Follow on Bloglovin>
Ebates Coupons and Cash Back

What I would tell Kim Kardashian when she has her baby

 

Recently, Kim Kardashian expressed to the media that pregnancy is harder than she thought. I will be honest. I thought that too after my first trimester. Pregnant women on TV always made it look so easy. Even people I knew didn’t seem to have such a hard time. Kim- Pregnancy. Is. Hard.

I want to be clear, I am in no way bashing a woman who is expecting a child. Any woman, even reality television celebrities deserve love, support and judgement free encouragement. That’s just the code of women. I mean, Taylor Swift would say there’s a special place in hell if I didn’t support a fellow woman. Right Taylor?

So instead, I will use this post as a service to Kim. To help her prepare for what she is in for. Now, Kourtney might be giving her advice. And her mom, Kris, is probably also giving her advice. But I’m guessing based on the way this show, er, her life plays out, Kim isn’t listening to their advice and telling them that HER pregnancy is probably the only one like it in the world. Which is kinda true. Pregnancies, children, and snowflakes. No two are alike. Except identical twins. But even they are different, sort of.

I want to warn Kim, that not only pregnancy is harder than it looks, so is labor, childbirth, post partum and, oh yeah- motherhood.

Labor- I know Kimye, or should I call you Mrs. Kardashian-Humphries West? I’ll just call you Kim. Kim, labor is hard and not pretty. It can go many different ways. You might schedule a c-section and not even deal with it. Of course the recovery of a c-section is no small task. But if you do go through labor, there’s things to consider. You might drop a deuce on the table. You might tear from  the front of your lady business to the back of your poop hatch. I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to keep it real.

If you do push that baby out of your canal, with or without drugs, about 24 hours later, you might see these things hanging down from your vulva that look like a bunch of California grapes. I don’t know if they are Merlot or Cabernet variety, but they are strange and uncomfortable. Don’t look down there. Just don’t. You might have the same cluster of grapes protruding from your asshole. Sorry, again, not trying to scare you, just keeping it real. These hurt. You need a rotation of ice, a warm sits bath and a pillow. I handled all this with just some ibuprofen because I wanted to be alert and ready for the baby.

OH MY GOSH- THE BABY! It’s hard to remember that after your insides have been turned outside, you have to care for this living, being thing! Even if you have a nanny, guess what- your milk is coming in sister. I’ve seen your girls. I mean, I haven’t SEEN them, seen them, but I’ve seen that you have a fine rack. Now times that by 1000 and you have a milk engorged watermelon that you are trying to get this little tit sucker to latch onto properly (properly is code for latching without shredding your nipples like a cheese grater (totally different story I can share another time)), but you can’t see their head for your mammary.

Even if you bottle feed- your milk will come in. And low and behold when it does- brace yourself. Nothing on earth will take away what is happening to you. It’s all you babe. So own it. A cool breeze will hurt like a mo-fer against them. Even the pulsating water from the shower head that felt good on your aching back, is like a fire hose against your fragile milk bags.

Let’s see, what am I forgetting? Oh yeah, you will continue to have the worst cramps, kind of like the mother of all periods, about 48 hours after the baby is born. Mother Nature doesn’t relent. First the cramps, then those subside, then the milk comes in. Holy cheeze-tits Batman. Don’t worry, it gets easier. In about 6 weeks.

I know that you have people to look after you. But remember, women have been doing this since the dawn of time. They have given birth in fields, barns and even trees. Yes, I remember a news story about a woman in Africa during a flood, seeking refuge in a tree. She was 9 months pregnant, and before rescuers got to her, she delivered her baby. Can you imagine?

These are the sisters in childbirth I was thinking of as I lay in a hospital, writhing in pain from my own complicated delivery of my daughter. I kept thinking, how did women before me do this? And bless those that didn’t make it through because they didn’t have the means they needed or the medical help. Geeze!

There will be haters out there, you know this. Just remember, you are this child’s mother. It has nothing without you. It knows only you. Not the magazine cover with its exclusive first photo, not the diamond encrusted bracelet or pram that Kanye will get it. It only wants you and the softness of your touch, the warmth of your arms and the closeness of your skin. That’s it.

I think this is a good start for now. Perhaps in a few months, should you speak again in the press and say some nonsense of why this is so hard, or frustrating, etc. I’ll  help to keep it real for you.

***********

And thank you Lady Googoo Gaga who wrote a brilliant post to then-new celebrity mom Beyonce after Blue Ivy was born. Us regular moms have to bring folks down to earth now and then.

I think the best advice would be to tell Kim she needs to buy the book, I Just Want To Pee Alone. This will help her put it all in perspective!

Okay, if she doesn’t buy it- at least YOU need to!

 

The happiness of being a mother. No- really!

We are celebrating my daughter’s 12th birthday today. And it happens to be Easter. One of the perks of being born in April, there’s a chance your birthday falls on Easter. This is the second time we have celebrated the two together. The last was five years ago. We were at Disneyland for spring break. I don’t think a 7 year old could have had it any better!

This year, Emma is on the brink of teenagedom. She has always been mature- beyond her years. She was uber sophisticated at the young age of 2 when she said very clearly- “Aunt Edna broke her pelvis” to everyone she met on the street. This was true. Aunt Edna had, in fact, broken her pelvis. She also would lay on our family room carpet with the clear plastic toy bin over her head pretending she was Snow White in the casket the dwarfs had made her. And we would have to take turns playing the Prince. Getting on bended knee, lowering our head in sorrow, then lifting the toy bin to kiss her. She would open her eyes and play the princess off to be with her prince. Oh gosh, how I miss those days. Sort of.

Emma was never really a good sleeper. She gave me trouble even in-utero when she decided she wanted to start coming out at 25 weeks. I was hospitalized and on strict bed rest for 10 weeks. When she was born, we couldn’t get her to latch on. Breast feeding was hell. I think this is what caused her to not sleep. Her poor sleep patterns continued until she was about 5.

Now, what do you know? I can’t wake her up in the mornings. She would sleep a solid 12 hours if you let her. Which is hard when you have to get her out the door for school at 7:15 am and most activities and homework keep her up until 9pm. She probably needs as much sleep now as a toddler does, but life doesn’t allow for that.

Well, let’s get back to my original point. Happiness in motherhood. Seems like a paradox huh? Just kidding!

But truly, I wanted to be a mom so badly. I wanted Emma to be born safe and well. I willed her to be healthy. Don’t patronize me. I know that it’s not my thinking that made her. But I prayed hard, I meditated, I focused all my energies to gestating that healthy baby.

When she came out- oh lord, that was something. I had the best epidural known to modern medicine. This was after two hours of my uterus being hypertonic in a contraction that was ‘off the charts’. I thought I would die. When they finally let me have the epidural, the anesthesiologist- Dr. Fritz- performed magic. I didn’t even feel the needle (this could be because I was in such a fit of pain, you could have cut off my toes, and I wouldn’t have noticed it for the pain in my midsection) and then he said that my legs would start to feel warm like in a bathtub of warm water. Oh. He was right!! I could breathe. The pain subsided, my legs went heavenly numb and warm. My thoughts returned to the room I was in and the people around me. Like my darling husband, McSweetie, my mom, and my doula Peggy. The labor nurse, Ruth, was awesome. She got me comfortable and we let everyone go get some breakfast since it had been such a stressful morning of watching me writhe in pain.

She assured them it would be a few more hours before it was time to push.

Tick tock. A whopping 30 minutes went by (tee hee, I kid) and I sheepishly told Ruth I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. You know- I mean, number 2. She’s like, uhm, I don’t think so, let me examine you.

Sure enough- she’s in there with her whole hand. “Oh yeah, I feel the baby’s hair- you’re 10 centimeters”.

Me- “So I don’t have to poop?”

Ruth- “Nope. You’re gonna have this baby!”

In walks husband and mom with lattes and smiles on their faces thinking, la la la, this is a piece of cake. Then I say, “Hey, guess what? I’m ten centimeters so we’re going to start pushing, and by we, I mean ME.”

So up my legs go in the stirrups, Dr. Johnson, the best ob/gyn known to woman,  comes by with all the paper gowns and masks, I’m sure they put something on the floor to catch the mess. I had my Mozart CD playing in the hospital CD player, the sun was shining and I didn’t feel a thing. Anything that registered on the pain meter anyway.  I did what they told me and in about 10 minutes, I could see Emma with her eyes wide open staring at the doctor! She was covered in stuff that looks like what babies look like on TV and the movies when they pretend it’s a newborn. The doc was a little concerned. Emma had had the cord around her neck and the fetal monitor showed a morbidly low heart rate. They wanted to get her to oxygen right away. The Dr. didn’t even ask if one of us wanted to cut the cord. My mom with tears in her eyes, is holding my leg in the air, cheering, “She’s here, she’s here!”

I started to cry. But in a good, relief-happy cry sort of way.  I hadn’t heard Emma make a sound yet, but since I saw her color and saw her eyes wide open, I knew she was going to be okay. Within a few minutes they had her wiped off and on my chest. When I placed my hand on her, I thought I put my fingers in a warm bowl of butter. I had never felt anything so soft. It was literally, ‘like buttah’. I could smell her, I don’t know how to describe it, but it was HER smell. I cried and cried for my baby. The universe shifted and my heart opened up to a big giant surge of power. Infinite power that I could never imagine. This is truly what LOVE feels like. I get it. THIS is what everyone talks about.

Bliss lasted for a few hours. Once the epidural wore off and I could help myself to the toilet- that’s a winning moment for post partum moms. You DO NOT want a catheter if your bladder is ‘injured’ in any way. I remember feeling fabulous that I could breathe, my lungs weren’t squished, my pelvis didn’t have 10 pounds of baby weight pushing on it, I felt incredible. Until the next day when my hoo ha, swelled up like a grapefruit and I had to sit with frozen maxi pads. But that’s another story…

The latching on- not so good. The sleeping that night- not so good. The sleeping the next 45 nights- not so good.

Both hubs and I were bleary eyed, happy parents. But we knew we were screwed.

I remember looking at her in her bassinet. She was about 4 days old. I was still miserable. My boobs hurt like mo fo’s and I didn’t know whether to, as my dad says, ‘shit or go blind’, I was so tired. But I looked at her perfectness, and started to weep. I was so grateful she was here and safe. I had this perfect child. Of course, now, I was immersed in worrying all about the things that COULD happen. Is she going to stop breathing? Is her bassinet safe? What if there’s a fire? What if we get in a car accident on the way to a pediatrician appointment? What if she gets a fever? And the worrying never stops.

Now my worries are- who is she hanging out with after school, who is she getting a ride with to the movies, is her school campus safe, is she safe in her friend’s parent’s car on the way to a camp-out… ??? and on, and on, and on….

But today is her birthday. And even while she is right this very minute making a spoof video on her new Flip camera with her brother about murdering a cereal box- she is the apple of my eye, the sun in my day, and the peach in my fruit basket.

YOUR kids make videos about murdering cereal boxes and stuffed animals too, right?

Happy Easter. Happy Birthday Emma. The world is better with you in it.

Dear Weight Watchers, I would like to lose my post-partum baby weight too.

I heard that Jessica Simpson has already penned a deal with Weight Watchers to lose her post-partum weight. That is fantastic! So many folks and bloggers are discussing how this could be negative to other expecting mothers and what message this sends. I’m sorry. What message does it send? Uhm, women like to lose weight after having a baby? Yeah, that message. Oh, maybe the message is ‘it’s not fair some women get paid to lose their baby weight?’ Yeah, that’s the message I get.

I put on 40+ pounds with each kid. I have two kids. I say ‘+’ because I don’t remember the final number when they weighed me before delivery. Considering with both pregnancies I put on 5 pounds of water in 24 hours due to high blood pressure right before I delivered. Do you know what happens to midsection flesh that’s given 5 pounds of water within a few hours? STRETCHMARKS. On my ankles. And my ass. Just like when your milk comes in overnight to what were size 32AA boobs. STRETCHMARKS. The skin was so thin on my chest I could actually see my heart beating through my rib cage. Okay, not really. I like to exaggerate a smidge.

This is not me. I didn't take a picture of my stretch marks. But clearly, this is exactly the reason I was not asked to pose on the cover of Elle naked and pregnant. The only reason, I'm sure.

Back to Jessica- I would LOVE to be paid to lose some baby weight. I’m 9 years post partum and I think I’m a perfect candidate to be Weight Watcher’s spokesperson. I have yet to lose those last stubborn 10 pounds. The first 30 pounds were easy. Have you heard of breast feeding? IT BURNS CALORIES! Yes, folks. Mothers all know this little gem of the first 6 weeks of  post partum. You are burning calories like Michael Phelps training for the Beijing Olympics. If you breast feed an Owen, like I did, you will be nursing every 45 minutes and sweating during a June heat wave. I lost 6 pounds a day in liquid. I swear.

When you’re pregnant with a girl, like Jessica is, you gain weight like an inner tube. With a boy, you carry like a beach ball. I looked like I swallowed a Boppy when I was pregnant with Emma. When your blood pressure spikes, like mine did, your face puffs up like Lindsay Lohan after her Dysport injections. Your feet don’t even fit in your husband’s shoes. It’s sad. But, that’s what breast feeding is for. Or at least those first 6 weeks when the uterus likes to contract back to it’s original size. OH, wait? You mean, you don’t remember reading that in any pregnancy books? It was the very fine print that came with an asterisk, I’m sure. Yeah, bleeding nipples, maxi pads the size of Smart Cars and cramps. Mother fucking cramps like a period you never dreamed of.  At least that’s what happened to me.

A Boppy pillow. Also known as my waist.

It’s not fair that celebrities get stuff for free, stuff paid for, multi-million dollar endorsement deals to pay for their trainers and nutritionists. Don’t you think she would lose the weight anyway? She doesn’t need a contract to encourage her. Am I jealous that she gets to eat whatever the hell she wants and knows that after the baby is born she will be making serious cash and eating watercress from her treadmill not thinking about deprivation because she will be so flippin rich? Yes. I am.

Why you would wear this, pregnant or not, I don't know. But if Weight Watchers wants me to- I will.

So, like I said; Dear Weight Watchers, please give me a multi-million dollar endorsement deal to lose my last 10 pounds of baby weight. Apparently, I didn’t have enough incentive all these years.  I wish Jessica the best with her new baby girl Maxipad Maxi, but I deserve the money and the incentive more. I’m almost 40, my kids need to go to college and my husband and I need a retirement fund. I can represent ‘real moms’ everywhere, not just celebrity moms that get shit done for them anyway. It would be a miracle to have what 80% of the women in my age and demographic have called, ‘the last 10 pounds’ to be gone for good.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Frugalista

Jessica Simpson to sign with Weight Watchers to lose her baby weight.

 

As if it wasn’t hard enough.

They say staying at home raising kids is hard work. Really? I must be doing it wrong because I think it’s the easiest thing in the world! There’s no TPS reports, no budget meetings, no politics or backstabbing. I sit around all day drink Gin and Tonics and watch TV. Oh wait… that was a dream I had. Never mind.

This is where I introduce an acronym for my new (not new, just new to us) phrase of Are You Fucking Kidding Me? (AYFKM?) My family says I’m swearing too much lately, I think it’s some leftover hostility from my 20s I never released, so I’m trying to use curse words less often, even in print.

Parenting is hard work. No shit.

Now the ‘experts’ say that raising children full time at home, makes you less healthy than if you go off and work in some actual paying job, according to the American Psychological Association’s “Journal of Family Psychology” article.

AYFKM? Yeah. DUH.

Thanks. So now I have the guilt of, “oh, I never pursued my career past the  rearing of my children, and devoting all that time to them is going to shorten my life span so now I won’t be able to enjoy my grandchildren.”

Let’s rewind a little shall we?

I’ve always wanted to stay home and raise my children. My mom did this for us kids. She was completely there for me. She packed my lunches, made dinner, did the laundry, sewed our clothes, everything. My dad worked hard at his job Monday through Friday. It was pretty much your traditional 70s/80s upbringing.

After college, I fell in love, got married and had a kid. Well it took 5 years, but still, I didn’t take the option of running away to Hollywood or Broadway to pursue my acting career. Something deep down told me to stay put since love and family was probably going to prevail longer than any waitressing acting jobs that might come.

I have no regrets about this. None.

My job at the time of getting pregnant with Emma was a glorified administrative assistant for a start-up company. What am I saying? It wasn’t glorified. It was hard ass work. I did the job of 3 people and was paid the salary of an admin, but it was good experience and great medical benefits, if I remember. So I stuck it out and counted the days until my maternity leave. (I was put on bed rest at 25 weeks of my pregnancy, but that’s another story altogether). Lucky for me the company went under while I was on maternity leave, so I didn’t have to leave my sweet pink bundle of joy and diapers called Emma, for my stingy, troll of a boss that micromanaged every trip to the bathroom I took. Now I took my boss (Emma) with me to the bathroom!

So staying home with her was a blessing. BUT, GEEZUS it was HARD. I mean, really HARD. No adult interaction, no showers, no make up, no cute clothes, saggy engorged boobie bags that looked like a cow’s, nursing bras that had been leaked through so many times I didn’t care anymore. Feeling like a zombie. Rinse and repeat….

The idea of pulling myself together enough to leave the house to look professional, spend 8 hours away from her and then to come home and have to spend half the night up breast feeding, just didn’t sound like a party.

So I admire those that do this! Being a mom is hard. A mom of a newborn especially. Heading off to work must be painful.

But, and I mean a big BUT, I can see the rewards. To get paid for what you do is a good thing.  Intellectual stimulation from peers and colleagues- good. Going out to lunch- good. Looking like a human with clothes and makeup- good.

I found this excerpt of the article to sum it up: “After interviewing hundreds of mothers repeatedly over the course of a decade, the researchers found that those who worked 32 hours per week or less were more sensitive to their kids’ needs, less likely to have symptoms of depression, and more likely to split household duties with their spouses than mothers who were not employed.” AYFKM?

And therein lies my problem. I’m depressed and don’t share household duties. Okay, I’m not really depressed. I take my meds and do fine. But I know a lot that are, and I’ve been down some dark times myself. And I always feel like I’m doing all the household duties myself. Not very well, but still.

Then the kicker later in the article:

“Additionally, mothers with higher levels of depressive symptoms may have more difficulty seeking employment or keeping a job.” AYFKM?

Fantastic. Now I’m just screwed if I did choose to go back to work. Who wants a whiny, not employed in a decade housewife to come work for them? Apparently, no one.

Here’s what it boils down to:

I chose not to work. I never regret staying at home with my children. In fact now it’s the greatest. They go off to school, I pretend to get stuff done around the house, they come home from school and I’m in a good mood since absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I’m not getting paid, I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. My children are fine individuals. I’m raising them real good.

I don’t need an article to tell me I’m depressed and overly sensitive- my husband tells me this all the time.

Pretend I never wrote this blog. I could have started with the last three sentences and have been done. But alas, I just wanted other depressed, pill popping, gin and tonic drinking moms to feel empathy with me.

(borrowed from Bluntcard) Look how happy she looks!

Here’s that full crappy article if you want to read for yourself:

Working Moms are Healthier

As if it wasn’t hard enough.

They say staying at home raising kids is hard work. Really? I must be doing it wrong because I think it’s the easiest thing in the world! There’s no TPS reports, no budget meetings, no politics or backstabbing. I sit around all day drink Gin and Tonics and watch TV. Oh wait… that was a dream I had. Never mind.

This is where I introduce an acronym for my new (not new, just new to us) phrase of Are You Fucking Kidding Me? (AYFKM?) My family says I’m swearing too much lately, I think it’s some leftover hostility from my 20s I never released, so I’m trying to use curse words less often, even in print.

Parenting is hard work. No shit.

Now the ‘experts’ say that raising children full time at home, makes you less healthy than if you go off and work in some actual paying job, according to the American Psychological Association’s “Journal of Family Psychology” article.

AYFKM? Yeah. DUH.

Thanks. So now I have the guilt of, “oh, I never pursued my career past the  rearing of my children, and devoting all that time to them is going to shorten my life span so now I won’t be able to enjoy my grandchildren.”

Let’s rewind a little shall we?

I’ve always wanted to stay home and raise my children. My mom did this for us kids. She was completely there for me. She packed my lunches, made dinner, did the laundry, sewed our clothes, everything. My dad worked hard at his job Monday through Friday. It was pretty much your traditional 70s/80s upbringing.

After college, I fell in love, got married and had a kid. Well it took 5 years, but still, I didn’t take the option of running away to Hollywood or Broadway to pursue my acting career. Something deep down told me to stay put since love and family was probably going to prevail longer than any waitressing acting jobs that might come.

I have no regrets about this. None.

My job at the time of getting pregnant with Emma was a glorified administrative assistant for a start-up company. What am I saying? It wasn’t glorified. It was hard ass work. I did the job of 3 people and was paid the salary of an admin, but it was good experience and great medical benefits, if I remember. So I stuck it out and counted the days until my maternity leave. (I was put on bed rest at 25 weeks of my pregnancy, but that’s another story altogether). Lucky for me the company went under while I was on maternity leave, so I didn’t have to leave my sweet pink bundle of joy and diapers called Emma, for my stingy, troll of a boss that micromanaged every trip to the bathroom I took. Now I took my boss (Emma) with me to the bathroom!

So staying home with her was a blessing. BUT, GEEZUS it was HARD. I mean, really HARD. No adult interaction, no showers, no make up, no cute clothes, saggy engorged boobie bags that looked like a cow’s, nursing bras that had been leaked through so many times I didn’t care anymore. Feeling like a zombie. Rinse and repeat….

The idea of pulling myself together enough to leave the house to look professional, spend 8 hours away from her and then to come home and have to spend half the night up breast feeding, just didn’t sound like a party.

So I admire those that do this! Being a mom is hard. A mom of a newborn especially. Heading off to work must be painful.

But, and I mean a big BUT, I can see the rewards. To get paid for what you do is a good thing.  Intellectual stimulation from peers and colleagues- good. Going out to lunch- good. Looking like a human with clothes and makeup- good.

I found this excerpt of the article to sum it up: “After interviewing hundreds of mothers repeatedly over the course of a decade, the researchers found that those who worked 32 hours per week or less were more sensitive to their kids’ needs, less likely to have symptoms of depression, and more likely to split household duties with their spouses than mothers who were not employed.” AYFKM?

And therein lies my problem. I’m depressed and don’t share household duties. Okay, I’m not really depressed. I take my meds and do fine. But I know a lot that are, and I’ve been down some dark times myself. And I always feel like I’m doing all the household duties myself. Not very well, but still.

Then the kicker later in the article:

“Additionally, mothers with higher levels of depressive symptoms may have more difficulty seeking employment or keeping a job.” AYFKM?

Fantastic. Now I’m just screwed if I did choose to go back to work. Who wants a whiny, not employed in a decade housewife to come work for them? Apparently, no one.

Here’s what it boils down to:

I chose not to work. I never regret staying at home with my children. In fact now it’s the greatest. They go off to school, I pretend to get stuff done around the house, they come home from school and I’m in a good mood since absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I’m not getting paid, I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. My children are fine individuals. I’m raising them real good.

I don’t need an article to tell me I’m depressed and overly sensitive- my husband tells me this all the time.

Pretend I never wrote this blog. I could have started with the last three sentences and have been done. But alas, I just wanted other depressed, pill popping, gin and tonic drinking moms to feel empathy with me.

(borrowed from Bluntcard) Look how happy she looks!

Here’s that full crappy article if you want to read for yourself:

Working Moms are Healthier