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.

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.

First things first

I guess we all have the right to share about our lives and the way we choose to live them. As a new mother (or simply parent), I am constantly flooded with conflicting articles and friendly, but many times unhelpful, advice. I am a firm believer that you do you, fed is best and whatever floats your boat. I recently read that as long as you keep your baby happy and "not-broken", you're doing a good job as a parent. I guess you can do a bit more than just that, but I agree with the sentiment.

As I write this, the familiar dark cloud of guilt hangs over my head ("Did I talk to my baby enough today?","Did he eat well?","Is his poop normal???"), as it does over most people responsible for itty bitty humans. I must make a daily conscious effort to not judge myself, just as I wouldn't judge others as parents or caretakers. I am now ready to go on a whim to even suggest that hey, maybe I am doing something somewhat correctly. My boy is healthy, putting on weight, growing respectfully, laughing and passing a healthy amount of gas.

The moment I found out I was pregnant, I had about 937287 questions that not even the most obscure Yahoo forum from 2004 could answer. I was just too scared to Google the other 8374923 pressing issues in my head. I had to try many things on my own, and despite an ongoing crippling anxiety, I had an otherwise healthy pregnancy. 

In July 2017, I gave birth to the most wonderful baby boy, and I now feel like I could/should share what I've learned, hoping it'll help a new mama or papa out there. I am not an expert nor do I claim to be one, and every single parenthood is different, but I'm being there and doing that my own way. So here goes nothing.