Much Love, Nicole

Last week, I started a new full-time job and I am officially working “out of the home” and full-time for the first time since having children.

I have had zero time to reflect on the differences in our household since that transition but things are going as well as can be expected, mostly because we have had the best support and help from select family members and I have managed to get everyone out of the house fully dressed (including myself) and somehow convinced the outside world that I know what I am doing.  If I keep this up for long, I might even start to believe in my competence myself.  It is going to take a little while.

My first week of work started on Monday.  Monday was great.  I had lots of adult conversation.  I conversed the HELL out of all adults on Monday.  I am sure they all think the new girl will never shut up.

But for as great as Monday was, Friday was bad.  All sorts of snotty-tears, screwed-up-plans, screaming-kids, guilt-consuming bad.

A little background:  The middle of October officially began what I call the Season of Crazy in our house.  Within a 2 week time frame of starting the new job, we also had 4 immediate family members’ birthdays and Halloween.  Just in case there was the slight possibility I would remember all these important dates, make plans, and get everyone to the required destinations for all events, Day Light Savings time has to get thrown in to assure I screw something up.  I still stand behind the notion that DST was invented by Satan Worshippers.  Childless Satan Worshippers, to be exact.  No one with children would EVER think it was a good idea to screw with time just to maximize daylight or whatever the hell it is DST actually does.

Then, just in case starting a new job, 4 family birthdays, Halloween, and DST didn’t KILL one of us, I also decided to schedule family portraits.  Now, here is a little background about family portraits in the MLN Household: historically they have been awful.  I actually won said portrait session in a contest for WORST FAMILY PHOTO.  Until this date, our new family of four had not even had one snapshot all together because we could never get the toddler to sit next to the baby.  I was pretty sure all our family portraits were going to have to be panoramic style with Gavin and Meadow on opposite sides of the room.

To summarize: New job, working mom guilt, 4 birthdays, holiday, Satan-worshipping-daylight-savings-time, and possible-worst-family-photo-reenactment.  Having a sleep-depriving-newborn baby at home is actually the least of our concerns right now.  Think! About! It!

Since Friday was my last day at home with the kids, I wanted to make it “special”. And because no good deed goes unpunished, it is going to be one of my most memorable days for all the wrong reasons.

I made a playdate to take the kids to Chuck E Cheese.  Chuck E Cheese is Gavin’s new favorite place, probably because I was a really awful person in a past life (and maybe this life too) and I deserve to be punished with over-priced, loud, flashing games and cardboard pizza.  But since he loves it and I was overcome with guilt, we went.  I tied Meadow up in the Moby Wrap and chased him around while he fed tokens into age inappropriate games and nearly knocked fellow patrons unconscious with errant Skee-Balls.

For lunch, I decided to take the kids to a mongolian barbecue-style restaurant.  If you have never been to one of these types of establishments, I recommend it for kids because the atmosphere is loud and no one really notices when your toddler has a complete meltdown at the table.  I don’t, however, recommend going when the number of children exceeds the number of adults.  And, for the love of god, never go by yourself with children.  The problem is that you have to leave the table to get your meals and your children’s meals and wait to have everything cooked on a large community-style grill.  Luckily, I was able to quickly secure a bowl of soup to pacify Gavin while a waitress helped me with the two entrees.  Between feeding the baby, prepping the two entrees, and ensuring the toddler didn’t create a Splash Zone for the rest of the guests, I had about 30 seconds to scarf down my own meal.  Gavin ate about 3 times as much as I did and helped himself to my plate too.  This seemingly unimportant detail becomes critical later in this story.

Fast forward to that evening:  The hubs gets home and I decide to rush Gavin to a kiddie-centric salon so he can get a haircut before our photos the next day.  Gavin NEEDS a haircut.  I always joke about “Cut the Mullet”, but it is not even funny for Gavin anymore.  I had actually made plans to get his haircut at home early that week, but since Meadow came along, he has been extremely sensitive to visitors in the house.  The haircut didn’t happen the first attempt because I am pretty sure there is a high possibility someone will lose a bodily appendage if you attempt a haircut during the middle of a full-on meltdown.

This was the first time I had ever been in a kids’ salon and Gavin seemed pretty nervous at first.  I decided he needed his hair washed before the cut.  They have this cute little firetruck bed to lay down into the shampoo bowl.  Unfortunately, Gavin did not think it was cute.  Also, I am pretty sure he thinks Shampoo = Scalp Disfiguring Acid because the kid HATES to get his hair washed.  He started to cry and scream as I held him on my hip.  I tried to console him and show him the shampoo bowl when I heard it–  there is a short guttural cough right before it begins.  A short gag while his eyes squeeze close.  I shut my eyes because I know what is next;

I am getting sprayed by vomit all over my face.  Then all down my shirt.  My jacket.  Down my shirt and into my nursing tank.  Even my nursing pads are absorbing regurgitated macaroni and cheese and chicken lettuce wraps.

I run Gavin into the bathroom as stylists brace themselves against the walls (NO EFFING JOKE) as Gavin sprays the sick everywhere.  It just keeps coming up and both Gavin and I are covered from head-to-toe in sour stomach acid.  He starts to cry because he is upset he got sick.  I have to take off my shirt and wash it in the bathroom sink to actually stand wearing the top on the ride home.

I mutter apologizes as I walk out the door in a soaking wet shirt and toting a dirty, long-haired toddler.  I console Gavin on the ride home and tell him it’s alright that he barfed and he couldn’t help it.  Once we get home I recount the events to the hubs.  “Next time, can’t we wash his hair at home and then take him there for just the haircut?” he suggests.  “We could… if we weren’t banned for life!” I answer.

If this is what my last “special” day at home is like, I can’t get to the office fast enough.

This is the actual photo that won the WORST FAMILY PORTRAIT designation

Tomorrow morning I report for a new full-time job.  It is kind of like I decided, “Hey, my life is soooo boring right now with this 6 week old baby, 2 year-old toddler, Halloween, and the upcoming holiday season, so let’s just kick it up a notch and makes things real interesting around here.”  I have literally spent the last 3 days preparing 2 children for this one 8 hour day.  It’s a good thing I am operating on so little sleep so that I can continue to get things done at all hours of the night.

The past 72 hours have been a bittersweet mix of excitement and tears, guilt and anticipation, and an obsessive compulsive to organize anything that crosses my path.

But, if you were looking for a blog with working mom tips, organization ideas, and crock-pot recipes, you have stumbled to the wrong place.  Let me continue.

I refuse to write about anything work-related, colleagues, or the new company, but that isn’t going to stop me from sharing about an interview for a job I didn’t take.

I recently had a job at a large accounting and consulting firm.  It is a big firm, bursting with brilliant people in every office, and the whole experience was ultra-intimidating.  First, the interview scheduled 3 weeks after I had Meadow.  I should have been concerned about my credentials and brushing up on interview questions, but at 3 weeks post-partum my biggest concern was my wardrobe.  What the hell does one wear to an interview, the biggest interview of your life, a mere 3 weeks after having a baby?   Obviously,none of my pre-pregnancy suits are going to fit, my maternity wardrobe is not nearly professional enough for this event, and borrowing a maternity suit is a long shot.  I solve this problem by making a too large investment in a suit that will most likely fit for about 4 weeks.  I am suddenly not motivated to lose the baby weight at all just so I continue to wear this suit every day for the next year to justify the cost.

Then I realize the clothing is the least of my concerns.  I received an e-mail from the HR Recruiter with the interview schedule.  It is 7 hours.  7 hours with no breaks.  Even my lunch was an interview.  Normally, this would be intense but not really a big deal.  Unless, of course, you are nursing and nursing hard.  At 3 weeks post-partum, I am in Holstein-mode.  With no breaks to pump and relieve the engorgement, I can already envision my worst nightmare.

My boobs are going to explode.  My boobs are going to explode during lunch on one of the partners of one of the nation’s largest accounting firms.

At this point, I could get all Le Leche League crazy and demand a pump break, but the problem is that I really want this job.  I need this job.  My boobs are just going to have to get on board and cooperate.  Otherwise, my boobs are going to have to cooperate and land me a gig as a milk-spraying stripper.  (Oh man, the Google hits I am going to get from this one!)

So, the ever resourceful (errr… bat-shit) that I am, I devise a plan.  First, I am going to wear the most absorbent nursing pads on the planet.  Easy!  Then, I am going to pump on my commute to the interview!  Brilliant!  Not only will I maximize my time between the pump sessions, I will actually SAVE myself 20 minutes in the morning.

I tell my husband about this plan.

H:  You better hope you don’t get into an accident!

Me:  If I get into an accident, I have much bigger problems than breast horns attached to my tatas!

H:  You better not get pulled over by the police tomorrow.

Me:  I’ll actually drive the speed limit, even though the office is off of 696 which is practically the Autobahn.  Besides, if they want me not to pump and drive, they’d better pass some law specifically against it.  Plus, if it wasn’t legal, why would my breast pump come with a car adaptor, huh?

H:  I don’t know about this…

Me:  No worries, babe!  I even bought a hands-free bustier, so it isn’t like I am going to HOLD the bottles whole I am driving.  I mean, THAT would be super dangerous!

That morning, I successfully attached my mobile-pumping-apparatus in a church parking lot before the entrance ramp to the expressway.  I threw on a nursing cover (even though I am the #1 Google hit for ‘Exploding Labia’ I AM modest) and milked my way into the office.  The operation worked out so well I did the same on the way home.  With the pilot pumping project complete, I am pleased to report that this will be part of my daily routine.  Plus, I didn’t soak a single person or my suit at my interview.

So tomorrow, if you notice a tired looking lady with a breast pump attached to her chest and tears streaming down her eyes on the expressway, be sure to give her a little smile or at least mind your own damn business.  She has a mortgage-paying habit to support and unfortunately writing about your vagina on the internet doesn’t bring home the bacon.  At least not yet.

It is 4:45 am Friday morning and I am awake.  I decide that after a night of restlessness, I am going to catch up on the last half hour of Project Runway.  At this point, I am tired, swollen, and feeling pretty damn sorry for my pregnant and bloated self.  I have resigned to the idea that I am going to be pregnant forever.  I know this has never happened before, but there is a first time for everything, right?  The only good that can come out of this is that I will definitely land a TLC reality show.

I start to contemplate the gestation period of elephants.  Elephants are pregnant for 22 months.  I am sure I will be pregnant for 23.  To add insult to injury, my husband told me my cankles look like ‘elephant hooves’.  By this time all my pregnant friends are placing over/under bets for how many testicles he will have by the end of this pregnancy.*  If this pregnancy ever ends.

Up until last night, I didn’t even try any of the natural labor inducing methods.  I didn’t go get spicy food or walk a half-marathon.  I was going to resort to my go-to funny movie, but the hubs and I usually crash from exhaustion after we get the toddler to bed and didn’t get the chance to rent anything.  But last night, I had an appointment with Kristin, who worked her massage therapy magic.  She used hot rocks, oils, creams, and all sorts of techniques to hit all the points on my feet and ankles that promote healthy functions of the uterus.  She also worked out the ‘elephant hooves’.  Even if I never go into labor, the relief to my lower limbs was totally worth it.

The only person I feel more sorry for is the model who has to wear this awful pink frock on Project Runway.  That kid with glasses really needs to go home.  My mind is wandering and I start to think that Project Runway should do another maternity session.  Obviously, I will be asked to guest judge because I am going to be the most famous-forever-pregnant woman ever.  Too bad I won’t be able to do an Oprah interview.  I make a note to send my never-ending-pregnancy story to Barbara Walters.

As Michael Kors is berating the choice of color on the runway, I feel an audible ‘POP!’ from deep inside my belly. 5:06 am.  I am 99.9% sure my water just broke.  I make a beeline to the bathroom and confirm.  I wake my husband, who has made it no secret that he wanted me to go into labor in the early morning and on a weekday, and inform him of the status of my leaky lady bits.  I spend the next ten minutes in the bathroom trying to negotiate putting on pants as my vagina turns into a geyser.

With my last labor and delivery as a guide, I feel as if I have a good hour or two before I start to have my first contractions. I call my parents and tell them the news and ask one of them to come over to take care of Gavin.  The time is 5:29.  Then I state the one sentence that seals my fate in this labor and delivery story, “My contractions haven’t started, so you have about an hour before you need to get here.”  Bad choice, Nicole, bad choice.

My last labor and delivery was so secret, it was a damn near CIA confidential security clearance operation.  The hubs and I snuck off to the hospital and called everyone (including our parents) after Gavin arrived.  This labor and delivery I did what every attention-loving blogger does and I updated my Facebook status.

I throw together the last few items into my hospital bag and get into the shower.  I start to notice a few mild contractions and the hot water feels great on my back.  The husband is loading my bag and things into the car.  I am no where near a clock, but I can tell my contractions are edging closer together and have increased in intensity.  Damn!  These contractions are starting to hurt.  I start to lean against the shower wall during the contractions and breathe through them.

By the time I exit the shower I am having trouble getting myself dressed.  I am pretty much a recipe for a soaking wet disaster: wet hair, wet skin, and a continuous never-ending stream of amniotic fluid.  I am like a vision of glistening pregnancy!  Between not being able to see my toes, bend over, and the increasing contractions, I am more fucked than I was 9.5 months ago.  This is as good a time as any to let you know that the profanity begins right about now.

By the time I finally get myself dressed, I start to wonder where the hell everyone is.  When I say “start to wonder” what I mean is, I start loudly yelling, “Where the hell are you?!?!”  to my husband and “Where the hell is my dad?!?!”  I need to get to the hospital quickly.

I find my husband packing the car and frantically dialing my dad’s mobile number.  My dad pulls into the driveway and I rattle off basic instructions for Gavin.

Let it be known that he has stopped for coffee.

The time is 6:16 and we are leaving for the hospital.  Driving in a compact car during active labor is one of the worst experiences in the world.  This is the second time it has happened to me.  Despite my best intentions, I am ALWAYS  in full transition during the car ride to the hospital.  I am 2 for 2.  It takes every bit of willpower to not launch myself out of the seat and decide to walk to the hospital.

Last time I was in labor, my husband dropped me off at the WRONG entrance.  There is no way in hell that I am letting that happen this time, so I begin barking directions in between contractions.  Unfortunately, I am no Magellan while in labor and I give him the wrong directions.  Obviously, he should have never listened to me in the first place and he is still 100% at fault and I am now crying that I have to stand another 5 minutes in the car while in very intense labor.  Finally we pull up to the right entrance and I throw myself out of the vehicle.

I waddle the elevator and hit the buttons for the 3^rd floor. If I ever find the jackass that decided that laboring woman should have to wait for the elevator to the 3^rd floor rather than having Labor & Delivery on the ground level, I am going to kick him straight in the balls.  Yes, I know this jackass is a man.

The elevator arrives at last and I stumble out into Triage.

This is the point that I remember that I fucking hate Triage.

I sign in at 6:40 a.m.  I shout that I want a Jacuzzi room.  I NEED a Jacuzzi room.  I am a second time mom, I am going to do this labor-thing ‘all natural’, and I am going to get a Jacuzzi room.  I tell her all these things because during our hospital tour we were told these rooms are typically reserved for second births and those who choose natural pain management.  The Triage nurse gives me the side-eye and tells me that she doesn’t know if there is one available.  “Jacuzzi room!” is all I can manage between contractions.  The hubs emerges from the Hell Elevator and I throw myself at him during another contraction and cry to him to get me a Jacuzzi room.  We sign a couple of papers (there is no WAY these signatures should stand up in a court of law, because I was out of my mind in pain) and then the triage nurse tells me, “We’re really busy tonight.”  I take one look around the waiting room.  The waiting room that is in complete darkness. It is in complete darkness because NO ONE IS THERE.  The place looks like it is closed.  I ask who the doctor on-call is and I am met with a blank stare.  “I am not sure because all the doctors change shifts at 7am”.  Foreshadowing: this shift change is going to become the central theme of this story.

I finally get ushered back to the Triage room where I am given a gown.  I get once again struggle to get dressed and 3 nurses meet me.  One checks to make sure my water broke, another starts asking me a million questions which conveniently happen to be the same questions I already answered during pre-registration, and the third I am sure is there to act as witness in case I assault one of both of the first two.  One of the nurses does ‘The Check’.  I am dilated to 7 and I am transitioning quickly.

One of the nurses notices that my water is still leaking.  She asks me to put a towel between my legs.  Now, I know this not the Four Seasons, but I did not think to bring my own fucking towel to the hospital.  In my most sarcastic voice I explain that I did not know it was Bring Your Own Towel Day at the hospital.

Another nurse appears and asks if I would like a wheelchair.  By this point, any chair is akin to an electric chair.  I cannot sit (or lay) during any contraction.  Each one has me dancing on my toes in pain and huffing and puffing as I wrap my arms around my husband’s neck.  Since I decline the wheelchair, I get to walk to the delivery room.  In a hospital gown.  With my naked ass hanging out the back.  While straddling a towel.

Just take a moment to picture it.  Or don’t, especially if you have just eaten.

We get to the delivery room and I start begging (threatening lives) for an epidural.  I am met by 3 more nurses.  Where is the anesthesiologist?  Another nurse starts asking me the SAME SERIES OF QUESTIONS I JUST ANSWERED IN TRIAGE.

“Do you have any allergies?”

“None that I developed in the time I walked to here from Triage when I ALREADY ANSWERED THAT QUESTION!”

“Okay.”

More questions and then she repeats herself.  “Sorry, did you say if you had any allergies?” “NO!”  from both my husband and I.  Then this nurse utters the very sentence that nearly gets her decapitated by the hands of a crazed laboring woman.

“You know, I have been working all night.”

I have a human head ready to emerge from my vagina, and this bitch thinks I am going to feel sorry that she on the midnight shift?  I start drilling her on the whereabouts of the anesthesiologist.  She tells me I need to have an IV run first and then they will page the anesthesiologist.  She also needs to find the new anesthesiologist that begins at 7am.  Apparently, every single person on staff is going to change at 7am while I am 9 centimeters dilated.  The doctor will change.  The 3 nurses will leave.  The anesthesiologist who may save me from this unbearable pain will walk out the door and be replaced.  I am sure even the fucking janitor who undoubtedly will be called to clean up the snail trail of amniotic fluid I leaked down the hall will knock off at 7am.  Note to self:  After I am done kicking the architect in the nuts, I am going after the hospital shift scheduler.

I concede that I need to get the IV and the nurse directs me to lie down on the bed.  Mistake Number 1 is asking me to sit still and/or lay down during labor.  She keeps having me move around the bed and seems very dissatisfied that I continue to jump off the bed during every contraction.  Finally, I realize she is directing me to a certain part of the hospital bed so he can arrange out her IV supplies on the bed so she does not have to get up from her stool.  Mistake Number 2 is asking me to do anything purely for your convenience while I am in labor. Just when I am about to verbally abuse said nurse for being a lazy ass on her stool, I notice that she has a wicked case of cameltoe.

This is how immature I am:  even though I am in the most intense pain of my life, it brings me great joy that this annoying nurse is suffering from The Toe.  Now, I am not a well-proportioned body type.  I could get cameltoe from a pencil skirt.  Also, either one of my legs does not sit correctly in the hip joint or every single pair of pants I have ever purchased has a twisted left seam.  But seeing this woman who does not have the decency to drag an anesthesiologist into my room immediately with a condition of pants-eating-crotch is enough to momentarily relieve me from my own genital issues and forgive her for the whole lazy IV set-up.

After Cameltoe RN gets the IV started, I realize that I was indeed given a Jacuzzi room.  Since no one can tell me when my epidural will arrive, I start to beg to get into the Jacuzzi. I am wavering between an epidural and the Jacuzzi and realize that I have to choose one or the other. During contractions, I start what I call the ‘hug-it-out pain management technique’ which involves me squeezing my arms tightly around my husbands neck and him hugging me back while swaying side to side.  I am starting to regret not preparing more for this labor.  I realize that I don’t have a focal point or anything go-to relaxation technique right now.

Somehow, my mind starts to drift outside of the room, away from the nurses, and even far from the embrace of my husband.  I start to think of Gavin.  This is where second-time laboring mothers have a real advantage:  first-time mothers think all the painful intensity will be worth it, but second-time mothers KNOW it.  We know the moment you see that baby for the first time your blood runs white hot and tingles from your scalp to your toes. We know they are only that tiny for that one second and every additional minute they continue to grow and become more independent.  We know all the pain immediately disappears and is replaced by a mix of emotions so strong it nearly suffocates you for a moment.  We just know.

The arms of my husband feel lighter and are replaced by the small arms of a toddler.  During each contraction, I feel his squeeze and see his face.  The self-doubt starts to slip away.  The nurse informs me that the anesthesiologist has been called to an emergency c-section and I will most definitely not get an epidural.  Rather than chastising the entire hospital for not being built directly for my sole benefit and ignorantly allowing other patients to have their babies here the same time I am (which I would have done a mere 10 minutes ago), I understand that my uncomplicated labor is not going stand in the way of another mother’s white-hot-tingly-blood-tiny-second-more-independent-emotionally-suffocating-moment by way of cesarean.  It is time to pull up my big girl panties, which will literally be big girl mesh hospital-issue panties by the end of the morning, and have this baby.  Only this time, I am going to have this baby on less pain medication than I normally take for a bikini wax.

*My vote is for under.  Full disclosure:  He did start with two and the over/under is 1.

They really are only that tiny for that one second. Plus, this picture is much more heartwarming than one of my husband's balls.