Six Weeks After

Here is a summary of my six week post partum OB/GYN appointment:

Doctor: How are you?
Me: Great.
Doctor: So . . .
Me: I never want to ever in my life ever become pregnant again, ever.
Doctor: Good, I was going to ask you.
Me: EVER!!!!!

So I am getting an IUD not a DUI (hee hee, John came up with that). I will like to now take this opportunity to thank my ovaries for a job well done.

Dear Ovaries,

I appreciate the fact that each time I wanted to get pregnant you were all, “Girl says we can release the egg and create life. All men on deck.” Truth be told, I never thought I would even get pregnant. But each time it happened in the very first month of trying. Obviously, you guys do your job with extreme diligence. Sure, some people would consider that awesome, but I consider it a bit annoying. I mean the entire trying to get pregnant thing is awesome. When else do you get to repeatedly rape your better half? Also, thank you for never following through at any other point in my life, say when I was drunk and stupid. Because let’s face it, the early 20s were pretty much defined by drunken stupidity hey lets make out shenanigans. God, it was awesome. But I digress. I want to inform you that you are through, if I could I would remove you via clothing hanger but that might hurt, so I am going the IUD method of birth control as I don’t want to put it in a diaphragm anymore. Let me say, putting in a diaphragm when you a frisky and intoxicated is an event worthy of Olympic gold. Try being drunkenly unsteady with your leg up inserting a plastic orb up your va jay jay. Very taxing for the clumsy. Also, please note ovaries, I am 35, and as you know my eggs are suddenly becoming expired in their shelf life. They are not worthy of being fertilized but instead headed out to pasture with a nice 401k and a condo in Boca, just like you. So ovaries, I bid you adieu. Thank you for the kids (I think).

Yours truly,

Cassie McCall

The Birth

The last time you heard from me, I was late and there was talk of induction. Well that induction was talked about and scheduled for March 19, 2009. We were told to call in that morning at 6:00 a.m. Basically the night before I did not sleep very well because I WAS GOING TO HAVE A BABY THE NEXT DAY. I called at 5:50 a.m. and was told they were too busy and to call back at 9:00 a.m. I called at 9:00 a.m. only to be told they would call me back because they were too busy. I then cried on the toilet. Seriously. I wanted the baby out, O-U-T. And here it was dangled before me, and then ripped away because some people actually go into labor. I called my doctor and was scheduled for induction again on Monday, March 23, 2009. Which was four days away. At this point it should be told that I was almost 4 cm dilated and 100% effaced. It is amazing the baby was even still up there, so I was told to have sex, walk around and it was likely I would go before Monday. Yeah right. I did what I was told, and let me say something – having sex for the sake of getting a baby out of you is not exactly a good time, but rather a chore, and a disgusting one at that. You try feeling sexy when your belly has a 7 pound kid in it and you are a week overdue. I even had possibly the hottest chicken tikka masala known to man. My eyes watered, and it was a torture to even consume, but I did, because I wanted to go into labor. I really, really, really did. Needless to say, I was calling at 6:00 a.m. on Monday, to be told the glorious words “Come in.” What did you say? Come in? Come in? I can get this freaking baby out of my womb? OMG.

We get the hospital where I am told they will be breaking my water, and I should go into labor because I am 4 cm dilated and 100% effaced. Any wages on how that went? Before this I am given the option of an epidural. My last epidural was not pleasant in the sense that they got into my spinal fluid and I got the worst headache of my entire life. Actually it could not even be described as a headache, rather a head bashing mind numbing absolute horror of a continuous ache. But you know what, that only occurs in 1% of people who get epidurals and I did not want to be subjected to having my placenta ripped out of me without pain meds if it was to detach again. So, doctor epidural me. The doctor came in and began the epidural. Do you know an epidural under normal instances takes about 5 minutes to do? I only know this because after to close to an hour of the doctor pricking me continuously with needles he decided to move up one notch wherein it was finished in five minutes. He then told me that I have an elusive space between my L4 and L5 and that all my future epidurals should be done in the L4/L3 space. So in addition to this fatty lipoma on my left shoulder that is the size of a softball and my allergy to yellow peppers, lets add weird epidural space to the list of freaking things that make me unique.

Next they break my water. Baby come on out! But no, nothing happened. There were no contractions. So after about two hours of waiting they move to pitocin. Yeah, finally something that gives me results. It is obvious to me now that even though I have a short cervix, and bed rest was prescribed in both my pregnancies, I also did not go into labor with either. Life is cruel. They start the pitocin, and although I feel contractions they do not see them on the monitor. Because my uterus is also a bit off it seems. I am not sure what my mother was drinking when she was pregnant with me, but it had to be bad. Although the uterus thing could be contributed to my brother kicking me in the stomach after seeing this wrestling move. It was always my belief that this kick would cause me not to even have kids, but it seems it only served to whack my uterus off kilter so that a fetal monitor could not detect contractions. Thanks Michael. I am then told the baby’s heart rate is going down, which means there are contractions and they are going to have to monitor her internally since I was between 4 and 5 cm and had a way to go. So a half hour later, the doctor comes in to put these monitors in and lo and behold I am fully dilated. WHAT! Yeah Maggie. Basically this is 45 minutes since I felt a contraction and I am about to push. They set up the necessary, and then we have a practice push to see how I push. Well let me tell you, I push awesome because the nurse was all – Stop! I need to call your doctor now. So we wait, and my doctor comes in and I give another push and boom baby. I pushed for 2 sets of pushes, about 9 minutes, which included a 5 minute break for the Lofquist to make an appearance. From first contraction to baby – less than 90 minutes. I would like at this time to say, “SECOND BABIES RULE!” And also, I did not poop on the table. Win, win all around.

They then put Maggie on my belly, but I am only viewing the back of her head. Which is full of dark hair. I remember sitting saying to myself, holy crap. Once again everyone sees this baby but me because John and his mom are like – she is beautiful, beautiful. Oh really? I don’t know that because her god damn back of the head is facing me. I only housed this kid for 9 months, and 9 days, which included 8 weeks of bed rest. And me eating possibly the spiciest food known to man, and did I mention the constipation? But no, don’t let me see her face or anything, I mean the back of the head is fine by me, really – who needs to see a face? Not me. Why am I even here? My job is done, someone hand me a vodka and we can call it a day. So yeah, a tad frustrated. But I did finally get to see her face, and she was beautiful.

Baby had, yeah me. Maggie Nicole McCall, 6 pounds, 15 oz., 20 inches long. This marks the official end to my pregnant life. I am bronzing my ovaries, hanging them up to dry, and retiring from breeding. I thank all who helped me in these efforts, but especially John McCall without whom I would have never housed life within my womb.

Tomorrow . . . what the hell have I done?

4 Days and Counting

At the doctor yesterday, I had my membranes stripped. For those of you not in the know, that is the process in which via vaginal exam, your OB/GYN separates your amniotic sac from your cervix with her fingers. I know! I mean she can't buy me dinner and a drink beforehand. Way to woo, doc. All of this was witnessed before John, and all of it was not told to me prior. I was like, hey! OUCH! God what the hell are you doing to me you bitch! Wherein our Dr. Lofquist just said, “Sorry, I am being mean today.” But these are the things you suffer through when you make no progress in a week, and you want your baby out. But dear Maggie viewed this stripping of the membranes as a pathetic attempt to lure her out. “Me, fall for that.” “Oh my god, LOSERS.” So on it goes, this Thursday I have an ultrasound to check my fluid as Owen was induced due to low fluid, then if there is no appearance by Monday, March 16, two days after my due date we will begin to think of induction. So that basically means there is a possibility that both my children will be handed the eviction notice via a dosing of pitocin. Obviously I have a womb that thrills, it must be like candy canes, lollipops and unicorns in there. I mean really, no one wants to leave.

8 Days and Counting

Dear Maggie McCall,

You are eight days away from your due date, but that means nothing because I think something like on 10% of babies are actually born on their due date. You do what you want though, no complaints from me. Your father and I think you are going to come every day, because last night as I lay in bed, I screamed "ouch" three times in a row from pains. But then they disappeared. I don't know if you know what the term "tease" means, but I am thinking that you might be very familiar with it someday. And then this morning, you dad said "moving or just pain" and I was like "moving with pain". Which is an appropriate album title and description for the last couple of days. I guess there is nothing to do but wait. But it is so boring. I have reached the max of television I can watch, I am actually enjoying the Today Show and laugh like they are my friends and we are on this secret mission of happiness and fun together. Its sad, really sad, but that is slow descent into madness. My mother thinks that you are going to look like her with dark hair and dark eyes. Your Nana is so modest. She does not want you to have red hair, but since your Nonni has auburn here and my Nana McInnis also had auburn hair there is a good chance you can go red. So, when you are older and reading over this you can understand why Nana never thought that much of you. I kid. Maybe. Anyway, your brother Owen is insane, and if you can be half as insane as him, I will be happy. Also he was eleven days overdue. So again, I stress to you arriving early or on time, might win you votes in our future estate planning.

Your Mummy

10 Days Until the Blessed Arrival of the Beast

There is nothing worse than getting to the final few weeks of your pregnancy, where every cramp gives you the promise of hope that something might be getting started. That something might lead to your legs up in stirrups as a human head exits from your womanhood. And you sit and wait, and you wait some more, and then you curse, and then you say, well I can sleep. But then you say, I don’t want to sleep, I just want her out of the belly. But then you are like, but sleep is pretty awesome. Yeah, maybe this thing was a bad idea from the get go. Too late to rethink it? So basically I am descending into a slow insanity. Trying to busy myself, but having no pure thought into what to do, because my mind is pregnant. And pregnant brain has one thing on its mind – baby. So it tends to wander to you know the baby, and then you are at square one, but you made brownies to comfort you. On my doctor’s appointment on Monday it was revealed that I am now 80% effaced, and almost 2 cm dilated. Which one would think actually means something, but then you read on the great Google that it means absolutely nothing. Pretty much babies come when they are damn well ready to come. The frustrating part for me is the entire bed ridden status. One would think that if one is put on bed rest it is to stop impending labor, so that when one is off of bed rest, one would have said labor. Not that I truly expected this to happen considering after a ten week stint with Owen, he arrived eleven days late. So basically, John and I have determined that I have the strongest short cervix known to man. Although slight in size, it is able to carry the burden of baby. Its wrestling name will be The Wee Warrior. But I thank my cervix for a job well done, but it can stop already. Because cervix, I am laying you off. Times are tough, and I am going nutty. You are being let go, so please let go yourself and let this kid arrive already. Actually I think this is all stemming from my first trimester and second trimester desire to have this baby on St. Patrick’s Day. Those trimesters are full of magic, and not reality. It is then when you are like – how fun would it be to have a baby on St. Patty’s Day named Maggie McCall? But Third Trimester Cassie is all – Baby get the hell out of me, seriously, your time has come. Do you see that, no seriously, look right there by the light. Its another pink outfit, for you! Don’t you want to wear it? Your mother would really like to walk four steps without her pants falling down and her ass being exposed. Do me this solid, and I swear to God, you can totally stay up late on New Year’s 2015. But nope, I continue to wait, and wait, and wait. What will the next few days bring aside from me analyzing every cramp like a Lost fan on Benjamin Linus’s raised eyebrow, nothing. I know this, but still I cling.

Lost!!!!

After washing my hands after a bathroom trip, I was leaving when I noticed something very peculiar in the full length mirror. It seems, my ass has gone bye-bye. Upon further investigation, it seems that my pants, which are in no way too big for me, are in fact big in the badonkadonk. Peculiar. Not that I ever had a J-Lo type bootie, as my friend Diane once said to me “Cassie, you have the flattest ass I have ever seen.” Which I scoff at, but today, in the mirror, perhaps she is right. So to you Maggie McCall, I would like to say - thank you for stealing my bum. Hopefully it returns. There is nothing worse than sitting on MUNI with no cushioning.

Oh Pregnancy . . .

I am sure you are all “Geez, can this lady please shut up about being pregnant already?” But I am the writer of this blog, and I am pregnant, and need to vent the seemingly mundane aspects of my life because well that is what I do. I use to drink, doing it quite well. But now, I am sober and pregnant. So deal people, onto the belly.

The past few days have been marked by an extreme tired state. Which is funny because when I journey home, I am all - as soon as that kid into bed, I am plunging into my bed for the sleep of the dead. But then I come home, and do this, and then that, and pretty soon my window of sleep passes on by. I then find myself at 10:30 p.m. randomly searching the television for something that will aid in sleep. That thirty minute biography last night about Jackson Pollack did not help in the effort. As a side note, screw all you people who have made the name “Jackson” popular. I hate you. Finally sleep comes, but in what feels like five minutes, morning arrives and caked upon my face is about a metric ton of drool. Curse you daylight. I guess this is the beginnings of the super tired phase. It is also the beginning of the how many zits will pop on my face in a 24 hour period phase, at last count seven. Honestly, I get up to go to the bathroom, and look at myself and another pimple is there. There is no way to stop this it. I think I may have had two days of clear skin since this pregnancy, which is funny because with Owen, I did in fact GLOW. This pregnancy, I give off the quiet hum of a halogen energy efficient 15 watter. Actually thank god for the pimples, they give me some glow. Sure, they are in carefully dotted places, but still.

I have no clue what the hell I am talking about because in addition to being sleep deprived, hormonal, one can add mentally challenged to the list. For example, after lunch today I asked the following, “What time is it?” I took out my iphone, clicked the button, got the time, and then said to myself not 30 seconds later. “What did that say?” So I checked again, then ten seconds later confused, was it 12:59 p.m.. But that was impossible, because my lunch was in no way fifteen minutes. So I checked again, 1:17 p.m. Hello doofus, you just checked you phone three times for the time in a span of two minutes. Which brings me to another point, I should not be working. I am writing down everything and giving myself outlook reminders. But for someone a mind of mush, it is had to remember ten seconds ago what I meant to do. And is there nothing worse, than standing by your desk, mumbling to yourself, and trying to trace back what the hell you were going to do. Instead I am bedazzled by the bright fluorescent lights above? Oh pretty lights. So Obama, why don’t you add to your healthcare plan, the allowance of the stupidly pregnant to take off of work so they can stare into space and try to come up with some baby names because Jackson are taken by yuppies, and Maggie McCall sounds like an Irish bar I got drunk and threw up in circa St. Patty’s Day 1997. Thanks.

Holy Hormones

Well it seems that I have entered the hormonal stage of my pregnancy, wherein my mind usually fun loving and carefree decides to become bi-polar. I reside in one of two states, pissed off wanting to punch someone in the head or overly emotional prone to crying jags. This past weekend, I give you two examples of my bi-polar nature:

Overly Emotional. Saturday afternoon after Owen has descended into nap and John has decided to join him in the endeavor, I sit on the couch flipping the remote while consuming a chunky peanut butter smothered sourdough English muffin. I stumble across Deep Impact. In the summer of 1998 there were two movies about the planet being destroyed by outer space - Armageddon had a big ole asteroid and Deep Impact had a big ole comet. Where Armageddon had Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck, and Liv Tyler, Deep Impact had Tea Leoni, Morgan Freeman and Elijah Wood. Yeah. So as I sat there watching Tea Leoni as an MSNBC anchor describing how the rescue ship Messiah is about to drill into the comet to insert nuclear bombs in order to blow up the comet so that it veers from its course of Deep Impact, I began to cry. At first I shook it off, this was Deep Impact, a movie, and as far as I knew, no comet was currently hurtling to destroy me. But as the music swelled, and Astronaut Gus (played by Jon Favreau) was blown into deep space, my chest began to heave, my eyes watered, and I began a soft wail. OH NO, DEEP IMPACT. You will not Brokeback Mountain me!! That is when I decided to get up and build Owen’s toddler bed, because it is one thing to meltdown after Brokeback when pregnant, another to cry at Spiderman and Independence Day while not pregnant, but obviously PMSed, but not Deep Impact. No way, no how.

Overly Psychotic. Before the football games yesterday John and I rushed to the park with Owen to give him some fresh air time before his parents hunkered down for their Sunday fix of football and fun. Although in hindsight, given the performance of a certain New England football team, I think we should have stayed at the park. At this park, there are often children’s parties, so you will see parents early in the morning setting up for their kid’s birthdays. We arrived at the park at 9:30 to see two guys decorating one side of the park in balloons, red ribbons, and a piñata. That is when this lady came and said - “Excuse me, but where else can you set up.” Now these gentlemen had obviously claimed that area, and told her other areas with tables were claimed by another. “But I have 40 people coming.” cried Mommy Dearest. It was at this point, the hormonal anger in me surged. So you have 40 people coming to a park for a birthday, and you decide to show up to claim tables at 9:30. Stupid bitch. Normally, I could care less - I really don’t plan on having any birthday party for Owen until his 21st. So, there is that. But the lack of planning by this woman was so infuriating. Because if it was me, I would have been up at 5:30 a.m. claiming spots, because you know 40 people (adults included), love to hang out in the middle of the park on the two benches that you now are forced to claim. I think the best part is when she said “Okay, well I guess we will have to have a person up there to direct people over to us.” This is not Yellowstone lady, it’s a kid’s park, that I could probably crawl the length of in a minute. But you get your director of traffic. Geesh. John had no idea why I was so angry, but I was, and I guess still am. Furious Anger!

So yes, be prepared from some fun with my new bipolar mind. Yesterday, as I was cleaning up from football, I spilled a half full beer off the counter, and I swear to God, if I did not want to punch a wall and kick a kitten. Then cry, of course.

For the Love of God . . .

I recently got invited to a birthday party for a two year old. Please hold back your screams of jealousy. It was an Evite. I love these things because you get to read things like the following “Sorry we can’t make it, but our babymoon is scheduled for that weekend.” Are you faithful reader not aware of the babymoon? Well, urban dictionary describes it as:

Mandatory vacation for both parents before the live birth of a child. Maybe a weekend, maybe a week. Requires the male end of conception to pay for all expenses out of his pocket. Travel, lodging, preferably at a seaside hotel, and gifts (to the mother to be, not the baby,) are an absolute necessity. Eases away the stress and woe of pregnancy.

Oh really? You know what I define it as - stupid. You know what else is stupid - push prizes. The only thing I wanted after pushing Owen into the world was him. And maybe a new vagina. But babymoons and push prizes? When did men get so pansy assed to put up with this utter nonsense. I mean isn’t it enough that they are forced into the delivery room instead of drinking and smoking at a bar telling the other drunks that they are about to have a baby. Also, how awkward would the following conversation be:

Person: Oh Cassie, what a lovely necklace. Where did you get it?
Me: John, he got it for me.
Person: Birthday? Anniversary?
Me: Ah, no.
Person: Just because?
Me: Well, if you have to know if was for squeezing Owen out of my vagina. It’s called a push prize. I also pushed out a poop, but I think this is just for the baby. But maybe not.
Person: Nice, I am going to leave now.
Me: Okay!

So maybe I am betraying another secret girl code that I was not privy too because of my tomboy nature, but let me say I am not partaking even if it would mean diamonds and beach vacations. Wait a second, can I retract everything I just said.

Maternity Clothing - My True Dilemma

I do not think there is anything more depressing than maternity clothes shopping. Well maybe attending a funeral, but if it is my family that usually involves drink and food and laughs. So again, maybe it is maternity clothes shopping. And I don’t really find it depressing in the sense of “Wow, I can’t wait to put this on so that I can look like a gigantic peach.” But rather depressing in the sense that I repeatedly said to myself, “Wow. I really hope I can still wear this after the baby is born, super cute!” Also, I said it before, and I will say it again. I love elastic waists. Who needs zippers and buttons and potential muffin tops, when there is cute maternity wear? I ask you this?

Pregnancy Is A Funny Thing

There you are with an itty bitty person growing inside you. You are the vessel controlled by surging hormones and too tight pants. You are the victim of morning sickness and cravings. You are no longer are alone. Things about being pregnant that I have recognized this week:

What is it about meat? I have had two meatball sandwiches in the past three days, one from Toaster Oven and one from Gambinos New York Style Subs, because someone told me that they were much better. A normal person would say, I will get that meatball sandwich next time I crave it - say in 3 months. A pregnant person says. You don’t say, Gambino’s, eh? And then proceeds to think about said sandwich for the next 20 hours. How big are the balls? Is the sauce good? Is the cheese provolone or mozzarella? Is the bread super soft? Conclusion - I like the Toaster Oven better. I am unsure if this actual due to the meatballs or the fact that I in general hate anything associated with New York.

Someone in the office, who knows I am with beastie, said the following to me. “Cassie, have you lost weight? Your face is thinner.” Needless to say, after I dove upon this woman in flurry or kisses, hugs, and inappropriate office touching, I felt blissfully good. I do not think it is often the pregnant are given praise for their weight loss, but hallelujah I was. And do not think this is not going upon my gravestone:

Here Lies Cassandra Michelle Catherine McCall
Born October 30, 1973
Died TBD
Was once told during her second pregnancy, her face looked thinner. Also, loved the Pats. Considers the day Matt Cassel hoisted the MVP Superbowl trophy a day of pure awesomeness. Hopes she gets to haunt people.

I think I need to retire my button and zipper pants, because right now I am wearing a pair that castrating my mid-section. Is my face purple? Because I think it is. I must unleash the belly. I must!

A Pregnant Pause . . .

That is my title because I am pregnant and have had an awfully long blog pause. Oh my goodness, aren’t I just the most witty thing ever. Anyway, yeah so I am knocked up, and just about to enter my second trimester. Also known as the glory trimester because you are no longer sick all the time, but not yet able to be harpooned by fisherman due to your large girth.

Things about pregnancy this time around I have noticed:

1. When you tell your husband, you know this might take like six months to a year, so we better start trying now. Please be prepared to be pregnant right away, and put away your flask.

2. When pregnant with Owen, I had often said due to some issues at the beginning “Please God, just let me be sick.” As this was suppose to be the sign of a healthy pregnancy. Well let me tell you, God is very funny, and very mean spirited. Only recently has the nausea subsided, but for the past seven weeks I have been hit with waves of pukiness. But I never puke, because you know that would mean relief, I just sit there thinking of puking, for hours on end. But you know what, I don’t care, because “it is a sign of a healthy pregnancy.” This to me know falls under the “a bird shitting on you is good luck” category. Absolute crap, but the unfortunate sufferers need a bright side.

3. The other day, I looked in the mirror and said to myself (or out loud, as I tend to do unknowingly): “Wow, Cass, you are getting chunky.” But then I was all like - I AM PREGNANT. THANK GOD, I AM PREGNANT. So the entire allowance of being a fat ass is a pretty sweet perk.

4. Forget bloodhounds, just let me track that missing hiker lost in the woods because my sense of smell is superhero extraordinary. Is this a good thing? Hell no. There is nothing worse than being the victim of morning, late morning, noonish, afternoon, dusk, evening, nighttime sickness and be met everywhere you go with the smells of the world. You ever change a 20 month old’s poop laden diaper when battling throwing up with the smell of a nasal ninja? And don’t get me started on MUNI. I am sorry man next to me, but your burps of Chinese food every 30 seconds might just cause me to punch you in the face repeatedly, and is that a beer you had with that lunch? Because I think it is, and I hate you!

5. You don’t know true happiness in your husband, until you look to his face when uttering these words “Its only one baby.”

So, yeah, pregnant again, meaning that my next hard alcohol cocktail will more than likely be for the celebration of the year 2010. Hello, my name is Cassie McCall, and I have been sober for 8 weeks. Our baby is due March 14, 2009. We can’t wait.

The Scare and The Agony

Dear Reader, I will not lie. This past week, I thought maybe I could be pregnant. Luckily, yesterday the curse arrived. And by curse I mean a mind-altering barrage of crampiness that requires steady dosing of Advil and quiet whimpering. I see now that the constant breast pain, the bloating, the headaches did not mean pregnant but rather PMS to the 18th power. Holy Jesus. Also, before discovering I was not knocked up (thank you First Response Pregnancy Test), I was pretty pissed off at my egg. Usually before my egg ovulates, it receives the following instructions, "Okay, listen up here missy, you are not to make any contact with those squiggly godforsaken hooligans you may meet on your journey. First, I have only been drinking again for four months, and that is too short a time. Second, do you know how expensive infant care is? Third, spring is here, meaning sun, meaning the Park Chalet, and if I have to be there not drinking beer while everyone else is well just say I will not be happy. I will be angry. Very angry. So stick to your guns and do not under any circumstance listen to the sweet words of any spermatozoa. They have nothing good for you. NOTHING." So, imagine my dismay that my ova perhaps did not listen to my instructions. But happily, I am without child but under attack in the form of gut twisting agony. I fucking hate my period. But I do love vodka. So I guess I can suffer for my art.