I hate that my body doesn't show pregnancy until I am in the third trimester AND is back to prepregnancy size in six weeks or less. Yes. You read that right. I hate what most magazines tell you that you should kill for. However, I have good reason for it.
A pregnant body and, for that matter, a newly post pregnant body is a sacred space. It is meant to be different, curvier, and fuller because your life is different, curvier, and fuller. Desiring your prepregnancy body at such times might be an attempt to feel "normal" but the changes you see are the message to the world that "this" IS the NEW normal. Why would your body not reflect the emotional and spiritual growth that is happening within? The fetishism of youth and life before children is not only ridiculous but also pointless. Your life before children transitions into something else post children; your body makes that transition, too. That doesn't mean you won't be fit again or you won't look good again, but it does mean you may not look or feel the same and that's alright.
You have earned the right to look the way you do. You are accomplishing a great thing. You have grown or are growing another perfect human being. You have kept an entire human being safe and nourished when no other could. Your body is sacred. It is a universe onto itself in which your baby will spend or has spent every second of his/her existence before birth and when the birth needed to happen, YOU did that whether by natural means or c-section. What could possibly be more beautiful than that? A size 6? A size 2? I don't think so! Who the heck can/should care whether or not you look as traditionally, culturally "sexy" as you did before you created an entirely new life? Consider this. . . Which is a healthier view of beautiful or normal? An eternal image of what you looked like in your teens and/or twenties or an ever evolving image of the rest of your sixty to eighty years on this planet? Who really wants their lives to be exactly the way it was pre-children? Why would you want your body to be that way?
Love yourself and your post baby body. Forget about its size and its relationship to what others may construe as attractive. Forget about getting back to "normal." Embrace the awesome abnormality and sacredness of your birthing years. That is true beauty. (In the meantime, I will try to find the beauty of looking about the same on the outside while being transformed on the inside.)
Motherhood changes everything. Even when you think that
things couldn’t possibly become any more different—they do, and you are once
again plunged into the dark unknown, completely against your will; completely
unprepared, yet again. I’ve been a mom for seven years, and each age and stage
my children have gone through has been harder, and better, than the last.
Such was my life during my son’s first year. The first six
months, when my days were spent trying to decipher Alex’s cries, settle him to
sleep, feed him, bathe him, all while trying to squeeze in a shower and maybe a
glass of water for myself, seemed like a cakewalk when I returned to work and
post partum depression reared its ugly head. It was as if nothing in the outside
world was different. Other than the occasional query about my baby, people’s
lives went on, unchanged. How was this possible when my entire world had become impossibly twisted? The earth had not
stopped spinning because I had become a mother, at least not to anyone else but
me.
It felt odd to walk around without my big belly after almost
a year of being pregnant. My body was different. I’d been through so much in
labor and delivery, and in addition to pregnancy weight, I’d gained stretch
marks, a lingering baby pouch, and so much guilt-- about, well, everything.
I had expected motherhood to make me feel confident,
invincible, and happy. Instead I was unsure of myself, vulnerable, and
miserable. I felt so guilty for working, and that emotion consumed me. I was
constantly exhausted and emotionally drained. I missed my baby intensely and I
felt like I never saw him. I had enormous amounts of confusion and uncertainty
about what my life was about. All this was such a blow to me, as I had thought
motherhood would bring about all the opposite. I was also confused because
since I had experienced the normal baby blues immediately following Alex’s
birth (and come through them easily) this new set of feelings was unexpected.
The whole world suddenly seemed different; bigger, more
dangerous—and having produced a human being inside my body that was now out in
that same world, I felt intensely protective and helpless. A car could hit me on my
way to work. My baby could die of SIDS. In the mornings, I made sure to memorize
what color shirt my husband was wearing, just in case I had to describe him to
the police later on because he disappeared. I recognized these thoughts as
irrational, but I couldn’t stop them. The very thought that we were not going
to be in this world forever to protect our baby filled me with despair.
Could I ignore the changes to my marriage? It was as if we
had never existed as a couple before our son. What did we used to talk about?
What did we do on our dates? Would we ever have a date, or time alone, again?
I also eventually had to admit that the difficult labor and
delivery I had with my son had a lot to do with how I felt that entire first
year. My experience was emotionally devastating, to say the least (and that’s
another blog post!), and left me feeling helpless, scared, and not trusting of
myself and my abilities as a mother.
Looking back, I should have asked for help. I spent too many
days feeling despondent and unhappy, crippled by emotions that I couldn’t
describe to anyone. Why is it that so many new mothers experience some form of
depression or anxiety yet so many are unwilling to talk about it? The first
year is so hard. There are infinite changes, and it’s normal to feel ambivalent
about motherhood, resentful of the new responsibilities; even trapped. Not
discussing it, or hiding it, is in part what leads to depression. I’ve never
heard any new parent say, “yeah, we go to sleep at the same time we always did,
take long showers daily, and eat dinner together every night.” Why is it that
we can so easily discuss the logistical changes in our life as we knew it, but
not the emotional ones? We all try to lose the pregnancy weight, go back to
work, get back to normal, so quickly—as if we’re in a rush to prove something,
as if we don’t want to admit that we’re not so sure about this new life as a
parent—that everything is different.
And it always will be.
Susan Maushart discusses this very thing in The Mask of Motherhood: How Becoming a Mother Changes Our Lives and Why We Never Talk About It. Says Maushart, “Experiencing ambivalence about motherhood is one thing.
Expressing it—and by extension, legitimizing it—is quite another. The mask of
motherhood ensures that the face of ambivalence, however widely or keenly felt,
remains a guilty secret.” She found that the women who were able to be honest
about their emotions were the ones least likely to be depressed.
Slowly, my life returned back to normal. Or, I should say,
we all found a new normal. I am not who I was before I had children—I’m better.
My husband and I now date regularly—even if it’s just a bowl of popcorn and a
rented movie. We eat dinner together every night, and we talk, a lot. His
compassion, patience, and support make him a wonderful father and an amazing
partner. Years have passed since those early foggy days, but certain things
will bring me back; a smell, a lullaby. I remember where I was and am proud of
myself for how far I’ve come.
I know my feeling better was gradual, and the depression I
experienced was relatively short-lived. But I honestly only noticed how
different I am now compared to a few years ago just this past summer. After an
afternoon out and about, as I was walking home with my children, I happened to
notice how blue the sky was that day. Then I noticed the leaves blowing in the
trees, and heard the birds singing.
And as I lifted my head up, I closed my eyes, felt the warm sun on my
face, and I took a deep breath--I thought, my god, finally, I am happy. And it
was the most amazing feeling.
It was a fluke really. And only because I had had my placenta encapsulated.
Yes, my placenta encapsulated.
(Before you judge, do you really know what you're consuming in that Diet Coke? That hot dog from the corner? Most processed foods that millions of Americans consume daily? )
This was really one of those things that I didn't think was any big deal because I have known so many other women that have done the same and reaped the benefits.
Except in New York, when I talked to my midwife about doing the same thing, she struggled to think of someone who encapsulated placentas. The woman she used to refer new mothers to had moved out of state. My midwife gave me the name of another woman, except she was still learning how to prepare placentas. Then I found myself calling people who were referred to me who might know of someone. I began to feel like I was looking for an abortion in the sixties as each reference was someone who might know of someone who knows of someone who could help. It was also another moment when I realized yet again how much different the East coast is from the West, or at least from the Liberal Recycling Portland of my childhood and the LA of my first home birth.
At the birth of my daughter, my midwife put the placenta in the freezer, for when the placenta preparer came over. Except that 8 weeks later, I was still trying to find someone who did such things in my Brooklyn neighborhood. Just as I was about to give up hope and considered contacting my midwife who did it for me in LA (and asking about the logistics of shipping a frozen placenta across the country - which I admit now that I think about it is a bit much to ask from the postal service). Then the answer was literally delivered to me in my mailbox - in New York magazine (the August 29th issue if you want to check it out) as it featured an article about placenta eaters. Once in the hands of mainstream media, the things I kind of take for granted as normal or "just how we do things because it works for us" do look pretty out there to the mainstream world. But New York magazine's article featured the Brooklyn based placenta preparer Jennifer Mayer. So I googled her so she could prepare my placenta too.
Jennifer Mayer it turns out was getting calls for follow up interviews, but she hadn't gotten any other calls from women who just happened to have a placenta in their freezer, so she was able to come over that week and prepare it for me. As we exchanged emails, she mentioned that she got a call from Anderson Cooper's show who wanted to do an interview with her and maybe ask a couple questions of someone who had such a thing done about why or what had them decide to do such a thing and so on and she asked if I'd be willing to talk to them. I said sure as long as I could bring my baby, not thinking much about it (just as a reminder, this was also the week my husband was out of town and New York City was battering down for a hurricane - so you know, with two kids I was a little distracted). Or that is, I didn't think much about it until in conversations with Jen, and Jesse, of Anderson Cooper's people, it dawned on me that the interview was with Anderson Cooper on national television. At which point I ran down to J. Crew and bought a pencil skirt.
(The photo is terrible. Note to self: Never laugh on national television again)
Anderson Cooper did his best to keep an open mind. And in talking with Jesse in the pre-interview, I did have to stop and think about it. Because when you stop to think about it, it is, well, something to think about.
My family spent a good chunk of my childhood vegetarian, and even though now I eat meat, I do get squeamish preparing it. So yes, when in my first pregnancy my midwife strongly recommended it, I did get a little squeamish. But I also really trusted my midwife, and she gave me her reasons: it prevented postpartum, helped the body recover from labor, and leveled out the hormones after giving birth.
I had had a bad run of depression in my twenties, and at the time, I had been told I had a 75% chance of developing postpartum depression because of having suffered from depression once before and having it run in my family (disclaimer: I don't know if this stat still holds true). I admit, Prozac saved my life once, but I have no wish to go on it again because of the side effects, and even though they say there are antidepressants that they say breastfeeding women can take, that too makes me squeamish. ( There's been too many times in history when it's been discovered something is dangerous after it's been given to thousands of breastfeeding or pregnant women that it makes me nervous). But the placenta? How could that have side effects?
After the birth of my son, I didn't get postpartum depression. I didn't even get the baby blues kind of weepy. I nursed. I napped. I fell in love with my baby and with my husband all over again. When I received my placenta pills (or my encapsulated placenta) I put them in the freezer thinking maybe I wasted 300 dollars having them made and then I forgot about them.
Until my in-laws visited. My mother-in-law visited first, for a week. She had said she was coming to help and hold the baby. Upon her arrival, I handed her my baby. She held him five seconds, then put him down, clapped her hands andasked, "What's next?" like Jed Bartlet on the West Wing. "What are we doing? Where are we going?"
I picked up my baby, explained how we were raising our baby and that we held him. We didn't put him down and just leave him around the house as if he was a potted plant.
"Well, rules are meant to be broken," she said. "What did you say we were doing?"
The entire week went like this. She'd do the dinner dishes, but the meal planning, shopping, cooking, cleaning, baby care as well as itinerary and entertainment planning once it became clear there needed to be things to see and do? Oy veh. Throw in the advice and criticism that older generations feel entitled to bestow upon the young or that when she got in the car she'd yell, "Pray for your life Fyo! Your mother's driving!" and it wasn't long before I was calling my lactation consultant begging her to please say it was okay for a breastfeeding new mother to have a martini.
Then I remembered the placenta pills in the freezer, and while they didn't replenish my nerves or give me the strength of someone who just lets things roll off her, they did boost my mood and energy and show me the light at the end of the in-law visitation tunnel. And three months later, when I visited the in-laws and my mother-in-law talked about how her daughter was struggling with her children and fatigue and how she needed a break and how my mother-in-law had compassion for her because she remembered what it was like to be a new mom, I can say those placenta pills prevented me from reaching over and strangling her.
I can also say that when I took one daily until I got my strength back the difference was noticeable; one that I could even compare to the feeling of when an anti-depressant kicked in or waking up from a good night's sleep. It was enough of a difference to make a believer out of me and to know I wanted them for after the birth of my second child.
My in-laws haven't visited since the birth of my daughter. We all now know better and needless to say, when anyone says they're coming to visit I have them clarify what they mean by the word "help."
(My in-laws have also improved immensely. They no longer offer criticism or advice and they compliment my cooking - they might even respect my parenting.) But I am thankful I have the placenta pills anyway. I have an energetic toddler who still requires a lot of my attention. Life still happens. I'm still recovering. This time around I have felt some of the weepiness and moodiness that women report feeling after they give birth. Even the days I feel great, I still know that it's a good number of months that my energy will ebb and flow and that I'll still feel sensitive or vulnerable.
And sure, the research on placenta encapsulation is still only anecdotal, but of the twenty or so women I know who have ingested their own placenta, I have yet to hear of any negative effects. It's also used in traditional Chinese medicine (which I also find squeamish if only because of the smell of the herbs, but it is rather effective). The cost is also reasonable (especially compared to the cost of most pharmaceutical drugs). Jennifer Mayer charged me $250 for the entire process that yielded 120 capsules (some placentas can yield up to 200). Jen is also a doula and does in-home massage. She in herself is a New Mom resource. She's also one of those people who is easily approachable, even though she possesses a daunting amount of knowledge.
Women get a lot of information about the ups and downs of pregnancy, but after the birth of my son, I felt blind sighted by the ups and downs of recovery from labor and birth. Some studies show it can take some women up to a year before they feel fully themselves after giving birth (take note; ration those pills!) and I didn't remember anyone telling me what it would be like, or how I should take care of myself emotionally. Sure, I had a heads up about the first six weeks. But I had no idea that two months later I'd have the potential to sob to my husband about why didn't his mother want to hold my baby longer than five seconds. So while Anderson Cooper was clearly squeamish about ingesting placentas (though he could get that when it's in a capsule, you can pretend it's like any other supplement), but he tried to stay open minded and if anything, I applaud his approaching the topic on his show and giving Jen and I the chance to say that as a new mom, you need all the help you can get.
As to be expected with a newborn, at our house we’ve been doing nothing but adjusting. I’m adjusting to having two children who need my attention, my son is adjusting to having to share the attention, my husband is adjusting to that while I look the same – just not pregnant and just not back to my normal size yet – I am still recovering in terms of stamina, energy level, and hormones. Alas, in our adjustment phase, we’ve adopted some coping mechanisms, mainly, more scheduled nanny time for my son (so I can sleep and stare in awe at my baby), more scheduled house cleaner time, more laundry, more take-out, more field trips with my son and consequently, more museum trips and memberships, more playground trips, more ice cream & popsicles (not so much baby related, but heat wave and sanity related), and the one I hate the most: more television and movies.
I know. I know. Some say an hour of television a day for a child almost three years old is fine, not harmful and even normal (I have to question if this is just normal for Americans who seem to take pride in their television viewing habits considering that in 51% of American homes, the TV is on most the time). Some say television can be educational, just look at Sesame Street and what it’s done to have kids learning their numbers and letters. Others say that when TV habits begin too young, it contributes to ADHD, and other behavior issues as well as impacts later cognitive development. I understand this has studies and statistics to back this research up and I can get the connection. Yet I am in the generation whose mothers interacted with their children on average fifteen minutes a day and all of us learned to read from the TV, not an actual person. Some of us do have issues, but for the most part we’re functioning successful adults. That said, I would rather my children learn to read from the people in their lives.
Still others say kids don’t really learn from television or Sesame Street, but from interactions with people. Though I prefer this viewpoint, I don’t really want to engage in this part of the argument, if only because I can see the validity in all the views. Yes, my son learned the majority of his letters, numbers, shapes, and colors from the New York subways, books, and interactions with my husband and me. And him learning the song where they count to 12 that has played on Sesame Street since I watched it thirty years ago certainly didn’t hurt anything.
So why do I hate the TV? And why – much to the horror of some friends and family – do we not actually own one? Partly because I’ve read the studies on how often TV replaces reading, talking to other people, emotional development or relationship skills, and exercise of any kind. I’ve also read that it contributes to poor eating habits and obesity, and can disturb sleep habits as well as contribute to night terrors (big surprise – I get night terrors after watching almost anything on TV if only because I get scared about what is passing as entertainment). Mostly because I hate the magnetic like quality of the TV, how it absorbs even the smartest of us and abducts us as if it were an actual alien – even though most the programming (including what some stations insist is news) is of such poor quality it insults the intelligence of the average lab rat. Once when my husband was traveling for work, he called from his cable TV stocked hotel room before bed to say good night. “I just spent two hours watching the dumbest movie ever,” he said. Sadly, I had to ask: “It took you two hours to figure out it was the dumbest movie ever?” He’s (usually) a smart guy. His defense? “Well, you know. It was the TV.”
Several people I know admit the same, that when they’re in front of the TV, they get sucked in no matter how poor quality the show is, and next thing they know, they’ve lost three hours of their life and feel like slugs.
It’s the slug after-effect I’ve noticed with my two year old. Because we don’t own a physical TV, we do watch the occasional TV shows we like (West Wing, Mad Men, PBS’s Sherlock) on our computers or iPad (thanks to Netflix and the library). We also watch our fair share of movies. My son watches the older Sesame Street episodes (I can’t stand the newer ones. Sesame Street sadly too has fallen victim to the dumbing down and princess-ing up trend), Wallace & Gromit, Kipper, Pingu the Penguin and occasionally, Shaun the Sheep. After a short Wallace & Gromit skit, my son has turned into a slug. A boy who usually is self-directed at play and can entertain himself an hour with his trains suddenly is left bored and restless in the presence of his toys. Before the TV comes out, we can spend an hour in bed reading through the stack of books fresh from our library visit. After the TV, forget it. We’ll still read the books before bed, but an hour is out of the question. Before any TV watching, my son is a low maintenance kid who is creative, happy, and makes fantastic conversation, often better conversation than most people I’ve worked with. After the TV, he can be whiny and more physical in terms of hitting and kicking, even if he wasn’t watching anything violent.
So why has the TV become one of my postpartum coping mechanisms? Because I am recovering. I usually do have the energy for a post-nap late afternoon playground trip, or the mental and emotional energy for a game of pretend grocery shopping and making coffee, but after giving birth a month ago, I don’t. And while we do play some, we also hit the Witching Hour (what we call that hour when fatigue and hunger hit at the same time) when I really need to get (or call for) dinner on the table and the TV seems the path of least resistance given I’m still expanding my multitasking abilities to handle my new expanded circus until my husband gets home from work to help parent. Or today, my son had a fever, and my husband was working late, and the TV keeps him quiet and resting as he sits, drinks his water and eats pineapple popsicles one after the other (homemade – not processed or over-sugared, so I swear I’m not contributing to the toddler obesity statistics).
The first few weeks postpartum, I admit, I felt a lot of guilt about the TV watching, because I don’t want it to be an everyday thing. While there are some merits to it, I hate having to rely on it. I want my son – and now daughter – to use their time in more useful and creative ways; I want them to engage in experiences and personal interactions, not passively watch the activities of others. I want them to be self-directed, not wait around to be entertained. When it’s not an everyday thing, and I tuck my son in at night, he falls asleep easily with that satisfied sigh of another fun, active and full day behind him. I love that.
Still, while I am fortunate enough to have a newborn who sleeps at night, so I sleep as well, I am still tired, and I had to make my peace with the TV just for the sake of recovering, much like I did last winter during the snow storms that would never end. After so many days of finger painting, flour play, and fort building, a creative parent can only do so much if only because you need a break, a shower, a phone call to a friend, a cup of coffee with no one asking you for something for five minutes. I rationalize, that this TV thing is not a life habit, just a circumstance related habit. Last winter, when the weather improved and we naturally started getting out more and having our own non-televised adventures, TV weaning happened without a thought. Knowing this reassures me that while it feels like a dependency (because when we need it, we really need it), it’s just another coping mechanism for the moment. So I hope.
