So when did eating become work? For someone who likes food, it's hard to imagine that eating could ever turn in to a chore. Yet in the space of a few pregnancies, the mere prospect of eating has taken on a whole new light for me.
With my first pregnancy, it was simply the dreaded morning (all-day) sickness that did it. In my naivety growing up, I did not realize that morning sickness lasted more than a few days. Imagine my shock when I was told that it should (but might not) dissipate by the end of the first trimester. I bravely forged on with my food intake for a day or two...and then it hit me. It was like a switch had been flipped overnight. I begrudgingly accepted the trimester-long sentence as night after night, my poor husband named off every item in the pantry as a prospective dinner idea while I gagged and berated him for his insensitivity to my nausea. In the back of my head, I tried to use rationale--after all, it wouldn't work to simply starve for three months straight, would it? Yet as rationale caved to misery, starvation seemed not a bad option. Somehow, between dry cereal, triscuits (which I now look at with contempt), and peppermints, I survived, and luckily even began to thrive again as I coasted in to second trimester.
The second pregnancy stepped my struggle up a notch. I vividly remember sitting at my desk the day I "got" to tell my boss that I was pregnant (again, for the second time in two years, which the Army does not look kindly upon). As supportive as he was in my emotional hour, he for some reason chose that moment in time to come talk to me armed with a pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (never mind that used to be my favorite). That day, as he gave me his pep talk and told me not to worry about others' opinions between bites of his Reese's, it was all I could do to clamp my mouth shut, hold my breath, and pray that I didn't lose my measly lunch of crackers at his feet when the sickly sweet smell of chocolate and peanut butter accosted my delicate nostrils.
So, fully knowing what to expect 'this time around', I armed myself with saltines, oyster crackers, pretzels, and every bland cereal known to mankind. Yet I was in for a rude awakening. It was not so much the nausea that had me doubled over this time (although still a contributing factor), but the sheer, ravenous hunger that gripped my stomach within a half an hour after consuming anything. It couldn't be possible...I was eating seemingly constantly despite my gag reflex. Yet by some ironic twist, after all the food I kept ingesting, I was still constantly plagued by hunger. I soon realized the cause: between growing our new little munchkin and still nursing my oldest little munchkin, my body was literally screaming (in the language of searing pangs of hunger) for more calories. By month two, I was simply tired of eating. By month four, I was literally exhausted by the mere sight of food. Never mind that I had to plan not only breakfast and lunch, but dinner every night as well, since my dear husband was off in Afghanistan dealing with his own struggles. Still, there were many nights I envied his position: Wouldn't it be wonderful to just walk into a dining facility and be handed dinner every night? Just be told what to eat? No menu planning, no cooking... Well, at least I could dream.
I now sit at the brink of the end of this pregnancy, and I honestly wonder sometimes how I've managed to feed myself enough to still be alive. Pre-pepared dinners have helped, and many a bowl of cereal has served as crisis intervention for sudden hunger pangs. Most of the time I simply cope by staring woefully at the open fridge and rifling through cabinets, finally convincing myself that I need to eat something, and hence forcing a something or other down my throat.
But the wonder has led me to a deeper contemplation as well. How have I managed to spiritually feed myself during these times of crisis? The similarity between my physical need for food and my spiritual need for
nourishment is striking, really.
I have always loved to eat; I have always loved my Faith. I went through phases of being picky about one food or another, just as I went through phases of favorite prayers or acceptance of Church teachings; in the end, though, I came to develop an appreciation for good food, as well as great Faith. Through college and beyond, despite my ups and downs trying to maintain a healthy diet in both arenas, I came out on top. At the onset of our marriage, I was about the healthiest I have ever been both physically and spiritually. I loved my natural and healthy foods, I enjoyed a good workout, my prayer life was in good order, and my husband and I were growing in our marriage daily.
Enter motherhood. Just as eating became a chore, in many ways my prayer life did as well. It became work to force myself to meditate on anything profound, let alone utter a rote prayer such as a Hail Mary or an Our Father. My husband and I still took time to pray (or say, in my case) a rosary every once in awhile, and I forced myself to tune in during Sunday mass, but I was not well nourished.
As for my spiritual life during my second pregnancy? As my physical hunger for food seemed to double, so did my need for spiritual food. Forget the stale rote prayers or even concentrating at mass--with a toddler looking for every possible avenue of escape from the pew (to include spontaneous tantrums) it became virtually impossible. Yet I craved something to fulfill me. Without my husband around to confide in or draw solace from, I spent many a day feeling desperate for any form of consolation. Just as I scoured the fridge and cabinets for something to fill my empty stomach, I surfed the internet, flipped through TV channels, and called home far more than necessary trying to feed my starving soul.
Yet it hit me recently that these shallow means of fulfillment--even if they taste alright at the time--simply cannot sustain me. Especially when my family needs me to sustain them. As nauseous or exhausted as I might feel, I still need to get dinner on the table for our resident one-year-old, and in my belly for our soon-to-be bundle of joy. It doesn't matter that I don't feel like thinking up yet another meal, or that I don't have the energy to whip up something. It is precisely due to my lack of energy that I need to eat and gain some energy. It is, in fact, those times when I feel the most begrudging toward food that I need a good meal the most!
Ditto with my spiritual nourishment. It is the times when I am most busy, most overwhelmed, and most begrudging toward prayer that I need it most. I have cried out to God many a time when I feel utterly frustrated, lonely, misunderstood, or simply weary: God, isn't there anyone? I can't deal with this alone right now! Please send someone, I just need someone...
But if I listen closely enough, it's in those moments that He responds, ever so gently, What about Me?
And if I step outside my self-pity just long enough, I'm reminded that He is truly the best nourishment I could ask for, the essence of what I really need--even if it takes extra work. A few crackers might be the easy fix to hold me over for a short while, but in the long run, only a real meal--achieved with real elbow grease--will result in fulfillment and growth. So face the kitchen I will--and hopefully teach my children to do the same!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Hypno-what?!
Many of you have seen these posts and expressed interest in finding out more about Hypnobirthing. You can find all the posts I've written about it here:
My Discovery of Hypnobirthing:
The Hypnobabies Lessons I've blogged through:
And also be sure visit the Hypnobabies website, www.hypnobabies.com, for more great information. (Some of the Hypnobabies links embedded in my posts may be outdated since Hypnobabies has updated their website). If you have any questions or want more details, please feel free to send me a message and ask away!
--- --- ---
I knew that I wanted to deliver her naturally for all the right reasons: a quicker birthing, a more alert baby with no medication in her system after the birth, and fewer chances of complications that could lead to further intervention. What I was not expecting was the indescribable agony of bringing my daughter into the world. Yes, I had prepared myself for the fact that it would hurt. A lot, even. But I was not prepared for it to feel like that. Like most mothers, I would submit (even moments afterward) that every single second was worth it as I beheld our beautiful baby girl. Yet I was surprised that I was almost willing to give into pain meds, and developed a sudden loathing for Eve and her carelessness that bestowed the 'pains of childbirth' on womankind.
Which brought me to the struggle of what to do the next time around. My daughter was worth it--but she was already in existence, a flesh-and-blood miracle in my very arms. How could I resign myself to the fact that by cooperating with God's will and opening ourselves to possibly create more children, I would intentionally be putting myself through this again? I thought of all the women with two, three, ten children. How did they do it?!
Of course, we could not have imagined that I would indeed be putting myself through it all again a mere year and change later. Five-month old Marie gurgled happily on her playmat while I sat bewildered in the bathroom, the word 'pregnant' blinking clear as day on the test (I made Peter go out and get the 'kind with words' when I didn't believe the first one with lines). With Peter packing the last of his things for his year-long departure to Afghanistan in a few short days, I was beyond overwhelmed. Not only would I be going through it again so soon, but this time there was a chance that Peter might not even be there in time!
Thus began my immediate quest for the secret to surviving natural childbirth, since I 'knew' what to expect based on my first birthing experience. The series of classes (if you could call them that0 that we took before Marie was born were no help whatsoever; the instructors dangled the carrot of natural childbirth briefly as we practiced breathing techniques and swaying back and forth, but then told us all about all pain management we should request as soon as it started to hurt. Right.
So I consulted my ever-reliable source of wisdom and promptly Googled 'natural childbirth.' I read about Lamaze, then about the Bradley method. And then something at the bottom of the page caught my eye: Hypnobirthing.
Hypno-what?!
Highly skeptical, I clicked on the link. It had to be some weird new-age-y thing. Granted, I'd heard of hypnosis to treat traumatic stress disorders, or quit smoking, or lose weight. But being hypnotized while giving birth? That was way out there!
But the site seemed less alarming than I imagined. It talked about the many times daily when people experience a state of hypnosis--watching TV, getting lost in a book, zoning out while driving--and that hypnosis is just an altered state of mind that everyone has experienced. It didn't take a hypnotist swinging a pendulum in front of your eyes. Sounded normal enough. I was intrigued...so I kept reading. Apparently women could learn the techniques to reach this relaxed state (i.e. hypnosis) on their own. Using it for childbirth was simply a way for women to learn how to relax enough to work with their muscles to facilitate the birthing process (instead of tensing up out of fear and tension, which creates pain).
After some additional research, my skepticism was all but conquered. I found comments from women all over the internet saying they had experienced minimal pain, or even NO pain, during the birth of their child by using self-hypnosis. Even women whose said it didn't completely work (they ended up resorting to medication) said they wouldn't trade learning the techniques and using them during labor for anything. I even saw some unbelievable videos on You Tube of women using hypnosis during childbirth. All the feedback seemed positive...it almost seemed too good to be true.
I then stumbled upon Hypnobabies, a program offering a six-week home study course
What really convinced me was a sample Hypnobabies relaxation track online [ www.enjoybirth.com/music/Hypnobabies-Relax-Me-Script.mp3 ]
By the time the kit arrived I was surprisingly excited, and started reading and listening to the CDs right away. The information seemed pretty straightforward, without any strange subliminal religious or new age philosophies mixed in. I found that there was even plenty of room for me to add in my own favorite prayers as I practiced my relaxation techniques. I found it completely compatible with the expression of my Catholic faith. Of course, my commitment to practicing leaves something to be desired. Between working full time and chasing Marie around, I've been a C+ student at best. Most of the time I just fall asleep listening to the CDs...but I figure for what it's worth, at least I've gotten some fantastic nights of sleep out of the program (which can be a miracle in itself during 3rd trimester)! Granted, the real test will be when baby #2 decides to initiate his or her arrival, but I must say that I have been extremely happy with the entire experience thus far!
Of course I'll be posting about the experience, so we'll find out soon how well it all works. 3 weeks and counting till the final exam!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Sound of Silence
It struck me the other day how incredibly well I've adjusted to the sounds of motherhood.
I was on the phone with the receptionist of the Overhead Door Company, politely discussing scheduling options to diagnose our finicky garage door (a story for another time), when the question seemed to come out of left field: "So how old is the baby?" It took me a moment to process the question before realizing that I had tuned out the carousel-esque tone of the Playskool train as it cycled through railroad-themed songs, not to be outdone by the Tickle-and-Bounce-Me Elmo as he proclaimed, "Toss Elmo! Higher!" All the while Marie babbled happily in the other corner of the playard, attempting with all her might to tip the plastic slide-about twice the size of her--onto its side.
CRASH! Mission accomplished.
"Oh, um, she just turned one" I uttered distractedly as I watched the slide settle into its new position. Ms. Overhead Garage Door cooed from the other end, and we discussed the joys of one-year-olds for a moment before getting back to business. Yet after hanging up the phone, I was still mulling over the not-so-white noise that had become my greatest consolation. I thought back to college when I would--in a meager effort to concentrate on schoolwork--attempt to block out the sound of a roomate's phone conversation, antics in the hallway, or the loud base beat from the room above ours which shook ceiling and walls in time; to no avail. I sometimes found that putting on soft music of my own could serve as a coping mechanism, but more often than not it turned into a distraction as well. Now, in a few short years, I realize that it's not just the sounds in my life that have changed drastically, but my reaction to them as well.
The cacophany of wailing that fills my home is no longer noise to me; it serves as communication. From it, I can calculate whether Marie is hungry, tired, or simply mad that I won't let her have her own way. A screaming child in church no longer phases me (unless it is my own child, whom I quickly attempt to appease if that's the case). And the bantering of toys in the playard--constantly talking, singing, clanging, counting--has become my consolation that all is good and well in Marie land.
In fact, I discovered with wry fascination that it is no longer the presence of noise, but the absence of it, that makes me a crazed woman. When all the singing and chattering has ceased, when all the clattering of slides and carts tipping over is absent, the little panic button in the back of my brain starts screaming at me through the serene calm. I've come to think of it as the calm before the storm. My muscles tense up, allowing me to spring as quickly as possible from the kitchen, or hall, or bedroom, eyes searching wildly for a little 2-foot imp. Many times she is sitting peacefully in the playard, simply letting her mind soak in a good little book. But there was the time she was standing on her little plastic drum, attempting to climb over the playard gate, oblivious to the 4 foot drop on the other side. And the time that she had wandered down the hall into her room and proceeded to empty her diaper pail (hence calling for an immediate bath). And the many times she's made a beeline for Samson's drool-covered water dish or his own bin of soggy toys, smiling with glee the whole way. Like any good stealth, it is these times that she's not only unbelievely quiet, but somehow manages to move lightning-fast. Thus, silence is no longer my friend.
I've heard a few mothers remark that some days they simply cannot take the noise anymore. For me, I fear the opposite as our family grows. With two, I accept the fact that the noise will mount significantly. Perhaps even exponentially. I just hope that when those moments of silence arrive, my ability to maintain a clear head improves significantly, along with my speed!
I was on the phone with the receptionist of the Overhead Door Company, politely discussing scheduling options to diagnose our finicky garage door (a story for another time), when the question seemed to come out of left field: "So how old is the baby?" It took me a moment to process the question before realizing that I had tuned out the carousel-esque tone of the Playskool train as it cycled through railroad-themed songs, not to be outdone by the Tickle-and-Bounce-Me Elmo as he proclaimed, "Toss Elmo! Higher!" All the while Marie babbled happily in the other corner of the playard, attempting with all her might to tip the plastic slide-about twice the size of her--onto its side.
CRASH! Mission accomplished.
"Oh, um, she just turned one" I uttered distractedly as I watched the slide settle into its new position. Ms. Overhead Garage Door cooed from the other end, and we discussed the joys of one-year-olds for a moment before getting back to business. Yet after hanging up the phone, I was still mulling over the not-so-white noise that had become my greatest consolation. I thought back to college when I would--in a meager effort to concentrate on schoolwork--attempt to block out the sound of a roomate's phone conversation, antics in the hallway, or the loud base beat from the room above ours which shook ceiling and walls in time; to no avail. I sometimes found that putting on soft music of my own could serve as a coping mechanism, but more often than not it turned into a distraction as well. Now, in a few short years, I realize that it's not just the sounds in my life that have changed drastically, but my reaction to them as well.
The cacophany of wailing that fills my home is no longer noise to me; it serves as communication. From it, I can calculate whether Marie is hungry, tired, or simply mad that I won't let her have her own way. A screaming child in church no longer phases me (unless it is my own child, whom I quickly attempt to appease if that's the case). And the bantering of toys in the playard--constantly talking, singing, clanging, counting--has become my consolation that all is good and well in Marie land.
In fact, I discovered with wry fascination that it is no longer the presence of noise, but the absence of it, that makes me a crazed woman. When all the singing and chattering has ceased, when all the clattering of slides and carts tipping over is absent, the little panic button in the back of my brain starts screaming at me through the serene calm. I've come to think of it as the calm before the storm. My muscles tense up, allowing me to spring as quickly as possible from the kitchen, or hall, or bedroom, eyes searching wildly for a little 2-foot imp. Many times she is sitting peacefully in the playard, simply letting her mind soak in a good little book. But there was the time she was standing on her little plastic drum, attempting to climb over the playard gate, oblivious to the 4 foot drop on the other side. And the time that she had wandered down the hall into her room and proceeded to empty her diaper pail (hence calling for an immediate bath). And the many times she's made a beeline for Samson's drool-covered water dish or his own bin of soggy toys, smiling with glee the whole way. Like any good stealth, it is these times that she's not only unbelievely quiet, but somehow manages to move lightning-fast. Thus, silence is no longer my friend.
I've heard a few mothers remark that some days they simply cannot take the noise anymore. For me, I fear the opposite as our family grows. With two, I accept the fact that the noise will mount significantly. Perhaps even exponentially. I just hope that when those moments of silence arrive, my ability to maintain a clear head improves significantly, along with my speed!
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