, and nausea! Especially for me, someone with a disease that made that week 100xs worse every month. A disease that made that week last all month, every month. The only reason we have a uterus is so there's a place for a baby to grow! So before having that little fucker of an organ and all its friends surgically removed, I deserve to reap that one benefit. Or else, what a waste. 

Endometriosis has of course served as a bonus pressure when it came to deciding whether or not to get pregnant. Almost a year ago, I was remarkably sick, again. The positive results that I got from my first surgery only lasted about 6 months, and it was very obvious that the disease was coming back with a severe vengeance. I have always been confident in my decision to have a full hysterectomy (the only Endo cure), but as I continued to get worse, and then spend the spring getting fat with bleeding cysts, my significant other (who was just my boyfriend at the time) and I found ourselves with very little time to make the baby decision. Did I have the major surgery now, and move on with our lives, or did we want a baby, NOW? 

We chose now. Well, we chose the possibility of now. I had another laparoscopy to tidy things up, put a band-aid of sorts of things, so we would have some time to try. Until we got pregnant, and saw my OB/surgeon for the first prenatal appointment, we had no idea how slim our chances were. I had no idea how close I was to complete disappointment. Turns out, during my post-op follow up my doctor made the conscious decision not to discourage us from what we were hoping to do. He decided not to tell us just how bad things were, because he knew we'd gotten our hopes up. The look of complete shock when he rechecked the test results, and saw that I was in fact carrying a viable, and healthily-growing baby, made his little deception quite obvious. He's lucky things worked out the way they have. And we are so obviously lucky. 

And that's where the other heaping of pressure comes from. I am SO lucky, considering my medical history, to be pregnant at all, never mind how quickly it happened. And because of that luck, because I've been so blessed, there is an overwhelming pressure to be happy. I mean, I AM happy! I am thrilled, and so thankful! But there is a pressure to be happy all the time. There is a pressure to be thankful all the time. There is a pressure to glow! And that's the hardest pressure to come up against, because frankly, pregnancy is a pretty miserable ordeal. 

In the beginning, I felt amazing! I mean, I felt totally normal! No nausea, no pain, no barfing! I kept counting my blessing, and knocking on all wooden things. I'd read that sometimes women with Endometriosis don't suffer 'morning sickness' because their bodies have already dealt with huge hormone shifts, and I couldn't help but think that's what was happening to me. I'd already spent years feeling sick and miserable because of the disease, so of course I now deserved to be barf-free during this part of my life. But no one DESERVES morning sickness. Unless of course some female serial killer wound up getting pregnant in the midst of offing her latest victim. She would deserve morning sickness. In jail. 

Turns out though, the women who go through pregnancy after pregnancy without any sickness aren't anymore cosmically deserving, they're just lucky. And I used up all my luck just getting pregnant in the first place, remember?

You rarely hear, or read, or see women on talk shows complaining about pregnancy. It happens in movies sometimes, but only in a rom-com, make fun of it way. And that's because all of the pressure we've faced has in turn instilled a sense of guilt within us. What we have heard about, and read about, and seen on talk shows, is women who have struggled for years trying to get pregnant. Couples who have spent their life's savings on fertility treatments and rounds of IVF. Or women being killed by botched abortions, because where they live abortion is illegal, even though the only reason they're pregnant is because they were raped. By nature, women are incredibly empathetic creatures, and other women's struggles are what guilt us into keeping our mouths shut about how completely uncomfortable it can be to live inside a pregnant body. 

Despite my disease, and the mess that multiple surgeries has likely left behind, I got pregnant. And I got pregnant before the disappointment kicked in, before I had to spend any money in order to get pregnant, before the shame of not being able to provide my husband with a biological family kicked in. And I got pregnant because I wanted to, not because it was forced up on me. I wished on candles and stars and eyelashes for this. So I am told that I have no business complaining. 

It's tough though..the not complaining! There are days when it's harder to see the thankfulness through the barfy, uncomfy fog. But when I start to feel guilty, about feeling so miserable, I remind myself that there is one extra hurdle always in my way, that many pregnant women don't have to worry about jumping. 

I was so sure that if I knew I was pregnant, if I knew it was for such a good reason, the sickness would be way easier to deal with. If I knew that it was a gorgeous little baby making me so sick, there'd be no reason to get anxious every time I have to throw up. The way that knowing it was Endometriosis made it easier to cope with that illness, I assumed that knowing it was a magical baby would make this sickness easier too. But it's irresponsible (and stupid) to ever underestimate the Monster. 

I have gone back on my medication. And I don't feel ashamed saying that. I thought I might, I thought that I'd hate myself a little, for not providing this helpless baby with that ideal drug-free body to grow in. But it turns out, the more anxious I am, the more unhappy I am, the more dangerous it is for the baby. I always knew that it was safe to stay on Celexa while trying to get pregnant/while pregnant, but at the time I thought coming off of it was the right thing to do. I thought it was important to at least try for that ideal. Months later, of course I wish I'd never come off it in the first place..around week 5 my body completely freaked out, I stopped sleeping, I could barely breathe, I was so sick that I was wondering, 'why the hell did I do this to myself?!' But at least I can say I tried, I guess. 

I'm not on my full/original dose of Celexa, and Ativan is still a complete no-no, so there are moments where the panic chills/twitches wash over me. It's a little embarrassing when people notice. Maybe I'm still being naive, trying to be too brave, but I haven't considered asking about upping my dose again. At this level I can function, I can go back to work, leave the house to be social, and I can sleep (disgustingly sweaty sleeps lol). I think a part of me feels like I need to show my baby, right from the start, that I'm willing to fight, or struggle a little for him/her. I don't feel like its necessary to be completely miserable and feel as though I'm fighting for my life every day in order to impress my child..but this way I can feel assured that I have at least made a solid effort. 

My anxiety definitely makes every aspect of being pregnant harder. Well, frankly it makes every aspect of life harder, but pregnancy in particular right now. Of course the chronic nausea eggs on the panic, the lack of energy, the ridiculous heartburn/indigestion, and always having to go to the bathroom too. But the bits that are the most magic, also make me the most anxious. 

I am one of those women who feels like its a teeny bit science-fictiony, the fact that there are legs and arms and a brain and another heart beating inside my tummy! I mean, that IS the magic of it all...but I am impressed by any woman who doesn't think that's just a teeny creepy, too! 

Honestly though, it took me a long time to come to terms with having I weenie IUD inside my uterus, before surgery. It was a minuscule piece of plastic, and it still took time for my anxiety to get used the the fact that it was in there when I was sleeping and when I was awake and when I was having a shower, and when I was blogging! And now!? Now that tiny, silent, still thing has been replaced by something that is already the size on a lemon! And has squirmy arms and dancing legs! And fingerprints! And that's kinda freaky!

I have an app that send me weekly updates (based on the stereotypical growth and development of babies), and I get excited to read them that morning, and forward them to the daddy. I find the size comparisons to fruits very adorable, and I have come to get very excited over the actual (approximate) measurements, and running to the ruler I keep in the bathroom and holding it up to my tummy! But the details on top of that, are things that I can only think about for a second before feeling that anxious flush. When I first REALLY thought about little fingers moving around in there, I got completely nauseous! And now that I'm trying, it's kind of hard to explain! Lol. 

And that's all for now! Me and my lemon are going to nap! Lol I am exhausted! I have been stressing over finishing a blog to post before the baby is frigging born, and it turned into a bit of a rant..and Im sure there will be plenty of eye rolls..and the last bit doesn't even really make sense, but in my deference I was semi distracted by all the nutty ladies on the Bachelor premiere while typing...

The last thing to say, for now, is that no matter what, no matter the anxieties and the absolute uncomfortableness, and the price of maternity bras...I am going to completely devour and cherish this adventure. (Which is of course easier said, now that I've stopped puking and shitting every other hour.) 

I am in no way ashamed to say that this will be my only pregnancy. Even before getting pregnant, I came to the conclusion that I'd have the hysterectomy at some point during Mat Leave. And I KNOW that's a whole other thing that makes some women crazy...me CHOOSING to give up the 'parts' that make me female, choosing to ignore the fact that sometimes pregnancy makes Endometriosis a little better, choosing to take the 'easy' way out, instead of fighting through the disease for the next 25 years. And those opinions are completely allowed, but in this case, mine is the only opinion that matters. Only I know what it's been like to have lost years of my life to this disease, only I know how stressful it is to be in and out of work because I'm too sick to do what all other adults are supposed to be doing, only I know what it's like to be trapped in a completely depressed and panic-ridden body, all thanks to Endometriosis, so only I need to make the choice. And it's a big choice, I understand that. But I am ready to NOT be sick anymore. I am ready to forgo illness-triggered anxiety. I am ready to be able to support myself like a big girl. I am ready to have a beautiful baby with my beautiful husband, and then finally (though, likely slowly) move on with a beautiful normal-feeling life! 

And because of all that, I am very ready to just suck up every minute of the next 6 months! I will take full advantage of the 'Um, excuse me, Im pregnant' excuse, and I will have no shame in acting like I'm the first person to ever be pregnant, and I will plaster my social media pages with ridiculous tummy pictures and today's-cravings pictures, and I will feel super special every time someone touches my tummy! And I will likely full-blown panic when I feel it move for the first time! And I will likely scream, and cry, and call for Sigourny Weaver the first time I see a little foot poke out of my tummy! And I will most definitely complain, out loud, about how much I have to pee, and how whale-like I look, and how sleeping with a baby IN your tummy is nothing like sleeping with a pillow on your tummy! 

I'm a Princess after all, so I'm allowed. 

Mrs. Princess (finally, I know)

In the rush of things, I never got around to posting this chunk of writing that I did, only 2 days before our September 14th wedding.  And then of course I was exhausted from all the work that accompanies a DIY wedding, I got right back into the new school year with a new group of kids, and then I got sick and lazy!  But now that I get two whole weeks of Christmas break to enjoy, I have no more excuses.  So here is a piece I wrote, about writing my wedding vows, along with the actual words I read that completely perfect (I still can't believe how perfectly it all turned out) late afternoon, three and a half months ago.. 

September 12th, 2013 - I've written novels, and children's books, and blogs, and thousands of poems, and I've written in a journal regularly since Grade 3. Despite all of that practice, writing my wedding vows has proven ridiculously difficult. 

I've actually been writing my wedding vows since I was like, 16 years old. There are a bunch of journal pages over the last 10 years covered in romantic words inspired by a movie I'd just watched, or a poem I'd written. I've dog-eared pages to remind myself to add certain things into my vows one day. In the last 5 years I have written plenty of beautiful poems and sappy journal entries about my nearly-husband, but when I sat down to actually compose vows specifically to saw out loud in front of all our family and friends, to him specifically, I turned into such a dummy! 

I used to attend weddings and be so shocked that no one was reciting vows they'd written themselves, because it seems like the one and only time you can profess your personal feelings and let everyone know exactly how you feel...but it makes sense now. There is already so much pressure (that I've mostly placed on myself) for a perfect wedding, but to have to add a bunch of perfect words on top of that, to be spoken during the most important few minutes of our lives together, makes for a crushing amount of pressure! 

My body has been overwhelmed with emotions since the day we met, and to squeeze all of that into only a minute seems so impossible. but what parts do I leave out? Do guests want to laugh during the ceremony, or do I need to cut deep and aspire to make everyone weep? Are you supposed to actually say the word 'vow'? No wonder celebrities always say their more nervous then excited about being nominated for an Oscar! Winners are given like 70 seconds to thank everyone who's ever been nice to them, and throw in something inspiring and moving and uplifting, in front of the entire world! Right now, 85 guests FEEL like the entire world. 

It's just tough! Especially refraining from rambling, that's the hardest part for me! My first draft was like an entire page long. We'd end up starting dinner at 8pm if I was allowed to say everything that I want to say to him. When you love someone enough to marry them, it could take DAYS to describe why you love them that much, to mention every wonderful, selfless thing they've ever done, every inside joke. 

And because of all the wedding stress, the last minute changes we never prepared to be ready for, the lack of sleep, and lack of hours in the day, my brain has shut down! Completely! Not only can I not string a few beautiful, nostalgic words together..I can't string a few words together period! 

* * * * *

"Dear Nolan 

Besides I love you, all I really want to say to you is, thank you. 

Thank you for asking for my number the first time we ran into each other downtown, years after sharing a high school media class. And thank you for not holding it against me when I apparently required Destiny to tell me more then once that you were the one. 

Thank you for never giving up, and running away as fast as you could, no matter how sick, and anxious, and exhausting I got, over and over again. 

Thank you for finally proposing! Lol

And thank you for loving me enough to stand up here,only 4 months later, promising to love me, forever.

I vow to love you forever, and to spend that forever proving that it was all worth it."

Crown Missing

Right now, all I want in the whole wide world is my engagement ring back. That's it! I don't want a car, or a pony, or a million dollars (ok, I for sure want a million dollars), I just want my ring. 

Peoples took it 7 weeks ago, to make a mold etc. because it requires a custom made wedding band (I have since suggested to every person in a relationship that I know lol, to never buy an engagement ring that won't fit with a normal band, or doesn't come with a band)....and I've started calling them once or twice a week, after the initial 3 weeks. 

First they said they'd make the mold, give us the estimate for the cost, then size and send my engagement ring back. Then they said they weren't making the mold even, until we agreed on the estimate price, because just the stupid mold costs $400. So we said yes to what I think is an outrageous price for a like, a gram of white good and a few minuscule diamonds (it's actually more then twice the cost of my engagement ring!), and we were told my engagement ring would be back in about a week, once the mold was made, and the wedding band would take another 3 weeks. Fine. That was a month ago. 

It turns out, the jewelers needed to keep the engagement ring so that while they are making the wedding ring, they can match all the lines, and all the stones up perfectly. (Isn't that what the $400 mold was for?!) I can appreciate perfection, in fact I expect perfection for that much money. And I also understand that there are hundreds of brides whose rings they are currently crafting, and I accept that we weren't able to give them a ton of notice or time. But 7 weeks without the prettiest thing I've ever seen, is seriously starting to weigh on me!

I am a patient person. I actually consider my patience to be at par with a superpower. I can hold a child for hours while it screams in my face, and it doesn't phase me whatsoever. I don't honk at or flip off drivers who forget that you can turn right on a red. I'm fine sitting in a change room naked for 20 minutes because the sales lady forgot that she was finding me another size. Heck, I waited 2 years after picking out an engagement ring before actually being proposed to! But when I'm told over and over again, 'Oh! It'll just be 3 weeks! It'll just be one more week! Oh, we'll have it next week!' I start to want my antidepressants back, and start ponder antipsychotics, too. 

Most people think I'm being silly. 'Its just a ring, and everyone KNOWS you're engaged,' is a common response. But in all fairness, those people weren't (or never have been) engaged females. Because I feel like its a right of passage! To me, the engagement is the exciting part, the time to simply show off before the actual wedding stress kicks in. Because of everything that's going on, I only get to be engaged for (less then) 4 months, and Peoples has basically ruined half of it. As vein as it sounds, I feel a little less special every time I leave the house, knowing the cashier at the grocery store, or the bank teller, or the kids at work won't get to notice the sparkly thing on my finger. 

I still feel engaged, of course, in the sense that I'm in the midst of planning a wedding, but without my engagement ring, I feel like I'm missing out on the special, pretty, 'IM ENGAGED!!' feelings. I felt super dumb during my Bachelorette party, because of course every stranger who noticed the penis-adorned veil on my head responded with, 'YAY! Let me see the ring!!' After this weekend I will also have attended both of my bridal showers without my engagement ring. And that's ridiculous!

I just got off the phone with our sales lady at Peoples and she seemed far too excited to tell me, 'I think I can get it back for you on the 23rd!' 'Oh, that's awesome! Unless of course you remember that last week you said if have it this week.'

Perhaps it's the expectations that I've been given, that is the kryptonite to my patience. My fiancé took me ring shopping WAY before he was actually planning on proposing, and literally every day after that I was expecting him to drop to one knee. And when you assure me that it'll only be 3 weeks before I get my engagement ring back, I expect my engagement ring back in 3 weeks. And every day after that I want to hit someone a little harder. 

I simply feel incomplete, like a Princess without her crown.  

And I also feel fucking ticked off.