I’m done hating my body.

I remember the exact moment I began to wage a war on my body, one that would last almost 30 years. I was around 8, and I was jumping off the pool deck into the water at my parent’s house, with my brothers and sister. Drinking in summer’s delights in the way that only small children truly can. I was wearing a rainbow bathing suit, with black “paint splatters” over it, with a giant circular cutout at the belly, a tiny little ruffly skirt underneath it. I LOVED that bathing suit. My mom was sitting there, and turned me to her. She patted my stomach and said, “You better be careful. You’re getting thick in the belly.” She really didn’t mean anything by it-she was raised in a family of incredibly vain Italian women, who constantly commented on appearance. Nonetheless, it stung. It was the first time I recall ever feeling like something about me was defective.

On top of that, I developed breasts at a really young age. I was wearing a bra in the third grade, and I remember wearing a white shirt to school one day, and this boy, Brian, teased me about the fact that he could see my bra through my shirt. I still will not wear white shirts, at 35. My chest became a part of “me” by high school, in that it was a way people identified me: “big tits”,I think, was the phrase I heard uttered most. I tilted my spine inward in an attempt to shrink them, shrink myself. Looking back at photos of myself when I was 16 or 17, it was evident that I had a body that belonged to an adult-it was a common topic of conversation, particularly among the boys I counted amongst my friends. I knew I was supposed to just laugh along, accept it as some sort of compliment. It never felt like one-it felt like a liability. I know now that it was a liability.

As women, our bodies are ALWAYS liabilities. You’re too fat, too thin, too busty (and likely a slut), too flat, too tall, too hairy, too masculine. Our bodies are public domain for comment, for possession, for violation. Leers, comments, touches, judgments.  I remember squatting down at my locker in high school when I was a junior, and my then-boyfriend came up behind me, yanking the waistband of my jeans up, propelling me forward into my locker. “Pull up your pants. I can see your underwear-you look like a slut.” It seems enraging to me now, almost laughable if not so sad, but at the time, I believed him. I thought I did something wrong. Again, shame.

Into adulthood, I became less active and more heavy. For the past 15 years, I have swung so widely, weight wise: there is almost a 90 lb. difference between my lightest and heaviest. Reproductive and endocrine disorders have continuously conspired to make this even more difficult. The problem is, I have always felt huge, a massive distortion from what is acceptable. No matter what size I am. Thick in the middle, as my mom said. I feel invisible and overexposed, at the same time. I lay in bed at night, running my hands over the soft flesh of my abdomen, avoiding the extra fat on my thighs and arms with my eyes,  disgusted by it. As a freshman in college, I noticed a series of tiny, silver stretch marks running along the part of my arm where it meets my chest, and I felt utter horror. Meanwhile, this discovery happened in the midst of an idle moment of a volleyball game, one where my strong, capable body was performing well. But all I really saw, were those marks. Marks that shamed me. The shame I have always felt from my body has felt as normal as a body part-it’s a part of me.

But, I’m tired of feeling bad about my body. My body has carried me through so much in life-a successful athletic career as a teenager, sustained me during times of deep sadness and stress that I thought would overtake me, and perhaps the most incredible of all-it sustained a pregnancy that doctors said would never happen, and delivered the most beautiful boy into my life. Those breasts I hated so much? They provided my child’s nourishment for 15 months, helping him grow strong, into the beautiful little boy he is now. It carried me through the crushing blow of my mother’s death while simultaneously bringing that little boy into the world. While everything around me felt like it was crumbling into dust, I felt so much confidence in my what my body is capable of.

And over these past few years, I’ve become less and less interested in quantifying my worth by my pants size, my weight, my belief in an unrealistic ideal. I am kind and funny and accomplished in my work, smart and driven and eternally optimistic about the future and the goodness of people. Who the fuck cares if my pants aren’t a size 6? I’m tired of chasing one-dimensional concepts of what I think will make me content. I am enough, just as I am. Beautifully crafted at my core.

It’s hard for me to expose these things about myself, but I want other people to stop hating their bodies, too. And in order to do that, we need to stop feeling so isolated and shut out by it. The garbage we are fed by the culture and the patriarchy about what about bodies should be, and the bogus value assigned to it, are never going to stop, unless we force it. So, for anyone who has ever thought, “Things will be better once I lose weight, I will be better when I lose weight”…I’m with you. I AM you. And I promise you, you are enough. 


Holy crap, we have a baby (the birth story).

So, by now, most of you know that we have been graced with a healthy boy. He came on 6/16, which reallllly helped the fact that I was stumped about a Father’s Day gift for Andy, weighing 9lbs, 6 oz, and measuring 22 inches long. So yeah…he was huge. Nothing went the way I had planned…in fact, I pretty much had every intervention that I hoped to avoid. But, as I said in my birth plan, our ultimate goal was a safe delivery and a healthy baby. We got that.

A few days before he arrived, I started having contractions. Irregular, and nothing major, but surely a sign that things were happening. I dealt with it, went about my business, until Saturday evening around 7 when I thought perhaps my water broke. I mean, I don’t know what the hell that feels like…so how would I know? I called my MD, who told me to head up to the hospital, a 45 minute drive away. We did just that, and once in triage, we were met with a nurse with all the warmth of Miranda Bailey. She asked what was going on, then if I was having any contractions, and when I told her…she rolled her eyes. Oh, it’s on now, I thought. She left for a moment, and I tossed up a middle finger behind her. Long story short, my water had not broken, and so we went home.

We got home at 11:30, I drowned my sorrows in a half bag of mini candy bars, and went to bed. At 2:30, I was woken up by a violent, popping sensation followed by….oh yeah, so THAT’s definitely what your water breaking feels like. Contractions immediately got regular and intensified, so I woke up Andy and off we went, 4 hours after we got home. Once back at the hospital, Miranda Bailey emerged again from behind the curtain, and I decided that I should make a joke to repair our relationship. She laughed, and became a fantastic nurse. My water *had* indeed broken, but there was also meconium staining, so I had to be continuously monitored (intervention #1).

We were admitted to a room, and I struggled really hard to stay on top of the increasingly intense contractions. All that BS they tell you about “getting a break” in between contractions is just that…BS. Mine were coming nonstop, radiating from my stomach to my back, and rendering me paralyzed during the peaks. I tried all my pain management techniques-birthing ball, squatting, walking, you name it. I could barely do anything, but stand perfectly still and shake. At 7am, the words “So, can we talk about drugs?” left my mouth, and within 15 minutes, I had an epidural in, and life was restored (intervention #2). They started my IV fluids, and put a catheter in, which was really quite convenient, not having to bother with a stupid full bladder (interventions #3 and 4).

At 9am, they started me on pitocin (intervention #5), to hasten contractions and dilation. I didn’t want it, but given that there was the risk of issues due to meconium, I kept my mouth shut. By 1pm, I was ready to push. And push I did…for 3 f-ing hours. Dempsey was at -2 station when I started, so he was still up pretty high. And after all that time spent, pushing and shedding all of my human dignity on the table, for all to see…he remained at -2 station. While my MD had herself forearm deep inside me (a real pleasant experience while trying to push), she said, “I’m not shy about telling people they are bad pushers…but you are great. This guy just isn’t budging. You can push another half hour, or we can start taking you back now for a c-section.” Terrified, but exhausted, I agreed (intervention #6). I just wanted him here.

Back in the OR, I was pumped full of more drugs, and my vitals were going wacko, my pulse highly elevated, and my blood pressure vascillating between hypertensive and bottoming out. I watched the conversation that I imagined the anesthesiologist and his assistant were having with their eyes, and became convinced that something was awry. Being a nurse is frequently the bane of my existence, but that was never more true on this day. I laid on that table, carefully cataloging every possible calamity that could affect us. I think I said, “Am I OK?” approximately 456 times, to anyone that came within earshot. Once everything was in place, they got started.

HOLY CRAP-I was not prepared for that sensation. Sure, the drugs numbed the severity of any pain, but I felt literally every movement made. The scalpel across my skin, the pulling, tugging, rearranging, etc. It was making me super anxious, because it almost felt like I was on the edge of actually really feeling it. Pain, that is. Of course I didn’t, but it terrified me every second. At one point, I turned to the super-stiff, formal anesthesiologist standing to my right, put out my arm, and said, “Will you hold my hand?” He obliged, and I heard my doctor let out a little laugh from the other side of the drape. Guess no one asks this guy for physical reassurance on the regs. He asked me if I was scared, and when I told him yes, he patted my head robotically. Nonetheless, I appreciated his attempt. They finally pulled Dempsey out, and lifted him up over the drape so I could see him. His massive body cast a shadow over me, and he was screaming his face off. Holy shit, he’s huge, I thought to myself. They took him to examine him, and I started getting more drugs pumped through me.

“Nine pounds, six ounces!” the nurse shouted. Good lord, I thought. That came out of me?? I started feeling really drugged up, and Andy came to me with the baby. I looked at him, so perfect, and said, “I feel like I am reacting in an inappropriate manner to my child because of all the drugs I’m on.” So, yeah, my pretty standard response-neurotic. The MD came to talk to me and said that they had to take Dempsey to the nursery, because his temperature was slightly elevated, and there was a concern for infection. So, off he went while I was sewn up and went off to recover. Those drugs were amazing, by the way.

After a few hours, I was taken to the nursery to properly meet my son, and attempt to nurse him. Once I saw him, it was all over. I fell in such hard love with that little face, and he fed like a champ from the beginning. Remember those amazing drugs? Yeah, well, while I was feeding him, I remembered that I needed to count his fingers and toes (you know, since the medical staff can’t be trusted), and I counted…SIX TOES on one foot?! “Andy, oh my god, he has six toes!” I shout-whispered. “Yeah, why don’t you take another pass through on that? There are only five”, he said. I did so, and he was right. Thank God. One deformity safely behind us. He had to spend the night in the nursery to get antibiotics, but was able to come stay with us starting the next morning, and it was ultimately determined that he never had an infection, so he would be able to come home on time, with us.

The next few days in the hospital sucked, to be honest. I wasn’t impressed with the care we received in the postpartum unit (but the labor and delivery unit was amazing), and I was a total and utter emotional and physical mess. If the baby cried, I cried. I couldn’t sleep, so I asked the nurses to take the baby in the night and bring him back to feed. Once they took him, I cried, feeling like a deadbeat mom for passing my baby off to strangers. Never mind that when I worked in L&D, I always encouraged moms to take advantage of the built-in assistance while they could. Oh, and then there was my first postpartum shower.

Once I was able to shower, I was anxious to do so, and the midwife told Andy to make sure that he was able to assist me, because I would need it. I took this to mean that he might stand sentry on the other side of the curtain, should I need help, but what this REALLY meant, was that I showered with the curtain open, with him physically helping me complete this task. The real icing on the cake? The giant, full-length mirror directly on the other side of the tub, allowing me to see my swollen-in-some-places, deflated-in-others body in all its glory. I have never felt less attractive in my entire life. Oh, and those Shrek feet and ankles that wouldn’t quit didn’t help, either.

After a few days, we were finally sprung from that wretched hospital room, and went home. The next week or so continued to be a blur of no sleep, discomfort, tears and anxiety (and Shrek feet), but that shall be saved for another post, because I feel like there’s so much to say, that often isn’t said about this point in time. We’re slowly but surely adjusting to life with a baby, and despite all my worry and doubt, I am assured he is a happy and healthy little boy. Nothing went as planned, but we got everything we wanted. Funny how life works out that way, sometimes.

Months 3-6: Times, they are a-changin’.

Today marks my entry into the third trimester. A line I’m crossing happily, but also with a bad limp, and slightly winded. The past three months have been full of transformations, realizations, and, well…sugar. Lots of it. But, that’s neither here nor there. So, a few highlights on this journey:

For those of you not in the know, we’re having a boy. I felt all along that it was a boy, and also (not so) secretly hoped it was. Girls-they’re great and all, but I just don’t feel excited about pink, and dance lessons, and her slamming her bedroom door in my face at 15 years old when I ask her how her day was. Of course, I know he will come with his own set of challenges, but that’s stuff I can handle (scoffs naively). Or outsource to his dad. His name will be Dempsey, a name we both love, and were able to decide on easily. Not common, but also not “Pilot Inspektor” weird, either. And his middle name will be Reid, which is Andy’s mother’s family name. I like the history and significance of that. So, one tiny task down. He has a name!

I no longer recognize my body. Over the past three months, my stomach has grown to (what I perceive as) epic proportions, my back feels like someone started a garbage fire in my spinal column, my boobs are huge(r), and nearly everything winds me. I stood in front of the mirror before getting into the shower the other day, and marveled for a minute. It’s certainly not disdain or disgust I feel, because let’s face it-growing a human is a pretty powerful, amazing thing we do, but it was more like, “Is this ever going to go away?” It feels like I’ve always been pregnant, and will always be. Perhaps this is the pre-cursor to me feeling like I can’t remember what my life was like before him. Or, more likely, it’s because all I want is some effing brie, and a bottle of the smokiest red I can get my hands on. And what a glorious day that shall be. I’m also excited about the prospect of painting my toes again, without requiring a nebulizer treatment.

Humiliation 1: For the first few months of my pregnancy, I saw the nurse practitioner at my practice, a woman who I adore. She is warm, and engaged/engaging, and kind, and willing to answer any questions I have. I loved visiting with her. So, the last time I saw her (two visits ago), I brought up my mother’s illness, and how I worry about how that affects my body and the baby, because of the stress it puts on me. We had a great conversation that helped put me at ease, and she shared the fact that her father faced a very similar situation. Of course I cried a ton, because that’s something I do all the time anyway now, but I felt better. I stood up to leave, and thus started the “I think we’re going to shake hands, but you now feel obligated to hug me, given the conversation we just had” dance. We got entangled in this weird embrace that felt like it lasted for 5 minutes, and also ended with her kissing my cheek, which I don’t really think she intended to do. My face was aflame with embarrassment-I don’t particularly like physical interaction with people I’m not close to, and this was off the charts weird. Totally well-intentioned, but just really awkward. So, with that, I decided that when making my next appointment, now was the time to start rotating through the physicians in the practice. Now when I see the NP at the office, we can share a quick smile and wave from a safe distance, and go about our business.

Humiliation 2: I got a packet of stuff in the mail, that was mostly pregnancy/child-related deals, coupons, etc. So, a few of them were for free crap, like baby slings and a nursing cover. So I thought, why not? I hopped online, ordered them up, raised an eyebrow at the URL of the nursing cover website, but otherwise moved along. The next day, I paid some bills online, then ran over to the mall to pick up the iPhone 5. I made my intentions clear to the sales guy, rebuffing all his offers of additional accessories (no, I don’t want that wood-veneered Bluetooth device, OR that terrible phone case), and handed over my card to pay. Declined. Wait, what? I asked him to run it again, please, and again…declined. So, that of course embarrassed me, and I asked him to hold tight while I ran to the satellite office that my bank has in the mall. The girl at the window informed me of my balance, which was exactly what I thought it was, and allowed me to make a cash withdrawal, but also told me that maybe I should call ‘fraud protection’, because sometimes they place holds on cards that aren’t immediately visible. Having had my identity conveniently stolen previously, during Christmas 2011, my stomach tightened. Not again.
I ran back, picked up the new phone, and then got into the car, and called fraud protection. Todd, who was most likely not older than 21, took my call. He informed me that they had tracked some potentially odd purchases, and locked my card as a precaution. So, then he started to read them off to me to verify. Yes, I said, as he read 3 purchases off that were legit. Then, he says, “And this next one from “ooo, oooo-der covers.com?” “What?” I asked, and he repeated himself. “Oooodder covers?” Jesus. Oh my God. That stupid nursing cover I picked up online had a shipping charge associated with it, which I placed on my card. My face flamed red again, and I cleared my throat, trying to be an adult. “Um, it’s uddercovers.com.” “Oh, um…”, he said. “Look, don’t worry about it, it’s legit, nothing to be concerned about,” I said. I heard him take a breath in, to start speaking again. Oh my god, I thought, we are going to keep discussing this, aren’t we? “Well, usually, odd-sounding websites trigger us that something isn’t right. People’s cards get stolen and used for porn sites, stuff like th-” I stopped him. “Whoa, no no. This isn’t that sort of thing. It’s a baby site. For nursing covers,” I said. “Uh, um, yeah, well, OK, as long as it’s a purchase you made,” he hesitated. Clearly, he wanted this done as much as I did. “OK, great, thanks for your help. Are we all set then?” I asked. Given an affirmation, I hung up. Just another incident in an increasingly-long string of things I never imagined having to participate in. I guess given all the indignities that I will have to endure over the coming years, this is small potatoes. But, God, come on.

So, that’s where I am. This is all starting to get very real to me, signing up for childbirth classes, and not being able to tie my shoes without assistance. It’s scary, but it’s exciting. I can’t wait for him to be here, to figure out what our new normal looks like. And stay tuned-my friend Angie and I recently decided to attend a La Leche League meeting, which ended up being a totally hilarious (and slightly terrifying) debacle. But, that’s its own post.

Happy Sunday, ya’ll.

This is out of hand.


Alright, come on. I stumbled across this tonight, while perusing feeding supplies, and I have the following problems with it:

1)the full hair and makeup.
2)the skim milk/Elmer’s glue in the bottles.
3)the Hollywood attachment of the pump, looking like it’s sitting below the nipple.
4) the fact that it’s called a “bustier”. Do not try to sexualize or normalize such a ridiculous contraption.

I get the fact that it’s a tool of convenience, but I’d feel even more weird about essentially being milked, if it were occurring hands-free. That said, I reeeeeally need this so that I can re-create this photo for all my friends. And those anti-feminists….look at me! Women can have it all! Whee! I’ve got a milker AND a MacBook! Independent woman!

Any of you guys own this? If so, lets make a coffee table book of all of us in that same pose.

Happy Holidaze.

It appears that I’ve survived another Christmas.  Another year of rushing around for gifts, vowing to “start early” next year, and ultimately forgetting that idea once I see that people are digging the things I bought them.  Pffft, I work best under pressure. Although, I did do most of my shopping in November this year, which technically is early for me.  Maybe once I’m wearing my Mom hat next year, I’ll be magically motivated to get it done in September.  More likely, though, I’ll forget Christmas is happening until approximately 27 hours prior.

Christmas felt a little off this year.  I think it’s a combination of things-my mom being sick (and fresh out of the hospital, after a week-long stay), Matthew, Jess and Jack not being around, and the general feeling that no one was really into any of it.  It’s such a stark contrast to the way Christmas felt when I was a kid.  I know that’s part of the deal that comes with adulthood, but sometimes I wish I could get even just a drop of it back.  Everyone has been telling me that once you have a child of your own, Christmas feels like magic again.  I look forward to that, being able to see the holidays through the lens of a child.

It’s been a very difficult year for me, in a lot of ways that are not worth delving into.  I was sitting here this morning, reflecting on how much life changes in twelve short months.  During my Christmas break last year, I sat parked on the sofa for most of it, eating candy, drinking wine and watching all the seasons of Mad Men.  This morning, I spent nearly three hours researching strollers and breast pumps, before deciding on (and registering for) them.  Last year, my normal jeans fit me.  This year, I only fit into jeans that lack a zipper and have a panel that pulls all the way up to my ribs.  A side note about aforementioned jeans: 1)I’ve developed a very deep love affair with them-their comfort makes up for their hidden horrible-ness; 2)I am continually shocked by how many people have asked me to pull up my shirt so they can get a better look at that f-ing panel.

Anyway, my point is…we’re taken down roads that we don’t expect.  And this year has made me a little gun-shy about anticipating what might come next, but it’s my hope that it’s nothing but goodness and love and light.  And I wish the same for all of you-I hope 2013 brings you joy and health.  Thanks for sharing little glimpses of my life with me.

From the Baby Growing Files: The First Three Months.

I stared down at the test, that test that turned positive the very second it had the opportunity to, and thought-Huh. That is happening.  Then laughed-like a maniac. Like Kristen Wiig’s character in Bridesmaids when Maya Rudolph’s character tells her she’s engaged.  A crazy person laugh. Who in the universe thinks I’m suitable to parent a child?  It’s one of those scenarios where you’re at that age where you make the decision not to try, per se, but not to not try.  So, while it may eliminate some of the stress of trying, it also terrifies the shit  out of you when it actually happens.  Delusional as it is, I don’t feel old enough to be a parent.  I like to sleep in, and read for 4 hours straight, man.  How’s that going to work?

And oh, what a time o’ learnin’ it’s been for me so far. Some things I’ve discovered:

1)For someone with a pretty nasty temper as a baseline, my rage has reached hair trigger proportions that surprise even me.  Make a stupid mistake at work? You should lay low from me for a few days. Say something thoughtless, no matter how well-intentioned? You should probably get a helmet. And please, PLEASE don’t make me repeat myself, or worse, tell me I’m wrong. I will kill you.

2)Method cucumber-scented dish soap is the worst smell in my world.  Second, of course, to the sudden onslaught of unwashed humans I seem to encounter everywhere.

3) I am never going to stop being sick. Ever again.

4)My body has betrayed me around every corner.  The sickness, the fatigue, weird aches and pains and stretching and joint stiffness. And everything is so…cumbersome. I am not used to having to take it easy when I don’t want to, move slower, not lift things.  And where the hell are all those veins coming from?

5)Babies require a ton of shit.  In the past few days, I have ventured online to check out registry items…and it’s terrifying.  How the hell do you even start? I need a framework, or flowchart, or something.  And possibly a flare gun for when I actually enter one of these stores.  Hooter Hider Nursing Cover…I think I’ll pass. And why is baby stuff so…babyish? I don’t do frilly and cartoonish and animal motifs…and neither shall Jenn H 2.0.

6)People are realllll comfortable giving unsolicited advice, from their throne of parenting perspective.  To you folks, see item #1 above.

Now that I’m heading into my second trimester, the reality of all this is settling in.  I am going to be responsible for navigating life for another human.  Me, who can’t even wrap a gift properly.   And it’s not the safety and health of a baby that scares me-I have that down pat, that’s the easy part.  It’s raising a good person. A smart, empathetic, well-rounded, strong, happy person.  That’s a big job.  So, I’m off on this path, not quite sure how I’ll navigate it, but I think I’m ready. Or at least I will be.  For now, though, I’m focusing on growing this little person…and trying to keep myself from ripping someone’s head off in the process.