The fascinating female anatomy

I saw the image above of a woman’s milk ducts multiple times on my Facebook feed last week - the first time while nursing my daughter, nonetheless. “How”, I immediately wondered, “can this be right under my skin, feeding my baby, right at this moment? How was I never taught this in school? How did I never read about this or see a similar image in the many - many - pregnancy books I’ve read in the past couple of years?”

It is a mesmerizing image. Many of the articles which shared it had comments from people who didn’t believe it was true. Some people, women even, were disgusted by it. Others commented on how the milk ducts look like flesh flowers. I, personally, was just in awe.

During both of my postpartum periods (still ongoing), my biggest struggle has been to come to terms with my new body. This is a body that doesn’t fit in most of my old clothes. It’s a body that took 10 months to feel like my own after S’s birth, and who knows how long it’ll take for this feeling to come back this time around. It’s also a body that nurtured two lives from scratch. It’s a body that continues to nourish, via milk ducts very similar to the ones picture above, a baby whose fat little rolls make me so proud.

Accepting vs. honoring my own body is a real, non-negligible struggle. It takes conscious effort to acknowledge and sympathize with how much it has gone through in the past two years. Both of my pregnancies were “easy” by comparison, which in turn makes it harder to come to terms with the monumental toll they took on my body. Producing rich, nourishing milk is another feat short of a miracle. Did you know that a woman’s body will take all nutrients the baby needs from her own stores to produce milk, regardless of whether she has enough for herself? Breastfeeding is in fact nutritiously more taxing on a woman’s body than pregnancy itself. No wonder there have been days (weeks, months) in which I felt depleted and occasionally defeated. If only I wasn’t so distressed by the image I currently see in the mirror, I should probably pat myself on the back.

Don’t get me wrong. I am proud of my babies. I am all for empowering women. It would be hypocritical of me to be hard on my own body while telling other women to love theirs, just because my old clothes once again don’t fit quite right. But I would also be lying - to myself, most importantly - if I didn’t admit that I’ve been conditioned to believe that I should “bounce back” after birth. That I am not disappointed every time I step on the scale and erroneously believe for a split second that I should’ve “shed the baby weight” by now. I remember wondering if I’d ever feel good in my own skin again months after giving birth to S. I now know that I will, but that doesn’t make this ambivalent transitional postpartum period any easier.

I was recently asked what I wished for all postpartum women. I said I wished they would be kinder to their own bodies, starting in their own minds, regardless of societal pressures. I said I wished that for myself. It is certainly what I wish for my daughter. Though I’m not quite there yet, I do wish those flesh flowers work as a reminder to us all that the female body is simply fascinating, regardless of its past, present or future shape or size.

The postpartum daze

There’s been so much I’ve wanted to write about since giving birth to our lovely L almost two months ago. But it has taken me this long to be able to sit down, and try to digest and process what I went through - what L and I went through. Only now, 8 weeks later, I am feeling a little more confident and able to organize my thoughts a little better. But even now, I keep reading these lines over and over again in order to convince myself that I’m somewhat eloquent. So please bear with me - the daze is real.

I have done a lot of research since her birth, both as part of my certification as a Pregnancy and Postpartum Nutrition Consultant, as well as in an attempt to better understand the unfortunate series of events that led to a less than ideal birthing experience for both my daughter and me. There are so many things I wish I knew beforehand, and another handful of things that I was pretty confident about knowing. So I decided to create separate, more “digestible” posts about what I wish I’d known, dedicated to my VBAC birthing experience in Germany (it wouldn’t have been possible elsewhere), and to my recovery.

All in all, I am obviously very grateful that L and I are now healthy. I am grateful that we’re home and that we’ve had so much support from our families from day one. I am grateful to my body, for nurturing and birthing her, and for continuing to nourish her. But to my gynecologist, who said my birthing experience was absolutely normal, I say no. It wasn’t. If it was, well, there is something very wrong about what has become normal - and we most definitely need to talk about it. I hope that in sharing my experience in upcoming posts I can prevent a future mother from going through a similar situation, regardless of where she lives.

Taking time to be kind

I have very recently realized that up to this point I hadn't written once - not one time - the whole month of February. Every time I've logged my daily habits on my bullet journal this month, the blank space next to "write" led to a painful pang of guilt, which was subsequently forgotten due to a crying baby or a dirty pile of clothes.

I still somehow find the time to read a lot, though, and since my pregnancy I've devoured almost every article on so-called "mommy blogs" (such as Pregnant Chicken and Scary Mommy, to name a couple). A recurring theme seems to be the busyness of motherhood and the heaviness of a mother's (or main caregiver's) mental load; or how one can go about doing "stuff" all day long without seemingly adding up to anything, feeling absolutely drained by the time baby's in bed. Washing bottles, burping baby, changing diapers - you name it. It's an ongoing loop in which I am currently stuck, and find myself sometimes guiltily eager to get out.

This past weekend I got a chance to break the routine, and I ran with it. For my parents' birthday (they were born the same day, years apart) we went on a weekend trip to Innsbruck, Austria. We spent a wonderful time together, happy and healthy with the beautiful Austrian mountains as the most magnificent backdrop. I am always grateful for every minute I get to spend with my family. And yet...

The planning it took and the anxiety generated from organizing every single thing the baby could possibly need during those 48 hours left me with a migraine for days.

I haven't gone to the gym in almost two weeks, though I've been eating like a pig, which truly affects my self-esteem.

My hands are so dry from the baby bottle detergent, the skin has started to crack and it hurts (no matter how much moisturizer I apply).

I miss being creatively productive, and being tickled intellectually.

My home is a mess, which is a daily visual assault against my usually uber-organized self.

My whole body hurts from the cold and the numerous layers I have to wear just to go around the corner to buy some formula.

Although I know I am doing my best, I too often feel like it's not nearly enough.

I often want to quit, to disappear, to fade away. It sometimes feels like it's just too much. But this overwhelming anxiety isn't new to me, and by now I've learned to take deep breaths and count my blessings, until I'm ready to go on with my day.

But you wouldn't know any of this from social media.

Which brings me back to this trip to Innsbruck. The first night, my husband and I decided to leave S with the grandparents for an hour or so in order to catch up solo over a drink or two. My place of choice was the Hard Rock Café, because I could truly use a giant plate of nachos followed by an outrageously large margarita. Plus it brings both of us sweet memories whenever they play Blink 182 or New Found Glory, so the choice was really a no-brainer.

By the entrance, they had a metal sign which read "take time to be kind". I hadn't stepped into a Hard Rock Café for over a decade and couldn't recall if this was a "thing", but I found it awfully cheesy at the moment. Cute, but cheesy, and maybe a bit out of place? Anyways, on to nachos!

But now, being back to the daily grind, to the overeating to compensate for the fatigue, to the piles of dirty clothes and to the messy apartment, that phrase keeps coming back to me. Being kind to my son is second nature and unquestionable, but I can still use the reminder. I choose to interpret it as a sign. In the sea of never-ending stuff to do and to feel guilt about, I am claiming some time to be kind to myself.

Starting with this post.

PS: There is a fantastic Instagram account titled @postpartumstress which I follow and highly recommend to anyone whose anxiety is as bad as mine. Their super relatable material has made me feel less alone on numerous occasions.

Photo credit: Carolina Goetz

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

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.