The Ultimate Workout

A little while ago I wrote a post about vaginas and how pregnancy RUINS EVERYTHING in
that particular department. Well, enough whining, ’cause a little ago I watched Weeds and
discovered something called vaginal weights. Yup, weights for your vagina. Then Tightrope
Mama told me she was at a baby shower where someone gave them as a gift. I threatened
to get some for her after she pops out Number Two. But first I needed more information. The
Interweb obliged.

So, apparently you stick a weighted cone up your hoo-ha, and your pelvic muscles automatically contract to hold it in. Or they might. If you have to work to keep it from falling out, well, there’s your workout, and you keep working with that weight until your pelvic muscles hold it in on their own, for 15 minutes a go. Most of the sites I came across advised against walking around in the world whilst lifting your weight, just in case. It falls out. On the ground, in front of people.

And then you move up to a slightly heavier weight and do it all again. It’s called “pelvic floor
re-education.” Awesome. I’m exhausted just thinking about it. And clenching. That’s probably
all the pelvic floor re-education I can handle for now, until I can get motivated to start running
again, or cold and flu season sets in.

But if you’re interested, I found two purveyors: vagacare and ladysystem. Neither come in cheery hot pink like the one on Weeds, but just buying something called Lady System should be adorable enough. (Speaking of adorable names, I got much of my info from the adorably named site laughing without leaking) And if you’ve actually used them, pleeease tell me: is it a brilliant push present or what?

-East End Mama

[image: Queen of the Barbells via tumblr]

Bitchy Lions, Episode 3

Long story short, a conversation arose today where my boss looked me in the eye and pretty much challenged me to tell her if I was planning on returning to work after my next mat leave (which doesn’t even start for 4.5 more months!)

Well, I am pretty sure she can’t ask things like that but I had some brilliant moment of clarity (rare for a Monday) where I shot back, “Do you want me back? What is my incentive?”

And not one word of a lie, one short conversation and one email later she is asking me what an ideal (and realistic) raise would be! WHAT? Did a pregnant woman just get asked what her career goals and salary expectations are!? Hold the phone!
Side note: I asked for $5k, my husband says I should have said $10k and landed at $8k… baby steps, I say.

I do have to keep my excitement in check however, because a lot of our talk was (air quote) hypothetical. Refreshing nonetheless to be asked and not just shooed out the door with a pat on the head. Maybe all my eye rolling and belly-aching (literal and metaphorical) about the plight of mother’s made an impact? Or maybe they like me? Or maybe it is another “Super Moon”?

Regardless, I am now in the tricky spot of guilt. Should I choose not to go back I will be branded as the ungrateful one who took a (hypothetical) raise and never returned? Will I be the one they sparked a dialogue with who ran for the hills? Or worse, will I be the mom who comes back with two preschool kids who looks and smells like shit everyday and is on the receiving end of a lot of pitiful looks from Holt Renfrew clad Bitchy Lions? Oh god.

Why I can’t I just get a raise and be happy?

-Tightrope Mama


[image source: wikipedia]

Time flies …

You know what I used to have a lot of time for? Oh, Everything.

I used to have two jobs and still regularly go to yoga, take a tap class, see all my
friends and play ultimate Frisbee. You know what I have time for now? Two haircuts
a year.

In my case, this second pregnancy has been nothing like the first.
I have fleeting moments where I think "I should do yoga" or " I should take a
prenatal vitamin" but really my outside - the - womb child is calling all the shots.
So again, catholic guilt rears it's ugly head. I obviously can't ignore W, but I really am
not paying as much attention to this fetus as I did the last time. Not. Even. Close.
And I suppose that when the newborn comes, W will inevitably wait while I nurse
and diaper change and do all things baby. But let's deal with that tantrum when it
comes, shall we?

In the meantime, this baby is making me fiercely nauseous in a way W never did.
I am also growing at an alarming rate. Last time I held off on maternity pants till 4
months, this time 10 short weeks and I was living in elastic waistband world.
I am taking this as a sign. This baby refuses to let me forget s/he is already using
their voice and reminding me, "mommy, I'm here" mommy, feed me" " mommy, I'm
not complacent". Sigh.
Not that I want an utterly complacent child but I could use just a little slack.

As I write this I am in a hotel room in a decadent European city on a business trip. I
have forgone a nice dinner for a Panini and sleep... I am petrified my colleagues all
know that I am hiding a pregnancy. I don't know what is more obvious saying “no
thank you” to wine after a 9 hour work day or going to bed at 8pm? Either way I will
be wearing a tent soon enough so they will all know.

-Tightrope Mama

[image: vanityfair]

Peeing on a stick

I have only peed on a pregnancy test twice in my life and both times they were
positive. Yes, for those of you keeping track that means I’m pregnant again.

Peeing on a stick is nerve wracking no matter who you are. Whether you are 15 or
30 or 45, waiting those precious seconds for the answer is like watching your whole
life as you know it flash before your eyes.

Sometimes you desperately want a ‘yes’ and see a ‘no’. Sometimes the opposite is
true. Sometimes you are merely confirming what your instincts and cravings and
exhaustion have already told you.

W is 19 months now so he will be 2 years and 3 months when New arrives. That
is what I am going to call the impending family member, “New”, I was going to call
it “Change” but that doesn’t sounds as flattering.

Even though I have given birth, I am still nervous and it is still months away. Even
though I have nursed, I am super scared. But one thing I do know is that I LOVE W’s
laugh and his tight hugs, which also include rocking back and forth and sometimes
humming. I do know that I am good at sleep training and napping when they nap,
and lots of other things.

Mat leave does seem daunting, oddly. I feel like I just got back and made all these
speeches about the treatment of mothers and here I am, ‘running off’ again. I know,
it is my right and this is the most important job, but I was kind of used to making
myself feel important again.

And here are some positives: I am sleeping without guilt. I am eating chocolate
everyday. I have an excuse not to go to anything I don’t want too (sorry, too tired!).

The news is still new and sinking in – do you ever really get used to it? I don’t know.
Only my husband and I know, so it’s still a secret and so not quite real. I know the
realness is coming but for now I am hibernating and enjoying life as I know it.

-Tightrope Mama

A pregnant pause

I had lunch with a friend today; she is pregnant with her first baby. She is in to her
second trimester now and was full of great questions.
Her and I talk a lot and she is a seriously impressive woman – very together, long-
term stable partner, well respected at work. She is funny and warm and poised,
and yet her mothering hormones are coming in full speed ahead and making her
question herself.
What is it about motherhood that makes us do that? Why are we always asking our
selves so many questions? Why can 100 people tell us we will be great moms and
yet we never believe them?

My friend and I were in the middle of a somewhat innocuous discussion about the
pros and cons of your own mother coming to stay after baby arrives when suddenly
her eyes welled up. She looked away and then said quietly, “I worry I won’t be giving
enough.”
That is such a real and truthful emotion and I think it took a lot of courage to say
that out loud. I remember feeling that way, but I had forgotten about it. I remember
my early pregnancy and crying over all the things I had to give up. I was a bit angry
at the thing living in me. So small and yet already so all consuming.
I told my friend to try not to worry too much and to trust in Mother Nature, she
seems to always bring us moms around when it counts. I told her what she is feeling
is normal and that she was brave to talk about it. I told her that her honesty would
help other women by encouraging open dialogue. After all it isn’t always easy to
admit you are worried about your capacity to love your child. It is the opposite of
what most people expect you to say, but often what you may be feeling.

It is difficult to give advice to a pregnant woman; you have to balance honesty with
scaring the life out of them. Everyone says “It’s hard” and “It’s great” but really these
words are pretty empty until it is your own tiny little human that you are looking
at. You don’t want to mislead first-time pregnant friends, and you certainly don’t
want to preach at them, but you do want to try to prepare them. The worry and
the doubt are infinite, and I don’t think they go away. My friend’s eyes looked so
worried today, and she has everything going for her – she will be great. Why do the
same hormones that make us jump in to traffic for our kids also make us so fearful
for their little futures from the moment we even sense their existence?

-Tightrope Mama


[image: etsy]

We Need to Talk About This Movie

Lionel Shriver’s novel, We Need to Talk About Kevin, is now a movie. I remember when the
book came out. I was in London, where they actually advertise books that are intelligent and
well written, so there were posters all over the Tube. My sister bought it. I was curious, but my bedside table was already full.

Years passed, and then I found out I was pregnant. It was a surprise, and not automatically
joyous news, so I took a rather sardonic view of the whole experience. My reading tends to
reflect my mental state, so I borrowed my sister’s copy of Kevin. (I also read Dante’s Divine
Comedy while I was pregnant, so I do know exactly which level of hell unbaptized children
end up in, Reverend Matt.) And I really enjoyed the book. I understood the mother’s conflicted emotions, I shared her hopes and fears, and I was completely caught up in the drama. Despite the obvious parallel to my own life (the having-a-child bit), I felt removed enough from the story that I didn’t relate to the more horrific aspects of it. I recommended the book to anyone who would ask — except other pregnant women. Not everyone is as insensitive as I am, after all.

But now that it’s a movie, I’m avoiding it at all costs. My husband suggested we see it, and my immediate reaction was, “No, no way.” He looked at me a little strangely, then went on with whatever he was doing. I, however, have been analyzing my reaction ever since.

How come I am horrified by the prospect of watching this movie? I have three theories:
anticipation, association, and just plain old creepiness.

Anticipation because I know how it’s all going to play out, and I don’t want to be around for that. It reminds me of the second time I saw The Shining. The first time I saw it, I didn’t find it the least bit scary. The second time I saw it, I knew what was going to happen and I couldn’t watch, didn’t want to see the creepy twin girls, or the torrents of blood, or Shelley Duvall. That may be what’s happening here. I know that that precious mother-and-child relationship will be doomed from the start, and that terrible things will happen to people who don’t deserve it, and that the mother will be helpless in the face of it all. And I don’t want to think about any of those things.

Association because I first encountered this story when I was newly pregnant with Cookie, and I’m afraid that reliving the horrors of it will colour my view of Cookie, or of my pregnancy, or of me. And because now I’m firmly entrenched in parenthood and can relate to the character’s deep love of her little girl and her paralyzing fear for her daughter’s safety.

Plain old creepiness because it’s a horror movie, at heart, and I’m so over horror movies. I’m
tired of being pointlessly scared. The trailer is certainly creepy enough.

I think it’s all three. But I’m curious about how other parents feel about watching movies or
reading books with tragic parent-and-child relationships in them. I’m now terrified of a lot of
books that before I wouldn’t have thought twice about picking up. One Halloween I watched
Dawn of the Dead with a bunch of friends. One of them was pregnant and tired, so she went to bed before we even started the movie. When the zombie-baby birth scene came, her husband said, “Man, I’m glad she wasn’t here to see that.” This from a couple that was referring to their unborn child as “Spawn of Satan,” so I shot him an “as if” look. I’m a little more sympathetic now. I think I could still handle that scene, but there’s a lot I can’t handle. One of my fellow mamas can’t watch Intervention because they always show pictures of the crack addicts as adorable babies, and it reminds her how even her sweet child could end up down the wrong path. I think a lot about how Hitler was probably an adorable toddler, more than I should.

We Need to Talk About Kevin is a complex, intense book richly deserving of the accolades it
has garnered. It seems the movie is following in its footsteps. But I will not be watching it.

-East End Mama

Powerless

I just found out I didn’t get a job in the small Ontario town where I am moving with
Sir Dick and the Guppins.

In the small Ontario town, there is only one game that suits my profession and it’s
a biggie.

It was a good position, one that I felt I deserved, and indeed I was short-listed.

It’s possible that, had I not been woefully sleep-deprived and vaguely depressed,
I may have had the energy to prep more for the telephone interview. Prepped at
all, really. Okay, I would say by my standards I winged it. And I blew it. I wasn’t
surprised to get the very polite, if not encouraging, rejection letter. It would have
made things easy. Things haven’t been easy, professionally. I work in the arts.
Which is what I was doing when I was pregnant — discovered I was pregnant.
I was on track to take over a fantastic position. I was being groomed. I found
out I was pregnant exactly one week after my first day covering my colleagues’
maternity leave who would soon be resigning. I had driven across the continent
with belongings and dog with the full intention of moving, forever.

It took me a while to figure out what was going on; I thought maybe it was
menopause. Not unheard of at age 40. My older, wiser friend urged a pregnancy
test. Ridiculous, I thought. It’s the flu.

But no, I was pregnant. I phoned Sir Dick, he reacted negatively, and I cut him
out of my life. How could I do this to him? 3,000 kilometres’ distance, and a lot
of ignored emails. I was experiencing an extreme sense of self-preservation- it
apparently kicks in with pregnancy. A friend described it as “the bullshit meter” in
low tolerance/ high detection mode.

While I was pregnant, I planned. I planned to get my job. I planned childcare, I
planned finances, I planned letters of reference, and I planned an amazing plan.
I made the final interview. It was down to three. It should have been a slam dunk.
I flew home to have the baby, prepared to fly back in five months to start my job,
single mother, Leader, actualized woman of the millennium.

But it didn’t happen. For some horrible terrible tragic reason it didn’t happen.
Despite the fact that I put in ten hours a day for seven months, worked my butt
off, worked my relationships, raised funds for the company, and weathered crisis
after crisis. I lived like pioneer in a cabin in the woods with a wood stove and
no electricity, chopping kindling, getting my water delivered in a garbage can.

(At this point you might be asking what is it exactly that would make her want
this job, right? I know.) I gave it my all. I did my best. But they gave the job to
someone else.

What followed was devastation, pure and simple. And no one back home could
understand. Because I had done it alone. I had planned alone, and I lost alone.

I am not seven months pregnant at this interview. …no, this time my rising belly
gives no rising questions. This time I want the job less. It’s an easier job, easier
than full-time mothering. I would have Sir Dick living with me, helping. I would
have support in this small Ontario town.

But not to be.

The Guppins recently began throwing little fits. Tossing her self on the floor and
scooting away from me. Crying out.

“She’s not even two,” I question a friend.

She tells me,

“At this age, they begin to discover how they are powerless.”

I am more careful. I no longer expect The Guppins to do what I want, what is
convenient. I try to provide options. I am more careful. “She is not a sack of
potatoes,” I tell myself. “I can’t just toss her around.”

And I never leave her alone.

The tantrums are becoming less frequent.

So how do I stop tearing myself up inside? Banging my fists? Crying out?

I tell my Momma friends the advice I try so hard to give to myself:

Be gentle. Tell yourself you love yourself many, many times a day. Say it out
loud even though it feels stupid. I love you I love you I love you. We are our best
advocate and friend. We are our biggest critic.

And if my Grey Mamma can take the easy-ride seat for pregnant ladies even though she isn't pregnant anymore, but then one morning turn it around and bravely tell some lady to F off because she’s NOT pregnant, then I can deal with this. I can deal with being powerless.
I can turn it around.

-Drama Mama