ejshea.com – Erin Shea

I am awake because I have awful leg pain waking me up. It’s not restless leg syndrome. Remember when you were a kid and experiencing “growing pains?” That’s what this feels like, only unlike last time I experienced this, I was able to suck it up because I was a kid and the trade-off is the growing part. Short people love that stuff.

I recognize that my trade-off here is my daughter, but for the immediate future, it’s simply a lack of sleep.

Anyway, at my husband’s Facebook page yesterday, he posted a link to his most recent blog entry about parenting a girl. This sparked some great feedback from friends, one of whom brought up the salient point regarding how important it is to decide the sort of parents you’re going to be, especially in light of a world that applauds and accepts babies wearing insipid onesies such as “My Mommy’s a Cosmo Girl,” with the picture of a cocktail on it, or “Princess In Training” or, my favorite, “Lil’ Diva,” which just says to the world, “My Parents Are Encouragng Me To Become An Insufferable Human Being.”

I have heard it said before that things such as clothing and fashion and peer pressure are out of our hands as parents. Surely, I agree on some level: you will always have a world that recognizes how susceptible little girls are to marketing and advertising, and as long as we are a country who values our members of the female species, solely on how they look, surely there will be parents who will trot them out to the mall for mani/pedis and buy them clothing that’s lightyear’s too mature for them to handle. But I don’t find a lick of that cute or adorable. I don’t find encouraging girls, at a young age, to value their worth as a human being in terms of what’s fashionable as responsible parenting. It is not, contrary to popular belief, out of my hands to not allow my daughter to wear clothing with words such as “Princess” on it. I can say “NO.”

Why is that such a foreign concept for people these days? The concept of saying no escapes normally rationally folks, seemingly out of fear that their kids may not like them, or it’ll be an ongoing battle in their house. I wonder, then, what those folks thought parenting was going to be like?

I think because I was raised in such a strict household, and see the value and merit in such an upbringing, that I find all of the chow chow about this topic so deplorable. And what’s funny is that for as much makeup as I couldn’t wear, as many miniskirts as I couldn’t don and as many boys who were not at all welcome to pick us up by solely honking the horn, it was always communicated to me as to why I couldn’t. My parents had the decency to explain to me their reasons, and while I couldn’t dress like a little hooker, I was allowed to have an opinion, which is way better, though at the time it was a bitter pill. I still could see the merit.

It’s only now, of course, that my parents and I can discuss why they raised us as they did. Oftentimes, my dad will point out examples of people who, as children, had parents who functioned more as friends than parents. All of them, many of whom I begged to emulate, have ended up in trouble in one way or another. One of the girls actually did end up becoming a stripper … not that that makes her a bad person, of course, but in the long line of professions you hope for your child, working the pole is not one of them.

I’ve signed up for several years of grand heartache. Of pain and screaming and hurt feelings and slammed doors. I know this. And I know I don’t even know the half of it. But I’m OK with this. I have decided that things such as the benefits of having your kids learn to participate in a family unit far exceed the pouting that will ensue once they truly understand I’m not budging from allowing them to have a personalized entertainment center in their rooms. Honestly. Where in God’s name is it written that in order to be a good parent you have to outfit your kid with a laptop, TV and unfettered access to a smartphone? Is it because the other kids have it? Do I actually need to mention the “If your friends jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge…” saying here? I am OK with all of this because 1) I’m old and set in my ways and 2) It’s my damn job as a parent.

I’m not saying my daughter won’t have any of these things. Of course she will. But there will be rules and consequences, because rules and consequences are part of the world, and she needs to learn those things at home at an early age. The kicker, of course, is that there is no guarantee any of this will work. But we’re not going down without a fight.

What’s just as important to me, and to Scott, is that we raise our daughter to have a deeper interpretation of what it means to be a human being, to be female, beyond subscribing to what’s fashionable or popular. This is no small feat, I’ll grant you, and we’ll falter along the way, no doubt, but if we want to raise our daughter to eventually be the sort of person others want to be around, then I can go ahead and start by putting my foot down now about her wearing clothing with cheeky taglines such as “It’s All About Me.”

Do people really buy that stuff?

Clearly I need to find a way to fix the painful-legs-in-the-middle-of-the-night problem.

So this hasn’t been the easiest pregnancy. I had heard women go through some rough stuff during the first trimester, and I’ve always considered myself a fighter, so I wasn’t particularly concerned. Alas, I was woefully unprepared for any of it. I really was.

While some might call me a control freak, I prefer the term “persnickety.” No matter what you call it, having my body be taken over by forces out of my reach has taken a toll.  There was no amount of mental persistence or fortitude that could have made the last three months easier. And that’s hard for someone who has always worked through the pain, no matter what that pain looked like.

My days have been marked in the following ways:

1) Wake up, feeling nauseous from the second I open my eyes.  I have stopped taking the train. The three-mile walk it adds to my day, plus having to wake up early to catch the train, stop being a reality. Plus the heat? Oy. I have spent too much on parking garage fees. I had to start budgeting it in.

2) Work, and try and battle the nausea all day long, eating whatever comes to mind, or at least whatever it is that I can convince myself to eat. Feel this way until around 6:30 p.m., when I get ready to go home.

3) Not go into the kitchen, open the pantry or the fridge. Hope to God something sounds appetizing. I have not cooked a meal since May.

4) Work some more, pass out.

Come Friday, I pass out quickly. Saturdays have consisted of me in bed, all day. The week has just about taken everything out of me. I don’t think I was at all mentally prepared for what this might feel like. Sick, tired, listless, even a little depressed. I told Scott early on that it felt a bit like Groundhog Day. I took no joy in eating – people, Baked Cheetos grossed me out – and the fact that all I could contribute to my relationship was a suffering, sad and sick lump on a log was all I could take. Scott was loving and caring and understanding.  He did his level best to help. However, there was very little I could do – and believe me, we tried everything – that made a difference, and I’ve always been a firm believe that if I just did “X,” then “Y” would happen.

This kid is already teaching me a few firm lessons in how much an illusion control really is.

It’s hard to admit to not enjoying being pregnant, when that’s all the world wants you to do. I enjoy that by being pregnant, we’ll have a new member of our family. I’m excited about meeting her in a few months, about being her mom. Holy hell I do not like being pregnant. My brain has enough space for my job, sleeping and breathing. People ask me about color schemes and nursery themes and I think, “Are you kidding me? Are you serious?” I don’t think in themes, I don’t wander through baby-related aisles…I’m just trying to get through a night of getting back to sleep after I get up to pee in the middle of it. And then of course I feel guilty for not thinking about anything baby-related, other than getting her here. And because those people are just being nice and are happy for us.

My comments about not enjoying this part of becoming a mom have been met with the most blank of stares by some people. Those people haven’t usually experienced the sort of nausea I have since June.  And it’s OK, it is, and it’s not like I’m the only woman who has gone through this, and I know that. But I also know it’s hard for others to see a less-than-joyful pregnant lady. To those people I say, “Please give me a chocolate-chip cookie before I hit you.”

I hate that I had to give up bootcamp classes. I hate that the summer went by without me leaving the couch. I hate that I haven’t had a vegetable in weeks. I hate that I feel like a delicate flower. One of my most favorite things to do is go grocery shopping, and I’ve had to run out of so many grocery stores because of the smell. I hate that my routine is just shot to hell. I hate that I’ve got the energy of a very old goat.

And so it goes. I’m certain there are symbolic, pithy things that can be said about all of this, about how it’s emblematic of what my life will look like with a child – unpredictable, chaotic, unruly. I can actually hear the smirks from some of you who know better. But you know what? I don’t care much about those things. It’s been a tough summer, and a tough road so far, and at least when our daughter gets here, she will actually be here. So far I’ve just got perpetual bloat and a dramatically shrinking wardrobe to show for all of this. I don’t know how women are supposed to buy into this kind of dramatic change as the most amazing experience, when oftentimes, for some of us, it’s just not.

Here’s the good news: it seems to be wrapping up. Right now I’m fighting a cold, and I’m still tired, but the 12-hour-long nausea is abating, much like everyone said it would come the second trimester. I’m going to try and get into the gym next week to do some light moving and lifting, for the mental benefit, if nothing else. I haven’t had a free moment to buy any clothes to get me through – I’ve only gained three pounds (I originally lost weight, but things evened out) but it feels like so much more, enough that I need some new jeans, at least. Or at least a whole bunch of leggings and big shirts. There is only so much cobbling together I can do of what I have left that fits me, especially since I the last round of clothes I’d purchased were accommodating the body that was developing after daily bootcamp classes.

This body now has a greater, more noble purpose, I grant you, but boy is it smooshy in places that haven’t been smooshy since I was at my heaviest weight.

And I’ll be honest: the body image stuff is tough. I’m lucky enough that I have friends and loved ones who will let me share how I feel about this, and so I can keep it in check. It dawned on me this week, though, that with the baby I’ll likely get back to or near my heaviest weight of 188 pounds. It’s not the worst thing in the world, of course, and it’s certainly not the end of it. And unlike the last time I was at that weight, this time I certainly have better eating and lifestyle habits that I won’t be starting at square one. And unlike last time, I’ll have been growing a person, which is pretty awesome.

Admittedly it’s recognizing that this is all for a better purpose that it’s made eating cherry pie a bit easier.

(PS – Scott will be writing a bit about becoming a father at his own blog if you’d like to follow along.)

We got some big news on Thursday.

On Monday, we’d gone in for a CVS. It was yet another invasive, painful test involving my uterus, technology, needles and people telling me that in the face of the most excruciating pain my nether regions had ever experienced, I needed to stay absolutely still or it wouldn’t work. It’s really no wonder women lose their shit when it comes to motherhood and ideas of perfection. Every turn you take in this venture tests your fortitude, and everything is on the line.

In this case, there was a needle and some suction happening just a spit away from my unborn kid. The whole process didn’t take long, but it was one of those moments where my most authentic reaction to fear and pain surfaces: I am stoic, I don’t want to be touched, please don’t talk to me and I say a litany of Hail Mary’s. It was hard to hold my shit together amid the pain and the notion that if I reacted to that pain in any fashion, I’d be putting my kid in jeopardy. There might have been tears.

But then it was over, and the tech ran the ultrasound wand back over my belly and flipped the sound and once again we saw the baby was intact, and heard that strong, mighty heartbeat.

I don’t have any friends who have had a CVS. There is a lot riding on that test, a lot that can be revealed that can change everything. Predictably, we tried to block it out – we only had to do so for 48 hours – but potential chromosomal abnormalities are tough not to worry about. But late on Thursday, I noticed the doctor had called and, as I instructed her to go ahead and do, left the following message:

“Everything came back normal. And as you requested to learn the sex of the baby …

“It’s a girl!”

I have a lot – oh sweet Jesus a lot – of complex emotions going on about this, all of which came inconveniently bubbling up to the top during the estrogen fest that is BlogHer this past week, but I really never saw myself as the mother of a girl. And of course my approach to this was as though I had some modicum of control over the matter, but there it is. Please don’t misunderstand and then feel you need to swoop in with righteous indignation – I didn’t care what sex our child was, just that he or she is healthy and happy. I’m just excited to be blessed enough to be having a baby, and I’m still as thrilled and over-the-moon as I could be. This doesn’t mean, however, that having a girl doesn’t stir up some dust bunnies, and I’m not about to pretend that it doesn’t.

I always knew there was a chance we’d have a girl, of course, but if I had to own up to that fact, I’d have to own up and reconcile my own bougie little problems with the sort of woman that I am. Or, as is more appropriate, the woman I am not.

After all, much of my own personal narrative centers on the sort of mother I didn’t have, and how that has shaped me. The shortcomings of a woman who was supposed to be the model of being a mother and lo’ how she wasn’t. It’s criminal what we allow ourselves to do and think and believe. In truth, I’ve made some peace and, grown the fuck up, when it comes to certain aspects of the kind of mothering I experienced. Just the same, it doesn’t make me feel less vulnerable and ill-equipped to mother a girl, and to not be painfully aware of how easy it was for me pass judgment and now I have to put up or shut up.

Am I actually woman enough to mother a girl the way I’ve always thought I should have been by my mother? The task seems much more monumental than raising a boy seemed to be, but I sense that has much more to do with these desperate hopes:

That I will have that a daughter who will be more forgiving of my humanity than I ever was of my own mother’s. That she will be more compassionate and kind than I ever was. That she will be OK with what I will ultimately fail to give to her. That she will be OK.

These are tall orders.

I’m growing already-sentimental about the daughter growing inside me. I think about all of the things I want to teach her, and things I’m already promising her. They’re many of the same lessons Scott and I learned from our parents.

I will always pay, but you will get some sort of job when you turn 14. You will probably be the kid with the strictest parents but no one will ever, ever hit you. Ever. You are equally smart and beautiful and I will never forget how important it is to be reminded that you are both. I will make a home for you where people talk about, not eat, their feelings, in the hopes you don’t inherit my poor coping mechanisms. I cannot promise that you won’t have a life teeming with hardship, but I will promise to teach you how to handle those moments with grace, and to be grateful for the darkness as well as the light. You will address each and every adult by “Mr.” or “Miss” or “Mrs.” without exception, but I’ll be sure to remind you, each and every day, that people earn trust and respect.

It is OK to fail, to stumble, to fall, to screw up royally. I will not make you feel less because you stumbled; after all, it’s not about me. You might suffer some consequences, but one of those things won’t be a constant, nagging worry that I won’t love you or accept you because you’re not perfect. But oh my God don’t screw around in school. I will ground you for all of eternity.

If you can make a convincing argument, and your grades are top-notch and you’re a decent human being, I do not care if you cut your hair into a mohawk and dye it green. Your father and I decided a long, long time ago that hair and body piercings would not be the hill we would die on, but we’re going to place some conditions on the whole artistic expression of self when you’re under 18 and living in our house. After all, we’ve found that there are some kids for whom a lack of love and support and direction from adults has translated into forms of screams for attention, like shaved hair and a bull ring through the nose. We just want to make sure we’re listening, and that the desire for fuchsia Manic Panic is really a personal choice, and not simply a way to signal to us how sad and scared you are.

But I’m never going to make fun of you for wanting the mohawk or nose ring, either way. The world will judge you enough, and you’ll need someone on your side to help you maneuver their narrow-mindedness.

I feel like knowing these small bits about myself, and what I hope for our daughter, brings me some calm. These are things I’d teach a boy, too, come to think of it. I’m certain we’ll stumble – after all, I don’t know what our world will look like in the years to come, and how that will shape my ability to deliver on everything – but I’ve got a jumping off point.

It’s a start.

On a Saturday night at the end of June, Scott and I were sitting at home, watching a movie, and generally doing nothing at all.

We’re in our mid-30s, we can do that without shame.

It was on the heels of the plane incident, the moment where for the first time in more than a year I could see the benefits to not having kids in our family. For some of the flack I got, I felt pretty satisfied in the conclusion I came to after that experience, and in some ways it lent credence and credibility to what Scott and I have always said: We are a family with or without kids.

So I turned to Scott, out of nowhere and said, “We have a limit on how much our insurance will cover. Once that’s done, I’m done. I’m really not going to the ends of the earth in service of this. We’ll go travel, remodel the house from top to bottom…it’ll be fine.”

And I meant it. Scott grabbed my hand and once again reassured me that we were going to be fine no matter what. He has a habit of not elaborating on what I’m saying, most especially when the statement is declarative, which is more often than not. I’m big on the declarative statements. So I don’t know that it’s that he’s afraid of getting in trouble or just that it’s his way, but he doesn’t usually do more than reassure me it’s all going to be OK. It’s probably a little of both.

It all felt very much like a breakthrough of sorts, especially in light of the next round of tests. We both had checked out in the positive at the fertility clinic (Yes, folks, Scott had been tested, too. He just asked me not to discuss it on my blog.), and I had an ultrasound and more blood work ahead of me, once my period arrived.  My period was its usual wonky self, but all of the moodiness and cramping signaled that it would be along soon. It’s not the first time I’ve been late. And then we noticed, well, something funky going on with my nipples. I’m sorry, it’s TMI, but it’s what happened and it freaked me out. I assumed not the worst, but not the best, and truthfully it wasn’t a priority for me to investigate until I got back from my trip to Utah.

“Are you sure you’re not pregnant,” asked my husband.

“Of course not,” I said. “There is no way I’m pregnant.”

And so, of course, I am.

No one is more shocked than the two of us, I assure you. After more than a year of trying and not succeeding, we spent the majority of the morning we saw the first stick pop a second line staring at each other. I am pretty sure we both had truly come to a peace with not having kids, so to go ahead and get pregnant without any assistance was as shocking as it could get. I kept staring at the test. Couldn’t stop staring.

I must admit I was looking forward to heading back to Santorini soon. I’d also put in a request to head to Africa. And New Zealand. The lists were getting long.

I am writing this, obviously, weeks before we’re telling anyone. As of this writing, I am only five weeks and five days along – much, much too early to tell anyone, let alone the Internet. I am not scheduled to see my OB-GYN until July 8th, and I imagine it’ll be only then do we tell close family members. I have not yet told my sister, which is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it’s for the best – in the past 24 hours we’ve had a little secret all to ourselves, and that’s rare, especially in our families. And we still have much to process.

(Edited to add: We’re actually headed into our second trimester now.)

I am having difficulty with the fact that our upstairs has not yet been remodeled and how in the world will we get that done by February 18? I should be processing other things, I know.

I certainly don’t want to insult or upset anyone else who has been trying and still hasn’t gotten pregnant, especially since I’m painfully aware of how much can go wrong. It’s been a long year, and I’m grateful for the minimal amount of work it took, in hindsight, to get us here. I am pretty convinced it was the lack of stress that helped this more than anything – being in a much happier, better place in life does wonders. I believe that. I know that’s not the case for everyone, but for me, minimizing stress, and maybe the acupuncture, was a big help. If anything, it allowed me to move forward dealing with the stress of not getting pregnant and not just pile stress onto stress.

So holy shit. We’re pregnant.