It was around mile 10, after a slow steady climb of four miles, that I knew I was in trouble. I had opted to not wear running gators on my low cut hiking boots, cheerfully ignoring all the warnings people had posted about the sand on the course. How bad could it be?. Well, it is as bad as everyone says; we hadn’t even hit the sandpit at mile 22 and the blisters on my heels were raging. I tried to put them out of my mind and ate lunch with my brother in law, who was struggling with an awful headache. I knew if I looked at my blisters, I would want to quit or I would just perseverate on the pain. Instead, I focused on enduring the next 16 miles.
There is no good way to get a baby out of a body. That a woman goes through childbirth and then has to immediately collect the loose bag of marbles that is her body and begin the exhaustive, relentless work of taking care of a helpless newborn is bonkers. This is true even for the best, easiest births (I did not have one of those).
The state of my postpartum body felt (and was) irrelevant compared to the health of my daughter, and as correct as this was I sometimes resented it. Every time I log rolled out of bed, winced my way down the stairs, and chided my husband to slow down as I shuffled around the block, I was reminded of just how secondary I was. (read more…)
One of the hardest things about being a mom is dealing with my own expectations of motherhood. I find myself unsure of what I’m doing and certain there is a right way to raise my son. A right way to soothe and nurture him. A right way to attach. I anticipated that transitioning to motherhood would be smooth, but it’s been anything but. The experience has me reflecting on how I’ve navigated other life transitions and thinking about my own mother.
When I got married two and a half years ago a friend asked me what I thought my mom would have been like leading up to and during the wedding. I was sad to discover I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t conjure an image, a sound, or a vibe. I’m starting to forget her. (read more…)
I thought I’d be an easy IVF patient: healthy, young (at least among this subset of women), with no apparent fertility problems. My husband Lars and I were undertaking in vitro fertilization to avoid conceiving a child with muscular dystrophy, a harrowing disease caused by a gene I carry.
When we first started treatment I felt like an A+ student. Every night I did my homework: I measured and mixed medications in syringes, swabbed my stomach with alcohol, overrode the brain alarm that says do not stab yourself, and injected hormones under my skin. Every other morning I went to the doctor to collect my gold star. They drew my blood and stuck a probe up my body to scan my ovaries, and the results kept coming back great! Unlike those women whose struggles I’d read on the infertility message boards, I was growing follicles at a steady clip and was on track for success. (read more…)
I have pumped in every bathroom in Penn Station. NJ Transit is too rushed and there aren’t enough stalls. The LIRR has ample room but is NEVER clean. My bathroom of choice these days is the newly renovated Amtrak area. Not too much of a wait, lots of stalls so people aren’t banging on the door, and it’s typically the cleanest of the bunch. When I commute into the city, I have to plan my entire day around when and where I’m going to pump. I bring my small, manual pump that fits in my tote, usually concealed in an old plastic bag from Target. (read more…)