Heavy

At 30 weeks and change and as well as by some astonishing kind of miracle, I am still able to wear my wedding and engagement rings as well as every single pair of shoes I own. Not that I actually DO, because not only does wearing heels makes me have contractions (WHY?), it also makes me have to bend that much further over to hand a miniature somebody a snack bag of pretzels. But if I WANTED to, I SO TOTALLY COULD. I was browsing through my archives a few days ago out of curiosity—wondering whether I’d bothered to record when the swelling I experienced last time (which later blossomed into high blood pressure and protein in my urine and eventually, full-blown preeclampsia teetering on the very edge of HELLP Syndrome) began.

Apparently, I had. It turns out, at 31 weeks and three days, I left work barefoot. BAREFOOT. Because I’d taken my shoes off under my desk and COULDN’T GET THEM BACK ON. I returned in rubber flip flops and then, when no one noticed or appeared to care in the mildest of ways, I gave up on real shoes altogether.

I don’t know if the reason I’m not swollen this time is because I’m doing better than I did last time or if it’s just because I’m not sitting at a desk all day while fluid pools in my legs. It makes me a little bit hopeful that the child I bring home from the hospital will not have to wear preemie diapers and clothing for the first—ahem—MONTH of her life. You know, like her weenie brother did.

I always wondered if the reason Asher and I had such a frustratingly terrible nursing relationship was because he was born so small and weak (one of the effects of preeclampsia is compromised blood flow to the placenta, which results in retardation of fetal growth and nutrition). He was born at 38 and a half weeks, and was still less than six pounds, despite the fact that my family has a well-proven history of having ginormous nine- and ten-pound babies. No one ever speculated on why we were so crappy at it, but in the 12-ish weeks that I breastfed, we never once had a nursing session that lasted less than 50 minutes, unless it was because I ended it myself. I heard from eighteen million different people—friends, doctors, the Internet, CERTIFIED LACTATION CONSULTANTS—that when he was full, he would pop himself right off. As GOD AS MY WITNESS, PEOPLE, this never happened to us. Never. As in, not even once.

It was incredibly stressful. Fifty minutes to an hour of nursing every two to three hours for THREE SOLID MONTHS is a lot of work. I felt chained to my couch, chained to my house, chained to my baby—and the last thing I wanted was to resent my own CHILD for needing me. And I constantly worried that he wasn’t eating enough, since he never seemed to get full enough to quit on his own. And then there was that whole thing about how I was really really depressed about the entire situation, and also, just so tired.

I want to avoid that the next time. It’s easy enough to say that I will absolutely and without question give myself permission to stop breastfeeding if I feel the same soul-crushing sense of helplessness and hatred for it that I ended up feeling last time, especially since my emotional health this time around will impact both Dave AND Asher. And that I will do it WITHOUT GUILT. (Which we all know is a lie, because Motherhood Is Guilt, The End.)

But I’m also terrified that it will go well, especially if this baby is born a little bigger and stronger than Asher was. I’m terrified that it will go well and I’ll still hate it. I’m terrified that it will go well and I’ll still feel resentful. I’m terrified that I won’t know how to do it right, especially since one of the things I’m looking forward to MOST about having a second baby is knowing exactly what to do with it. I know how to formula feed; been there, done that, and did it SUCCESSFULLY. Breastfeeding? Still kind of a big, fat mystery, since my entire experience with it is clouded by feelings of sadness and confusion and anger and also a lot of hysterical crying.

And sometimes, I wonder if this is only an issue because I’ve chosen to put it out there as one. Would I feel the same pressure if I had no one but myself and my family to answer to? Do I allow the comments of others—regardless of whether or not they’re supportive—to creep into my subconscious and cloud my judgment? Would I be breastfeeding because breastfeeding is right for us or because breastfeeding is right for Everyone Else?

On my more vulnerable days, I’ve decided I can’t risk letting others make that decision for me, even if it isn't their intention. It is my decision to make, and I'm going to be responsible with that decision.