This phrase brought someone to my blog:
“What if my teenage son wants to suck on”
Lucky them, they got this blog.
What on earth did he want to suck on?
My mind goes to dirty, dirty places.
The magic number for fertility in my head was always 35. I know that in reality your eggs do not shrivel up and die the day you turn 35, but somehow it is the number that always stuck in my head. For some reason, and I know this is somewhat out-dated thinking, I regard having a baby over 35 as “high-risk” and “dangerous.” I know that people do this all the time and have perfectly healthy babies; I also know that you can be much younger and still have something go very, very wrong with your pregnancy or your baby. It is just something that has very effectively been programmed into my brain. Interestingly, I can look at other people and their plans quite objectively but I feel that, for me, 35 is some sort of fertility ledge.
I turn 35 in November.
I feel fairly confident that I “cured” my miscarriage problemg, in so much as that can ever really be done. Perhaps the two miscarriages were a fluke or perhaps Baby S was a fluke, but in treating the hypo-thyroid and using the blood-thinners to address a probable auto-immune issue, I feel fairly confident that I am doing all I can to prevent another miscarriage.
Somehow, though, I feel like waiting until I am 35+ to try again is tempting fate. My logical mind says “really, how much of a difference can a few more months make? If you start trying a year from now, how much will your eggs really suffer?” The irrational side of me feels like waiting is ensuring that I will miscarry or will have a baby with genetic abnormalities. I know this is not rational, but it increasingly plays in the back of my mind. I worry about being able to conceive again, about spacing children, about handling two kids and working, but even more than that I worry that by waiting, all I will be left with is genetically mutated eggs.
This is not something I can even really write about well, becuase it is not yet fully formed in my mind. I can usually talk some sense into myself, but the fear keeps creeping back. I just worry it is my intuition.
I held Baby S for the first time one year ago. I had a quick labor, about 5.5 hours from water-breaking to the three-push delivery. I lack the words to describe how much I love him. I am more proud of him than anything else I have done.
And yet, as I predicted, his birthday and that joy will always be tainted for me.
Yesterday was Father’s Day and I have no father. On 27 June 2008, my father committed suicide, five days after my son, his first grandchild, was born.
Sometimes Baby S looks like my dad when he smiles.
7) I pee involuntarily when I cough, sneeze, or — most horrifyingly — when I laugh.
Pee. In. My. Own. Pants.
And, yes, I Kegel.
I heard this doesn’t go away. My mom told me to buy Depends if I ever get bronchitis.
But he is just so darn cute that I almost don’t mind! (Almost.)
Niobe put up another Niobe’s True Confessions. I found the first edition horribly unsettling (is everyone really cheating on their spouse and/or having suicidal thoughts?) and I can’t bear to read the second. Instead, I will post my own version of “true confessions.”
1) I do not enjoy breastfeeding. On 22 June, I will have made it a whole year. Baby S has refused to nurse for over a month, so I pump between 2-3 times a day. I do it exclusively because the health benefits for him, which are particularly important given all the auto-immune issues in our families. I don’t even remember loving it when he was actually nursing. There were days when it was okay, but mostly I felt like it was a chore. Still, it is a minor chore and may bring him a lifetime of health benefits, so I pump. And pump. And pump. I will continue to pump until I go back to school in the fall.
2) Giving birth was not a transformative experience. Having a baby was/is a transformative experience, but pushing him out of my bajingo did nothing for me except, well, to get him out. I would have been fine with a C-section if it had been necessary.
3) I weighed 30 lbs. less when I was 9 months pregnant. Fuck.
4) I have the worst acne I have ever had while breastfeeding — huge, cystic zits that really hurt. I have gotten facials, I have applied zit creme, I have used every product imaginable; nothing seems to work.
5) The only thing that keeps me from wanting to try again for another baby right away is my trip to Europe scheduled for next spring. It’s the hormones talking, I swear. My logical mind is no match for my hormonal mind. A 2+ week European trip, however, is no match for my hormonal mind.
6) Having my own biological baby has made me more interested in adoption. Go figure.