Second pregnancy woes
Earlier this week I stumbled upon my also pregnant next-door neighbor on the sidewalk. She was on her way to pick up her son at daycare; I was running back home from therapy hoping to have a quiet lunch before Yann-Yves came back with S. (Side note: Yann-Yves and I have hit the next-door neighbor jackpot: they’re one of the loveliest couples we’ve ever met, we share a number of interests and they actually give us flour when we run out of it).
We hit off a short exchange with the general polite conversation starter: “How are you doing?”. A question which you can’t help but answer honestly at any stage of a pregnancy. Her at 4 months of her second pregnancy and me at 8, we could definitely agree on one thing - being pregnant for the second time isn’t a walk in the park. Caring for a toddler (their son is around 4 months older than S) takes the glow out of you, and exhaustion tends to be the most common denominator throughout the whole 9 months. The time and energy I had to consciously relish my pregnancy through meditation and prenatal yoga when I was expecting S, a luxury even then, is now basically inexistent. I struggle wondering how this might affect my daughter (if, of course, at all).
We talked about how time passes so much faster the second time around. With S I felt so ready for his birth, but now that I know just how hard caring for a newborn is and the toll that it took on me physically and emotionally during the first month postpartum, I am urging time to slow down a bit. She had a hard third trimester the last time around, and is also apprehensive about what’s to come.
One of the many things “everyone tells you” is that each pregnancy is entirely unique, and they are right. This one started off completely different from my first, with intense morning sickness and general fatigue (which I took as clues that I am expecting a girl). I’ve also had to go to the emergency a couple of times due to unusual pains and a stomach bug. By now, at 32 weeks, I have started getting Braxton Hicks contractions, something I didn’t have at all while pregnant with S. The other night, as Yann-Yves and I were getting him ready for bed, I sneezed and peed a little. For the third time this week. I didn’t even need to pee! It wasn’t even a big sneeze! I’ve been doing my kegels! I cussed at myself. My body is able to nurture life from scratch, but apparently can’t hold back a little pee anymore. Plus, everything hurts at the moment. I took a deep breath. And at last remembered to be kinder with this body of mine.
It takes effort to keep in mind and act upon things I’ve been learning about myself through therapy. For instance, to accept and overrule my overwhelming feeling of guilt, and come to terms with the fact that, indeed, I too need rest. I need help. And that’s ok. During my short exchange with my neighbor, I couldn’t help but to be blunt about how hard it is to accept that although women have been bearing and birthing children for thousands of years in much rougher contexts, I am still allowed to feel tired, and vulnerable, and even sad at times. She couldn’t agree more. She mentioned that this was one of the key takeaways from her first pregnancy - trusting your body and admitting to yourself what and when you need something. It’s much easier said than done.
The silly guilt I felt each time I napped this past week stems from the knowledge that women everywhere have it much harder than I do. I stopped working at 30 weeks with both pregnancies. I have a supportive husband who is also a parent (i.e. he doesn’t “help” me with S - he’s his father, S is our responsibility, not mine). I have a roof over my head and food in the fridge. I am healthy. And yet I’m exhausted and wonder at times, for a fraction of a second, what the hell did I get myself into.
Does admitting this to myself, and now others, make me less resilient? I’m not sure. Do I even have the energy to care at this point?
S has an imperfect mother, and soon his sister will too. My limitations are for me to carry, and for us learn how to deal with them as a family. But one thing I know for sure: I will love them with every fiber of my being in my perfectly imperfect way until the day I cease to exist, and I can only hope that’s enough.
My neighbor and I both needed to run off, and as we parted ways I could only hope she’d taken as much solace in our brief exchange as I had. We are both incredibly grateful for the lives in our wombs and most definitely do not take them for granted, but like any woman, we are also entitled to a range of other feelings and emotions, some less pleasant than others. We are only human after all.
The 24-week mark
I wrote the short reflection below a few weeks ago. By now I am quickly approaching the third trimester, but the feelings remain true. I hope this resonates with you, too.
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I guess that most women who have been pregnant, or people interested in the topic somehow, know how much of a milestone reaching the 24th week is.
During my first pregnancy, I eagerly awaited this moment. Being 24 weeks pregnant means that, statistically, your baby has a good chance of survival with no long-term problems if she were to be born. All major organs are substantially formed by now, and for the next 16 or so weeks the baby is mostly fattening up (and, of course, developing her brain, practicing breathing, growing her lungs etc. - but you get the idea).
There are so many worries throughout pregnancy that one really holds on to every opportunity to breathe a little easier, at least figuratively. As the kicks get stronger, and the bump becomes undeniable, you become more confident in your body’s capacity to nurture this new life.
Even if you’ve already nurtured a life before, you’re constantly reminded that every pregnancy is indeed unique, and that each and every milestone should be celebrated accordingly. At least for me, this time as in the last time, knowing my baby is growing stronger means that I am growing stronger, too. I ultimately become my own favorite alter ego: a fatigued, waddling, life-bearing badass rockstar.
24 weeks is also a time when you’re clearly pregnant. “Move over, people! Pregnant lady coming through!” is what I tell myself as I waddle down the street. It’s beyond my control - I can’t help but feel important. Personally, I have never felt more confident in my own body than when pregnant. I don’t have to make excuses for my thick calves (they’re swollen) or my round belly (obviously). My body is at its most beautiful while creating another life - it’s mind blowing. For some reason I become prone to taking bikini pictures and showing off my stomach at every opportunity. I become proud, the good kind of proud; the kind that I must nonetheless consciously stick to postpartum as well.
There are plenty of annoyances and challenges to be experienced during pregnancy, don’t get me wrong. But it has its upsides too, obviously, and I feel like these must be discussed and acknowledged at every opportunity. During my first pregnancy just as now, I know I’ll miss my bump and how empowered it makes me feel. The difference now is that I don’t know if I’ll get to experience this again, as we plan on sticking to being a family of four. It’s a bittersweet feeling. It’s also a welcome daily reminder to live in the present - something I terribly need.
To my daughter
From the moment I found out that I am pregnant, I knew I am having a girl. This pregnancy has been wildly different from my first one, but not only because of that. Call it mysticism or what may, but I just knew. Like I also always knew that S would be a boy.
So back in August, towards the end of the first trimester, I wrote a little something for our daughter. I hoped with all my might that my intuition was right - but could we be that lucky? After two contradictory doctor’s appointments where one said she’s a she and another he’s a he, I became skeptical of my own gut (or womb) feeling. At that point I just wanted my baby to be healthy, because to be honest what’s between its legs is to me merely a detail in any case.
It took us over 21 weeks to finally confirm that she is indeed a “she”, and for me to admit that, if I were given a choice, I would have chosen a baby girl this time around all along. After all, who runs the world?
—
Here’s what I wrote back when I still had nothing but a motherly inkling:
Hello Baby Girl,
Please let your mama first and foremost apologize for not having written to you sooner. Being pregnant with you has been a completely different experience from being pregnant with your brother, and it took me a little longer to feel a bit more in charge - although you're still absolutely taking the reins.
Also let me assure you that you are so loved. I have prayed, to the best of my agnostic abilities, to get pregnant with you. Your father and I may jokingly say that we were "rolling the dice", but honestly, you are in no way, shape or form an accident. You're the product of love, thoughtfulness, and faith.
Just like with your brother, I truly try not to have any expectations for you other than health and happiness. The world is just as tough, if not tougher, than when we first learned the news about your brother's presence in my womb. Some have called your parents "brave", by which they probably truly meant "reckless" or "crazy" for desiring so bad to have you in our lives while your brother is still so young. Personally, I believe the right word for us would be "optimistic", as well as perhaps "blindly faithful" of the joy that your presence will bring not only to our lives, but also to this sometimes gloomy world.
That said, if I do get to have one wish granted it would be that you and your brother get along. Not all the time, because I'm realistic, but that at the end of the day you do have each other's back. I deeply hope that you love, cherish, and support each other like only siblings can. As I mentioned, the world can be scary, but being able to unconditionally count on someone makes our experience in it so much lighter and brighter.
I have no other way to express my gratitude for your existence than to acknowledge how blessed we are to have you in our lives.
We love you, baby girl.
And bump makes us four
A few days before going home to Rio for a month back in June, I wasn't being myself. I was extremely emotional, stressed out, and just overall "off". Maybe it was the early summer heat, or the stress of an upcoming long-haul flight by myself with my then 10 month-old. Or maybe it wasn't. I decided to take a pregnancy test, and the very faint plus sign confirmed my by now educated suspicion - I am pregnant again!
An emotional rollercoaster succeeded the initial shock, which is why it has been so quiet around here lately. As we slowly started sharing the news with close friends and family, we've learned to develop a thicker skin after repeatedly hearing a number of variations on the theme of "oh you're brave" and "was it an accident*?". These were often accompanied by substantially less enthusiastic "congratulations" than the first time around.
*I know that no harm was meant with the question, but no - it wasn't an "accident". An "accident" is, to me, something that I would generally like to avoid. A second child, on the contrary, is a wish YY and I have always shared and will luckily welcome with open hearts and arms.
The truth is, the world in which we live is a confusing, often nasty, but also weirdly wonderful and humbling place - and that combination won't likely change. We can't decide if we're highly optimistic, brave, selfish or simply crazy for desiring badly to expand our little family, but one thing we do know is that now is as good a time as ever to do it.
Our babies will be 19 months apart and in February 2019 we will find ourselves responsible for "two under two", as they say. I would be lying if I said that the prospective of caring for two tiny beings at once doesn't scare me. I also think that my enthusiasm has been substantially curbed in the past two months by the ongoing nausea, migraine, extremely low blood pressure and, the one symptom that got to me the most, constipation. Add that mix to the European summer heatwave, and you get a pregnant lady and mama who could barely open her eyes or get out of bed, let alone find the motivation to stir up her creative juices and write with an ideal frequency.
With the beginning of the second trimester I'm now feeling some much deserved relief, so here I am. I am also back at work, and discovering the joy and challenge of being the working mother of a one year-old while nurturing a second precious being in my womb. This would be the subject for a whole other post, though.
For now, we shall enjoy our time as a family of three while preparing physically and emotionally to welcome our member number 4, and we will gladly take in enthusiastic congratulations in the meantime. If my second pregnancy had indeed been an accident, it would've been the happiest, albeit also the most challenging, of them all.
Flying while pregnant
I've been meaning to write this post for a while, as I had a very hard time finding solid information on the topic back when I was pregnant. You'd think that the Internet would have more to offer pregnant women in their third trimester who are about to go on a 15-hour plane ride by themselves - but alas, it doesn't.
As some of you might know, my husband and I decided early into the pregnancy that our son would be born in Rio, Brazil (my hometown). Because Germany is an amazing place to live and work and make babies, I managed to combine my pre-partum 6-week paid leave with part of my yearly holidays in order to travel at 30 weeks pregnant. The downside? I would be traveling by myself on a long-haul flight, and I couldn't find any information from women who had done it, other than on a few obscure Yahoo forums from 10 years ago. Needless to say, it wasn't enough to reassure me - but I went ahead and did it anyway. Here's my experience.
This is me a few days before I left for Rio. I should start off by saying that, overall, I had a very easygoing pregnancy - other than two gestational diabetes scares and loads of heartburn. At this point I was 30 weeks pregnant, and still had loads of energy (in fact, I walked about 8km that very day).
At that moment, the thought of the trip didn't scare me as much as it had a few months before, when in an 100% leap of faith I booked the non-refundable ticket to Rio while having no clue how I'd be feeling once the travel day actually came (i.e. the same sort of calculated recklessness that pushed me to get a tattoo in Tokyo while on a 2-week touristy trip).
But as I said, I take calculated risks. I did lots of research in the months leading up to the trip in order to be as prepared as possible, and I learned a few things that proved essential to my well-being during those gruesome 15+ traveling hours.
1. Compression socks are vital
I read time and again about the importance of compression socks, and I'm happy I took it seriously. Although I'd be flying way before the "deadline" for pregnant women*, I knew that just by being pregnant and on my third trimester I was at a risk of developing Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT) during my long flight, so I didn't hesitate to get my hands on some quality compression socks. I went to a pharmacy, got my measurements taken and left with compression tights (the kind that covers your belly and all). DO NOT get the kind goes only all the way up to your thighs, unless having them rolling down all the time/having your legs look like sausages is your thing.
*This varies according to the airline company, but it's normally 36 weeks, unless you're carrying multiples.
2. Fly Business Class (if you can)
Yes, this is an outrageous luxury, but one that you won't regret spending your money on if you can and if you must fly long-haul while massively pregnant. This information was nowhere to be found during my research, but I assumed that being able to stretch my swollen legs and lay down on my side would be a really good investment, and it was. The only downside was not being able to indulge on the complementary pre take-off champagne (hey KLM, you owe me one).
3. Travel during the day
Newsflash: You can't sleep on your long-haul flight. As in, you literally shouldn't. In order to avoid DVT, one of the most important things to do is to get up and stretch/walk around every half hour or so (I set up my timer and all, that's how serious I was about this). Since you won't be able sleep, and will also likely be preventing other passengers from sleeping by getting up all the time, it really does make sense to travel during the day, if possible. I flew from Munich to Rio via Amsterdam with KLM because, although it's a longer route, it was the only option that allowed me to travel during daytime. No regrets here.
4. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate
Yet another often repeated recommendation when it comes to avoiding DVT, and another one that I followed to the letter. Once I was past security at the airport, I made sure to buy THREE LITERS of water for my flight. Since the Amsterdam-Rio flight takes about 12 hours, I made sure to be done with each liter every 4 hours. I know, I know, I can be very anal about these things, but...
The outcome
Other than the constant getting up, having compression socks compressing my bladder and continuous need to pee it was one of the best flights of my life (I guess flying business class does that to you regardless of how pregnant you are). Joking aside, the moment I got on the plane I decided to relax and follow my above outlined plan, and arrived in Rio feeling well-rested and not at all swollen. I was legitimately surprised by how well I felt, and I would do it again in a heartbeat if presented with a similar opportunity and context.
The one takeaway from my experience is that feeling prepared goes a long way in such situations - and holding onto even a tiny bit of control can do wonders. I truly hope that this somewhat recent, personal account helps you feel more prepared and in control than the Yahoo forums ever could. Safe travels!
Reclaiming my body
I find myself reminiscing about my pregnancy surprisingly often. Despite the anxiety, migraine and heartburn my bump generated, I did love the feeling of meditating while focusing on my son, or the thrill I felt every time he kicked. I cherished every moment knowing that he would never be that close to me again. There's also nothing quite like the pampering one gets while sporting an obvious bun in the oven (to the point of being bumped up to first class on a flight).
But the truth is, during all of 2017 I was basically my son's host. I went into my pregnancy pitifully naive, with little to no knowledge of just how much my body would change, and how little control I would have over it for many months to come.
For starters, my diet changed. I went from being vegetarian to shameful omnivore for my son's sake. It was a lose/lose situation: I felt lazy and guilty for compromising my personal ethic and palate, but knew that if my baby had any developmental issues due to my diet I would never ever be able to live with myself. I couldn't take any risks. Testing negative for toxoplasmosis also meant that I had to be super extra careful around salads, my favorite cheeses AND my cat. From one day to the next I became not only a meat-eater, but a massively annoying germaphobe.
My fitness level also, naturally, changed. Prior to finding out I was pregnant, I would take my bike to work almost every day. I would often go to the gym before work, too. I loved realizing that I could lift more weight than many guys in my body pump classes. Alas, none of that remained the same. I still worked out up to the week before my son's birth, but at a much slower, lighter, non-demanding - frankly, boring - level. My body was already busy working on the greatest challenge it could ever undertake.
Finally, I had little control over my brain, too. "Pregnancy brain" is not a myth, at least in my experience. I was horribly affected by a crippling anxiety, and struggled to retain some balance, especially in the first trimester.
All in all, being pregnant was a bliss and a pain, the most wonderful and testing experience - i.e. a great appetizer for what life with an infant would come to be.
Because, of course, a breastfeeding mother cannot reclaim her body just like that, either. My son's pediatrician ordered me to keep on eating animal protein - and, once again, I wouldn't take any chances. There is a loooong list of forbidden foods and activities for nursing mothers, too. Not to mention local beliefs (in Brazil, it's said that eating chocolate can lead to your baby having colic; in Germany, they believe that working out too much leads to the milk turning sour).
Which is why my son's 6th "monthversary" is a truly exciting occasion for me. Not only does he have massive milestones coming up right around the corner, the pressure is also (a little bit) off as I hit a personal breastfeeding turning point. 2018 is hence, for me, the year to take over my body once again. To become vegetarian, to lift heavy weights, to run a semi-marathon if I wish to. To drink all the wine and eat all the cheese. To be powered by coffee. It is, second only to being a mother, the year of redefining who I am to myself.
At almost 6 months postpartum, I haven't reached my pre-pregnancy weight yet, and I'm honestly dreadfully far from it. My pants do fit with some extra effort and some tucking in, but my body still feels off. And it's frustrating to come off on the other side of 1+ year of constant, uncontrollable change still "feeling off". Of course, it's all more than worth it and I would do it all again in a heartbeat - but still, let's not forget that mothers are individuals. With a body. With a mind. And with a hell of a learning curve before landing on a new "normal". On a new identity, an idea of self, an acceptance of what we see in the mirror, and who we are beyond that.
This year, I may not reclaim my time or my sleep (will I ever?). But I'm proudly rediscovering, reconnecting, redefining - reclaiming my body. And also my mind. My soul. For I must constantly remind myself that in this new normal I am S's proud and loving mother, but I am also so much more.
Photo credit: Carolina Goetz
Saying hello to baby
I found out I was pregnant a year ago this week. It had been 10 days since my wedding, and I'd been half-jokingly telling my husband that maybe we should "start trying". No one around me thought I had a way with children (and I didn't either), yet I've always wanted to be a mother.
I wrote a heartfelt note to my baby on the night I discovered I was expecting:
"Hello Baby,
As I write this, on November 9th 2016, you're supposedly a tiny little speck the size of a poppy seed, and you've just made yourself cozy in my uterus. I say "supposedly" because all proof we have of your existence so far consists of salmon cravings, some dizziness, tender breasts, cramps, and 3 positive pregnancy tests. Yet, you've already managed to turn our world upside down.
Yesterday at the office, you spoke to me. I heard your faint, soft whisper, and it said "you're pregnant". I had always wondered if I would feel different, if I would have been able to tell before any test could confirm. Thank you for letting me know.
The moment I tested positive with you, I thought I was going to faint. You see, your daddy and I weren't planning for you to come this early, although we did already talk about you a lot. Daddy and I have been married for less than 2 weeks, which means that you were there, too, quietly forming our little family with us. And now here you are, making yourself known. Everything else has become unimportant in one instant.
I wish I could give you good news about the world you're being born into, but I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess at the moment. One of your 3 countries has just elected a big bully and a villain, which makes us feel both scared and queasy about the future. Yet I can't help but smile, and dream, and rejoice. A world where you exist is a world worth living in. Thank you for giving us hope."
We must talk about the C-word
Let's kick it off by making one thing clear: If you think I didn't "give birth" to my son because I had a c-section, please leave.
This being 2017, isn't it about time that we end the stigma against c-sections? Hasn't it been proved time and again that this isn't by any means an easy way out? And even if it was - shouldn't one have a choice? Why must we glamourise pain, and devalue any birthing experience that doesn't necessarily involve copious amounts of swearing at doctors or midwives?
To be completely honest, for most of my pregnancy I was a bit in denial that my baby would sooner or later somehow have to come out. I didn't set off wishing for a c-section. Natural births and all that aren't my cup of tea either, but I was set on the idea that I'd have a "normal birth" with an epidural and all would be well. Alas, it didn't go quite as planned.
Despite living in Germany, my husband and I decided that our son would be born in Rio (to the shock and confusion of many around us). My life-long gynecologist had been my mom's obstetrician, i.e. the doctor who once performed the c-section that brought me onto this very world. In this crazy international life that my French-American husband and I lead, the decision to give birth to our son where I myself had been born and raised just felt right. Knowing my doctor would be there gave me the trust and confidence I lacked back in Munich, which was more than enough reason to go back home. We have zero regrets - but now I'm diverging. This topic deserves a post on its own.
Once I flew to Rio at around 30 weeks pregnant, I had to recognize my own veiled prejudice during the first in-person appointment with my obstetrician. The moment I told him I'd like a "normal" birth, he said he isn't a big fan of the term, as it implies that c-sections aren't normal. He prefers to call it vaginal birth instead. Touché.
As the weeks went on and my son's predicted birth weight reached 3.8kg, the thought of vaginal birth started making me uneasy. I never feared the pain or pooping-while-delivering-baby. It was articles about women who ended up with urinary incontinence for life, tried numerous reconstructive surgeries and finally got divorced due to a destroyed sex life that haunted me. Other articles affirmed that "your vagina will NEVER be the same - but that's ok!!! :)". Hm. I'd failed miserably at doing kegels consistently during my pregnancy (I know, I know). Alright, I was doomed.
As I discussed my fears with my doctor, he flat-out said exactly what I needed to hear: "It's your vagina, your choice. Not mine or your husband's, or anyone else's really, but yours". This no-bullshit attitude made every penny spent on my ticket to Rio worth it. At that moment, I still had a choice.
If I opted for a c-section, it would have to be scheduled for the due date or later - not one day earlier. It is often presumed that women and doctors opt for c-sections so that babies can be born sooner, at the most convenient date, with a quick cut of a knife. Not my case.
Anyhow, at this point I wasn't convinced that this was what I wanted. What I really hoped was for my son to decide when he was ready to join us. I wanted to go into labor, to feel contractions. I wanted my water to break in an awkward situation (While out for dinner! During a stroll at the mall!) and have confused onlookers cheer me on as I ugly-cried of joy. Vaginal birth or whatever - I just wanted a healthy, full-term, strong baby, ready to come out.
But life doesn't quite work like that, does it? The 38th week ultrasound showed that our baby had the umbilical cord looped twice around his neck. He was perfectly fine otherwise, but now the c-section was a reality. At first I felt oddly and guiltily relieved; I had a legitimate excuse to let my vagina be. However, as the due date approached and I showed no signs of labor, I started to grieve my lack of options.
To be honest, not one woman I know has actually opted for a c-section. Yet most of them feel somehow guilty, or somewhat embarrassed, for needing to go down that road.
I still held on to the hope that at least I'd go into labor up to the very last minute of July 12th. I never did. My son was born via c-section in the morning of July 13th. I know the moment was right, though I joke that he really didn't want to leave the womb. But his lungs were already perfectly formed, and meconium was starting to leak, so there was no reason to wait any longer.
I do still wish I'd gone into labor. After 9 months of reading everything there is about "how to differentiate Braxton-Hicks from real contractions" or "when to call your doctor and head to the hospital", it is obviously frustrating to miss out on the experience. But still, I was there.
My body had nurtured a new life from scratch, and there I was, being cut open so he could come out safely. I got a cold on that very day and felt life I would die with every cough post-op. The first pee after they removed the catheter made me cry (think full bladder being emptied drop by drop). And you know what they say about "feeling like your organs are going to come out through the scar when you poop for the first time"? Totally true.
Now you wonder if I regret getting a c-section? Not for a second. As my scar heals, I sleep as soundly as it's possible with an infant, knowing that my private parts have never been better. But c-sections are still massively intrusive surgeries, and I never felt as scared as I did while lying tied down on the operating table, fully aware and feeling perfectly fine, while getting a spinal tap and about to be cut open. The risks are real, and the recovery sucks.
Long story short: I would love to deliver my second baby "vaginally" once the day comes - pain, poop, incontinence and all. I would also love to not feel less of a mother if things don't go as planned, for what should really matter is that we're here, and we're ok.
