I don’t think I’m ready for this jelly

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Yesterday at the pool, after my swim, as I was struggling to change under my towel, one of the older ladies walked by completely naked. As in, buck. I felt like I was in an episode of Sex and the City, with Samantha plowing through, bush first, and me as Charlotte, in a head-to-toe muumuu, anxiously shuffling through.

I wonder what it is about older women that they feel comfortable enough to strut around in their birthday suits, even though their suits aren’t necessarily as well-pressed as they used to be.

It really isn’t the extra flab that bothers me, it’s the scar. Jason says I’m crazy, but the c section scar really bums me out. I could get all social worky and say that the scar is a permanent reminder of the trauma we went through, the uncertainties with our girls. But, I could also go girly and just say that it’s ugly. The first time I looked at the incision, it reminded me of Heath Ledger as The Joker, the grin that can send shivers down your spine.

Unfortunately, Jas and I both got scars at the same time. His from his pneumothorax and mine from the girls’ section. We’re both super self conscious about them, and neither one of us feels completely whole with them.

The lady in the changeroom must have scars of her own, whether you can see them or not, but she owns them and can strut it like nobody’s business.

While I don’t see myself ditching the towel anytime soon, I can only hope that eventually the scar, and the trauma, fade away.

Let him eat cookie

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Yesterday, I bought Buds one of those ice cream cone cookies at Starbucks as a treat.

On our walk home, a woman actually came up to me and told me he shouldn’t  be eating cookies.

I’m sorry, what? I double checked to make sure I wasn’t wearing a sign asking for advice on my parenting.

I could maybe understand someone like my mom suggesting to me that he needed to lay off the sweets if he was overweight, but a random stranger? Umm, no.

We don’t let the kid eat junk all the time, there’s a reason it’s called a treat, and he is by no means fat, he’s perfect. I took him grocery shopping today, and he picked out fruit and veggies he wanted. He was most excited about the mini watermelon and asked for it with dinner. Never once did he ask for cookies or other sugar-filled goodies. So, obviously we’re doing something kind of right if a two year old boy can get excited over a piece of fruit.

So, yes, we let Buds have a cookie every now and then, and I’m totally fine with that.

Don’t judge a book by its stroller

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Jason recently asked me if I could push our stroller while holding onto my drink.

“This is the Mercedes of strollers,” I told him. “It can do anything.”

When I was pregnant with Braeden, I didn’t really pay much attention to the luxury strollers, because we just couldn’t afford them. We had the worst luck going stroller shopping because no matter the store, no one seemed to know how to work them. Finally, we just went into Babies R Us, found a Maxi Cosi travel system we liked and figured it out ourselves.

We loved that stroller, the storage space alone meant I could walk to get groceries with the kid and load up.

Sadly, there was no way of cramming two kids in that stroller, so we had to upgrade. Having worked in a stroller department of a baby store, I knew the Bugaboo Donkey was the best, so that’s what we got.

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Buds and the girls go for a walk!

Our neighbourhood is filled with Bugaboo and Uppababy strollers, and though it may appear we’re the same, we don’t quite fit in with the rest of the ‘hood. We’re surrounded by million dollar houses, kids who go to private school, and families who summer in cottages bigger than most houses.

I’m not jealous – most people work hard to get where they are, and every family makes some type of sacrifice.

We may not fit in, and people assume about our family in so many ways, but in our little pocket of the city, we’re making our home, even if it is rented.

So, yes, it is a Mercedes, but it sure is worth it to be able to push all three kids downhill one handed. Mama needs her other hand free for caffeine, after all.

We’re five months old!

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Ella and Raegan, June 7

Five months! Where has the time gone? Next month is half a year already!

The girls are 11 weeks corrected, which means soon we’ll be out of the fourth trimester/newborn stage and moving into infancy! They’re already interested in so much, and I love watching them see things for the first time.

The girls continue to do really well, and seem massive! The newborn clothes have all been put away and there’s about an inch left in their 0-6 month sleepsacks. We don’t head to the doctor for another couple weeks, so I’ll know then the actual weights as opposed to my rough estimate.

We’ve been busy bees, getting out every day and I take the girls to the library for songs and stories with another mama.

The weather is hot and that means adorable outfits for the girls! It also means parks and picnics! Today we headed to the parents of multiples association’s picnic today so we were literally surrounded by twins and even some triplets!

Ella is usually sleeping through the night which is lovely, but sadly, Raegan is not. I miss sleep, and sleeping in! Ahh, those were the days.

The girls are both smiling and Raegan full-on laughed at me waving the rattle yesterday. Those giggles sure do make up for the lack of sleep!

Why do we do this to ourselves?

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I recently saw a post on BabyCenter that was about your parenting style based on whether or not you found out your baby’s sex while pregnant. Curious, I clicked through and had to roll my eyes.

The blog was about a study that had been completed with women who found out their baby’s sex and those who didn’t. The study’s author claimed that women who found out the sex were poorly educated and from low-income families who held strict gender roles, while women who waited for the surprise believed in more modern and fluid gender roles and were better educated and had more money.

Umm, ‘scuse me?

Forget about the validity of the study, the ridiculous findings, and the degrading stats; just what in the hell was the point? Other than to make a large group of mums feel bad about themselves, this study offered no benefit. We’re not learning anything from it other than the fact that some people are trying to continue the mommy wars through “science.”

Jason and I decided, together, that we wanted to know both times. The second pregnancy I had wanted to be surprised, but with the news of twins, wanted to be better prepared. In reality, I’m glad I knew beforehand as their birth was anything but beautiful, and at that moment there wouldn’t have been a surprise, I was more concerned that they were alive.

Not that it matters, but, I’m not poorly educated, I have my Master’s degree. We’re not rich or poor, we’re somewhere in the middle. The ultrasound tech didn’t ask for a copy of our salaries or diplomas, in case you were wondering.

There was a time that everyone knew what they were having, with only a few odd parents out waiting for the surprise. Now, being surprised is the new “thing,” but do I believe it plays a role in gender norms? Ummmmm, not really. I know mums who have been surprised and have found out, and they all parent differently.

I have to wonder who would approve the study and why BabyCenter decided to post about it. No mum is immune to the looks, whispers, backhanded compliments, so why do we continue to do this to ourselves?

All maternity leaves are not created equal

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As someone who used to live in Chicago, I have often thought about what it would be like if I had had my girls in America, instead of Canada.

For one thing, I’d be broke. Unless I had killer health insurance, my three week semi-private stay and the weekly doctor visits, ultrasounds, and specialist’s appointments would have run a bill of several hundred thousand before even contemplating the girls’ care. Here, we don’t have private insurance beyond our government care and our only hospital-related expense was parking.

We also couldn’t have survived the NICU time without my parents helping with Buds. I wouldn’t have been able to spend as much time with the girls if we had been an island without family nearby.

The biggest, and most shocking difference would be the mat leave. With only six weeks, like in Chicago, I would have been back to work at the beginning of our NICU journey, and way before I felt totally at ease after the section, not to mention I would have had to wear yoga pants to work, or go naked.

We’re pretty lucky here that we get almost a full year of paid mat leave, I really can’t imagine it any other way. Maternity leave is just assumed here, and why wouldn’t it be? Yes, many mums here do go back before a year, and some dads step in at that point, but you can’t walk into a mall here without running into a gaggle of mamas.

With Buds, I was off for 14 months and I wouldn’t change that time for anything. We did programs and went on adventures. We hiked and swam, read stories and sang songs. It was just the two of us for so long that we got to know each other, and I truly became a Mama.

I was so sad to lose time with the girls. I would have lost three months of my maternity leave to the NICU. Thankfully, we have options here that give us back our time together. With all the doctor’s appointments and exercises we have, I’d hate to look back in two years and think I wasted my mat leave.

I really wish my American mama friends got more time. The first six weeks are the absolute hardest, and then you’re back to work; sleep deprived and covered in spit up.

I hope that I am able to enjoy my days with all three kids, and we’re so lucky to live in a city where we can explore so much. To think my girls at three months have already seen pandas, lions, and a baby polar bear.

I have a feeling that no amount of appointments will take away from this year with my three musketeers.

Swim fishy fishy

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Tonight I literally took the plunge back into losing weight and headed over to the pool for laps.

For my second pregnancy, I had daydreamed of being super in shape by swimming and doing yoga and looking super cute -only growing a belly and getting to wear non-maternity clothes, while people expressed how awesome I looked. That fell flat pretty fucking quickly. I did swim through my first trimester, and then with all the doctor’s appointments, worry, and uncertainty, I much preferred sitting on the couch nursing a bowl of cherry chocolate chip ice cream.

Despite my mostly unathletic build, I love to swim. I love being in the water, floating around, feeling almost like I’m on another planet. What I don’t love is that you have to wear a bathing suit. In public.

Despite my extra rolls, my cellulite and I hoofed it over to the pool after the kids were all tucked into bed and we lasted a whopping total of thirty minutes. Still, that’s not too shabby for the first time back, and my arms in particular are feeling the effects of extra movements, plus I racked up 7 activity points, so you know, not a total failure.

My original goal was once a week, but after tonight, I have to say that my new goal is to just keep swimming without always being passed by the old fogies.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Cervix?

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Recently on one of the mono mono facebook support groups, a member posted that she was leaving the group as she had lost her twins and reading members’ comments and complaining about inpatient care made her feel like everyone was ungrateful for the experience and the lives of their twins.

While I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose one or both twins, whether early in the pregnancy or late term, the post seemed harsh to me.

That post must have been hard for her to write, and the other posts were obviously harder. It’s sad that while members were posting for support, she was re-experiencing her loss and trauma all over again.

We don’t know each other’s struggles, be it during pregnancy or after. Even passing other parents in the NICU, the same parents every day, didn’t mean I knew their story.

Yes, it may seem trivial to complain about inpatient care (the food is awful, the days are long and boring), but there’s a deep loneliness that accompanies the hospital stay. Even for the mums who experience no complications and deliver after 32 weeks, there is still worry, anxiety, fear. Who would understand this better than other mono mono mamas?

For the most part, the group is filled with mums who delivered at or past 32 weeks, who had four or five pound babies, spent minimal time in the NICU, and had little or no complications. Of course, our story is different, but I can’t begrudge those mums. I also cannot relate to the mums who lost their baby or babies. I float somewhere in the middle.

Outside the groups, we have friends and family expecting. I always wish the best for them – excited to see pictures of growing bellies and chubby babies. I would never want anyone to have a story like ours.

So, where does that leave us MoMo mums? Can we band together through thick and thin, supporting the highs and lows, the losses and gains, the beginnings and ends? Can we allow the possibility of being reminded of our trauma, sorrow, fear, and grief? Can we be happy for those whose story so differs from our own?

I hope so, because motherhood, much like inpatient care, can be lonely, scary, and filled with anxiety if we don’t have anyone to share it with.

And now I’m just pissed off

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We recently headed to the park as a family, and as Jason and Braeden ran around on the playground, I chatted with another mum.

This was already a big deal for me, as I usually tend to keep to myself. Jason is always on me to put myself out there and make friends, but in addition to being a bit socially awkward, I’m just not great at making small talk.

We both had three kids, and talked about how it’s almost impossible to give each kid the attention they deserve, and she asked me about the girls. She asked about their weights when they were born, and not being able to come up with a number off the top of my head, I told her they were two pounds each when they were born at 29 weeks.

“Oh! 29 weeks! I wish I had been pregnant for 29 weeks instead of 40!”

What. did. you. just. say.

Never, ever say that again. Never tell a preemie parent that you wish you didn’t go full term, that is like driving a knife deeply into their heart, and slowly twisting it in further.

How we preemie mamas wish we had gone full-term; waddled through the end of our pregnancy, setting up nurseries while rubbing our bellies, having people tell us how we look like we’re about to pop, feeling our baby or babies moving, wriggling, still very much a part of us.

Yes, the last bit of pregnancy seems long – lack of sleep, a giant belly that makes it hard to get out of bed, heartburn, and discomfort – but, believe me, none of that compares to seeing your baby in the NICU, watching a tiny baby, so tiny it seems impossible, struggling to breathe, to eat, sometimes even struggling to cry. Your tired body does not come close to our tired souls, tired hearts.

So, rub your belly and cherish every single day you have with them and never, ever say that again.