F is for Fitness: My 5-Year-Old Trainer

I’m struggling along with a workout video when my nearly 5-year-old boy enters the room. He stands there and watches me quietly for a few seconds before offering an oh-so-helpful observation:

“She’s in better shape than you.” 

“Thanks.” I say flatly. No freaking DUH, I think to myself. Thanks a lot.

“But if you keep working out, you’ll be better than her.” He smiles brightly. I feel like I’ve received a politely patronizing pat on the head.

Such a sweet and innocent remark. So naïvely optimistic…and so spot-on. Well, I’ll never be as fit as the gurus on the DVD with their steely abs and buns, but I was impressed by his grasp of persistence and hard work.

If only I felt so confident and positive. Hard work and persistence in exercise SUCKS. Hard work and persistence in dieting sucks even more. But it’s been two months since my surrogate pregnancy was over, and I have some serious body baggage to lose. I still can’t fit in my pants. Or any of my clothes for that matter. (Except yoga pants. Love them. Can I just live in them? I don’t think I’d pass for a fitness freak if I wore them in public though—all stretched out from sleeping in them and covered in dog hair.) I thought the weight would fall off after having the baby like it did with my other two pregnancies, but that was dumb. 

Those pregnancies didn’t involve two rounds of fat-inducing hormones. Those pregnancies were each followed by six months of nursing, which, incidentally can burn like 500 calories a day. I was working full-time through my pregnancies too, which kept me more active. Sooooo…this time I started at a much higher weight, and somehow felt more deserving of relaxation and indulgence, so I stuffed my face with all the things. All the carb-erific, sugary, fat things. 

I pumped breast milk for a few weeks after delivery but then I got mastitis and had to take antibiotics, which totally depleted my supply and took me promptly out of the dairy business. And let me tell you, mastitis is a bitch. Ow ow ow. I guess those dehumanizing machines aren’t quite as effective as babies when it comes to *product extraction* without getting clogged ducts. While I had planned on doing it longer, I am overall relieved to be done because it’s really time-consuming to go bovine every three hours, night and day. Disappointed about the deflation though…sure was nice to be more buxom than normal to balance out my more-generous-than-usual behind. (It’s nice to have big boobs when you’ve also developed a fat ass--for proportion’s sake. It's just wrong being flat-chested and overweight.)

So I need to shrink the rest of me back down too. I got a set of workout DVDs on Groupon that’s just 20 minutes a day, three times a week, and promises results in thirty days (The Firm Express: Thin in Thirty). Sounds easy peasy (never mind too good to be true), but when you’ve done zero actual exercise in a year and your muscles have atrophied and you just had baby #3 and your whole body is fluffy sludge it’s really f-ing hard. Couple that with being the most uncoordinated human alive and fun times will be had by all. 

Not to mention the hard lesson I’ve learned in calories. I had no idea how many calories were in things!!! Things that I thought were healthy, even. I obsessively entered everything I ate in the myfitnesspal app on my phone and it was horrifying. Especially if I tried to stay within the caloric limit suggested by the app. Counting calories, much like mastitis, is a bitch. I’m not a fan. Although I will say the app is pretty cool, with its nutrition totals and bar code scanning feature and all. 

Even my darling husband was using the app on his phone, having conveniently gone on a health kick of his own due to a slightly high blood pressure reading. He’s really been the driving force behind my healthy eating; watching him cram his lunchbox/cooler full of salad and fruit makes me reconsider that cookie binge. Then he randomly goes jogging and wants to join the gym and I’m like, who are you? And of-freaking-course he drops ten pounds the first week. While I'm super proud of his drive and progress, I'm also a tad resentful cuz...NO FAIR. In any case, it's nice to have someone to help keep me motivated. To his credit it’s just through his actions, not his words. (That's eggshell business there—husbands telling their wives to diet and exercise. Tread lightly. Or not at all.)

Meanwhile I’m flailing along with my exercise movies as my helpful little boy sympathetically asks if they're going too fast for me. Is it that obvious? The cost of having a shorter workout, in these videos anyway, is that she doesn’t explain any of the moves before she does them. It’s like a mean joke when she says “now that you have that”, and then keeps elaborating on the moves and making them faster, and I’m still falling over trying to figure out the first part. Is it possible that my swearing under my breath at the workout chick isn’t as under-my-breath as I think? I develop a personal loathing of these ladies—not just because of their trim bodies and their nice muscles, but because of their smug encouraging words which are clearly meant to taunt and belittle the fatties laboring after them, gasping for air and dripping sweat off their flushed red faces with ungainly stumbling hops as their judgmental children look on. Or is that just me? 

Even the dog seems to raise a critical eyebrow my way. Or maybe it’s just concerned sympathy. But the cat…well we all know that cats are jerks, blinking slowly and turning away in disgust. My husband is explicitly forbidden to watch. And then there’s my sweet kids and their blunt honesty. When I finally make it through the longest twenty minutes of my life, my little guy is there with an enthusiastic “Good job Mama!” Best personal trainer ever.

I’ll keep you updated on any results I see this month. I’ll just be thrilled to be able to wear my clothes again. It might also be nice not to be excruciatingly sore and weak after a bitty twenty minute workout.

The Delivery

My husband has this joke that he loves. He likes to tell all his coworkers how I’m pregnant with a baby that’s not his, only he neglects to include one critical detail: that I’m a surrogate, not a floozy. He thinks it’s hilarious. I think it’s a little less hilarious. (Okay so he says that he actually does end up telling them the truth. Whew.)

37-ish weeks

Anyway. I’m not pregnant anymore so his fun is over. Eleven days ago I delivered someone else’s baby and I still can’t fully verbalize what it was like. I’m hoping I’ll be able to wrap my mind around it more by writing this blog. I’ll start with the facts and then attempt the touchy-feelies. Apparently I’m a dude.

So I was supposed to be induced on a Friday, right at 39 weeks. Baby decided the previous Monday was better (which was fine by me cuz I was ooooover being pregnant). Luckily her mom, L, had gotten to town four days prior, although dad, M, arrived Sunday night. Just. In. Time. 

I woke up with contractions around 2am Monday morning. I’d been having what I can only assume were Braxton Hicks for the past few nights, and had downloaded a kick-ass app on my phone for timing them. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I resigned myself to lying in bed in the dark, playing Sudoku on my phone and timing the contractions, all the while craving a big bowl of cereal but not wanting to get out of bed. At that point they just felt like menstrual cramps so I wasn’t too concerned. Then it occurred to me that I totally didn’t remember the rules about when you’re supposed to call the doctor or go to the hospital, so I started Googling. Hmmmm…so if your contractions are five minutes apart for an hour or more, it’s probably time? Well, how long have I been awake? Oh, it’s 3:30am. How far apart are these suckers? Oh. Five minutes. Guess I won’t be having that cereal. 

At that point I got up and started packing my hospital bag. Yeah, the one you’re supposed to pack like a month before your due date. Once I was up and about the contractions got more intense, so I decided not to drive myself to the hospital after all. I just really didn’t want to have to get the kids up so early. I roused the husband (who woke up waaaayyyy easier than usual) and he hopped right out of bed and loaded the pajama-clad children into the van. They were shockingly pleasant. Freakishly sweet and cheerful for that time of day-slash-night. 

I dutifully phoned the OB on call to get the seal of approval on our departure. She seemed sleepy and irritated but agreed we should head in. Then I called the baby’s parents who sounded much more alert and said they’d meet us there. It’s a bit over thirty minutes to the hospital, where Dooley dropped me off at the front door (at my request) so he could find parking and unload the kids and bags.

I waddled in, hunched over, through the ER and up the elevator to the baby-having floor, where the heartless front desk girl smiled unsympathetically and made me fill out paperwork while standing at the counter squirming through my contractions. I told her it was a surrogate pregnancy and she still wrote “mother” on one of the lines I was supposed to sign, and I had to cross it off and explain things a little more clearly. I. Am. Not. The. “Mother”. BUT. I. Am. In. Labor. You. Jerk.

Of course by the time I was in a bed, the contractions slowed down some but they still admitted me. The parents arrived about the same time we did, and we chatted for a while as the kids played on the tablet I so thoughtfully stuffed in my hospital bag for them (but I forgot my friggin toothbrush!). The nurses had me walk the halls a bit to get the contractions going again; I wish someone had taken our picture because we were a-dor-able. Both kids in their button-down jammies, me in the oh-so-lovely hospital gown and slippers…Dooley was dressed, but still. Walking definitely got things going again, and I kept having to stop when a big contraction hit. Finally I decided it was an excellent time to get the epidural and take a nap.

Getting the epidural was almost the worst part of the whole delivery, second only to getting the catheter. Unfortunately the latter becomes necessary when you request the former, as you can’t get up when there’s a drug-pumping needle lodged in your spine. Then they continuously flood your body with fluids, and it has to go somewhere (pee bag, and cankles of course). There is something seriously unpleasant and weird with the cold prick of the epidural makes the nerves in your back tingle uncomfortably. And there's the uncontrollable shakes and the day-long allover itchiness to contend with. But it’s totally worth it. From then on I was resting comfortably, watching the contractions spike astronomically high on the monitor but only feeling a slight pressure. Worth. It.

Dooley’s mom came to get the kids around 8am. Or 9. I lost track of time. Another OB from the practice (not the doctor from my 3:30am call) came to break my water, but was a little too conservative in doing so, and the nurse had to redo it later. That was some time after 11am. Once the deed was fully done, the nurse calmly informed us that we’d be having a baby within fifteen minutes. 

Dooley had been out in the waiting room with my dad and the parents; they all had been coming in every so often to say hi, then would wander the halls and/or go get another cup of coffee. At 11:49 I texted him “You all can come in…stuff is gonna happen soon”. 

I think she was born at like 12:03. The parents, L & M, stood near my left shoulder and Dooley stood to my right. The delivery nurses were very helpful in ensuring discretion by keeping a sheet up to my knees, so that L & M could be present at their baby’s birth but not see all my business. 

The OB, Dr. R., was actually there for the whole thing, which was a new experience for me seeing as the doctor barely made it for my other two deliveries (and the nurses pretty much did everything). Dr. R. was so calm and sweet, telling us what was happening with the slow, serene tone of a teacher breaking it down in the simplest terms for a preschooler. “Okay Sweetie, you’re doing great. Here comes another contraction. Get ready to push. Her head will be out with this one, then the shoulders will come with the next push. Good job!” Meanwhile the snarky nurse, who I loved, teased me in her Czech accent: “Come on, Sarah. You can do better than that!”

The parents were quiet. He had his arm around her. I think they were holding hands. The few times I glanced at them they looked extremely anxious. Tears hung in their eyes. Dooley didn’t say anything either, just held my hand. It was almost awkwardly silent and strangely tranquil, and I was self-conscious of my loud breaths as I pushed. I thought about how we should have been playing Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” in the background. I pushed through three contractions, then baby J was born.

The tears let loose—both mine and the parents. Delivering a baby is an emotional experience, even if it’s not painful, and even if it’s not yours. The mom and I hugged (as best you can hug when lying in a hospital bed with your feet in stirrups), and then they moved to the warming table to watch the nurses tending to their brand new daughter. 

I think they were too overwhelmed to care about cutting the cord or doing immediate skin-to-skin, so they just stood back in shock. The mom, L, told me later that my delivery brought back memories of her stillbirths, so she was dealing with an unimaginably huge range of emotion. 

But this baby was healthy. She was perfect. 

A few hours old

I didn’t hold baby J until much later. I didn’t really feel the need to hold her. I took pictures on my phone of the parents with her after I was all done and cleaned up, around 12:30. L’s smile was huge, eyes gleaming with joy and pride. The dad, M, looked dazed. 

I stayed in bed for several hours, until the epidural began to wear off and I could attempt to walk. My right leg stayed numb for a long time, and even after I could stand, taking steps was the weirdest, most lopsided affair ever. I was super happy to be disconnected from all the cord and wires, IVs and monitors, and was very glad to go pee by myself, on the toilet. Catheters are sick, and not in a good way. Ew.

L & M got their own hospital room with baby J, and we all stayed at the hospital until Wednesday. Dooley stayed with me on Monday night while my mom stayed with the kids at home, but I didn’t force him to sleep on the horribly tiny fold-out chair/couch thing for two nights, so he went home to be with the kids Tuesday night. It was odd being there with no newborn, but not as odd as I felt like it should feel. I was pretty thrilled to have people bringing me drugs and food at my whim, while I napped and watched movies at my leisure. I didn’t want to go home. 

Quiet morning in the hospital, with flowers from L's mom

My parents, mother-in-law, and one friend came to visit me in the hospital. I think people were confused as to whether or not they were supposed to visit or not, since traditionally they would be coming to meet the new baby. Not that L & M didn’t want my friends and family to see baby J—they actually encouraged it, and we went back and forth between each other’s rooms to visit (and deliver milk, which I started pumping for them) a bunch of times, and all my visitors held the baby.

I think meeting the family really helped my dad wrap his head around the whole thing. He wasn’t unsupportive or anything, but he was very worried the whole time. In fact, my dad, father-in-law, and Grandad said essentially the same thing: “I’m glad it’s over. Don’t do it again.” Not sure what to make of that other than the fact that they were worried and a little weirded out. Still, my dad was my longest visitor at the hospital, and brought me an enormous bouquet of beautiful flowers with a card that said how proud they were of me.

Now to try articulating the emotional side of things. I went to the monthly surro support group yesterday and was asked to describe my feelings on the whole experience; all I could muster was “surreal” and, like a tongue-tied teenage boy from the 90’s, “cool”.

I feel weird accepting praise for being a surrogate. I am proud of what I did, and I am really happy for the family, but somehow it doesn’t seem like a very big deal. It really is surreal—doesn’t even seem like it happened at all. Our lives returned to normal almost immediately. The pregnancy and delivery were pretty easy, and I was fairly compensated. The parents’ overwhelming gratitude makes me uncomfortable. “You’re welcome” sounds so trite. 

All I can say is it seemed like the thing to do. People talk about how remarkable it is that I “made a baby” for someone, but I think the credit for such a miracle is due elsewhere.

I love seeing how inexplicably happy the family is. We’ve formed an unusual but very special bond. Strangely, I feel closer to the mom, L, than to baby J—despite carrying her for 38 weeks. I only met the parents twice before giving birth and we mainly communicated via email through the whole pregnancy, but now I’m surprisingly sad that they live so far away. I wish we could hang out more. And not for the reason you might assume—that I want to see the baby—but because I want our families to be able to get together.

Baby J is adorable and tiny and beautiful, but when I see her or hold her, I have no underlying maternal longing or attachment. It’s just like seeing the newborn of any friend or relative: I marvel at her teeny tiny toes and stroke her soft cheek with one finger, then hand her back to her mom. 

They rented a cute little house in town for a few weeks before flying back home. We went to visit them the other night, and when we went to leave, I hugged and said goodbye to everyone but baby J, who was sleeping in another room. I actually forgot.

Even Dooley is sad about their departure. He feels like he and M could really be friends. They do have a lot in common, come to find out, and not just their beardedness and loud voices. L is artistic, just like me. Our kids both love playing with their three-year-old son, who is equally obsessed with trucks and tractors. My dad got along great with L’s dad. They are all such cool people.

Shortly after the delivery, L & M gave me a necklace, a tear-drop red garnet on a small gold chain. L told me that garnet is the January birthstone, so I could always remember baby J and feel close to them. She told me she always wanted to stay in touch. That necklace is already enormously special to me. 

From the same jeweler in their hometown where M got L's engagement ring

I painted them a picture of the flower that is baby J’s namesake. Other surrogates have beautiful pregnancy photos taken or construct elaborate scrapbooks, but I suck at scrapbooking and felt weird about gifting pictures of my belly. I know it’s not necessary to give a present at all, since I gave them a human being and all, but it seemed like a good idea anyway. 

12x12" oil on canvas

So. Soooo. My recovery at home was uneventful. I felt almost normal after a week or so, physically. I had some emotional days dealing with hormones, coming to terms with getting back to our ordinary lives. I was very sleepy and a bit overwhelmed by my own two kids, but Dooley was off work to take care of all of us and he did an awesome job. I can honestly say my hormonal, teary moments had nothing to do with wishing for a baby though.

The kids don’t give it a second thought that I was pregnant and now I’m not. Tuesday was adorably very interested in baby J, wanting to touch her and help feed her and all, but readily accepted the fact that L & M were her parents and she wasn’t staying with us. Dirt was completely indifferent. And they never asked for a more detailed answer about how baby J got out of my tummy. Dodged a bullet there!

The only thing I’m adjusting to is pumping. Yes, I’m going to be mailing massive coolers full of frozen breast milk cross-country. Not only is it the best nutrition for baby J, but from a selfish standpoint, it will help me get back in shape much more quickly. But it is really a pain—in both senses of the word. To keep my supply up I have to pump every three or four hours, which means getting up at night (at least once) as if I actually did have a newborn. It is all-consuming. It is also seriously de-humanizing, and is the only thing that almost makes me wish I had a baby. Breast-feeding is so much more pleasant than pumping. Plus it makes my nips excruciatingly sore, to the point where I have to carefully shield them from the water in the shower. Still, I hope to keep it up for at least a few months. I actually dropped 20 pounds in one week since delivery—all water weight, but still thrilling.

What else? I know this entry is super duper extra long already, but I’m trying to cover all my bases, trying to remember all the recurrent questions I’ve gotten along the way and doing my best to answer them. Oh. Here’s another one: would I do it again? Yes and no. I was definitely over being pregnant towards the end of it and it wasn’t all smooth sailing. The two rounds of hormones and daily giant butt shots and one failed transfer also sucked, but I would definitely say that it was all worth it. The only thing I’d change is to have the parents living in the same state. So would I do it again if I could go back? Yes. Would I sign up to have another baby with new parents? Probably no. Three pregnancies is enough. Probably.

 

But it was an amazing experience. It was…cool. 

Feel free to ask more questions if you have them. It might help me sort through things a little more.

How Does the Baby Get Out?

I’m into the final weeks of my surrogate pregnancy. Like I can actually count the days down to the induction. The magic number is seventeen. 17 days! Sometimes I think it will happen sooner anyway, since both my kids were at least a week early, but as long as this baby waits at least 9 more days until her mom is in the same state as we are, I’m good to go. We’ve scheduled an induction not just for planning purposes, but for the IP’s peace of mind (they’ve had late term problems with previous pregnancies). 

So I am getting really excited. I obviously can’t claim the standard reason for being excited at the end of a pregnancy (the baby herself), but I have several other reasons:

1.      I want to not be huge so I can fit in my clothes again. I only have one pair of pants that fit comfortably. They are soft stretchy maternity jeans, which is all great, but they’re also skinny jeans, which is not so great when you are short-legged and top heavy. If my legs were slightly longer and/or more slender I might say I resemble some sort of adorable lollypop, but since they’re nice and stocky I might say I just look like...a dumbass. My darling husband might whole-heartedly agree. I imagine wide-eyed vigorous nodding. He hates those pants. With fire. 

2.      I want to not weigh 1,956 pounds so my feet quit hurting when I stand up for more than 0.78 seconds. I also would hope that they return to their normal size (still excessively wide but perhaps not so swollen). 

3.      I want to get into a hardcore diet and exercise routine and get back to my pre-pre-pregnancy weight. SIKE. (Or is it PSYCHE?) Well, yeah, I DO want to get back to my pre-pre-pregnancy weight, but I totally do NOT want to do the hardcore diet and exercise routine. UUUUGGGGHHH. I’m actually really dreading it, but it needs to happen. I’ve gained way more weight with this pregnancy than I did with my two, plus I started at a much higher weight than the other times. I’d like to blame the two cycles of IVF meds (which DO cause weight gain), but the inactivity of my first year staying home full-time is also to blame. Waitressing and childcare kept me moving more than I realized. HowEVER, I must admit, my extreme laziness and gluttony are the real culprit(s). I have milked the pregnancy excuse to the max. Oh, the baby wants another piece of pie. Oh, I’m supposed to take it easy. Heh. Whatever, Fatty. So I have a few weeks left to eat AALLLLLL the fudge, cinnamon rolls, ice cream, chocolate, cookies, cupcakes, etc., etc. currently in my house and then people had better quit giving it to me. (I suppose I’ll have to refrain from buying and baking stuff too.) 

4.      I want to drink beer. Prost Dunkelweizen, to be specific. And ginger beer. And strong coffee. Plus marijuana will be legal in Colorado tomorrow, so there’s that. Kidding not kidding. 

5.      I want to not be so lethargic and irritable. No doubt my sweet kiddos and hub are even more excited for that. I feel like I’m always so tired and cranky that I’m no fun to be around for anyone, and I’m such a massive lump that it’s hard to get up and play with the chilluns. There are other relationship areas affected by the physical and emotional aspects of pregnancy that I am eager to work on too.

6.      I want to pee less often. 

7.      I want to eat sushi and deli meat and all the other no-nos. 

8.   I want to be rid of excess indigestion and gas and that weird pressure that rises up at the base of your throat like you need to throw up or burp but you can’t. What is that? Heartburn?

9.   I want to laser the hell out of these heinous purple veins on my right leg. Yeah insurance covers that! Woot woot!

10.  I want to get a tattoo. I'm not sure what but I want one.

11.  I want to sleep on my stomach. Even if it's bad for my neck to twist around like that.

12.  Finally, and most importantly, I want to see the parents with their new baby. I don’t know just what this experience will look like, but I’m excited about it. Truly.

One common question people ask—after the standard “how are you feeling” physically—is the “how are you feeling” emotionally. I don’t have a very good answer though. Honestly there’s not an extreme depth of emotion at this point. It’s been a very long process (I started looking into it when my daughter was just a few months old, and she’s three now), so I’ve had plenty of time to get used to the whole thing, plenty of time to research and read other peoples’ stories. It all just seems very…normal, for lack of a better word. While I do recognize that there is something profound about carrying someone else’s baby for them, it generally feels no more profound than babysitting. Surely when it all goes down in the hospital I’ll have more to say on the matter, but it really is pretty simple to me. No complex tangle of emotion, even with the idea of actually giving the baby to them. It’s theirs anyway. It always has been theirs. 

I won’t deny the possibility that I might get a little case of baby fever, and there will be no stopping the wave of hormones that will inevitably wash over me, but all I need to do is read the list above to remind myself what’s so nice about not being pregnant (even though I have easy peasy pregnancies). I could also recall any number of super stressful days at home with my two wonderful monsters and imagine how it would be even more stressful with the addition of a third, OR contemplate the fact that in two short years they’ll both be in school full-time (*gasp*bite knuckles*SOB*) so I might be able to have a life again and WHY would I start over with another one?

So in the meantime I’m enjoying the alien antics of this baby girl rolling and kicking my belly in the freakiest of ways, waddling to the bathroom every ten minutes, and kegel-ing nervously when she pushes down in such a way that I think she’s trying to escape. Not yet, you. 

Dirt and Tuesday are only mildly amused by the strange pulsation in my gut, and seem completely at ease with the idea that this baby is not ours. They know her name and her parents’ names, and ask why the baby kicks them when they squish her, but are uninterested otherwise. I just reeeeaaalllly want to avoid giving them an in-depth answer about how the baby gets out. “The doctor gets her out” is the accepted response at present, but I fear that my little incessant questioners will soon interrogate further. While I’m all for discussing natural things in an up front and honest manner, that is one thing I don’t want to burden their curious brains with right now. 

Although sometimes (rarely, but occasionally) they readily accept the most basic answers without any additional questions, like the time Tuesday asked why grownup ladies have hair on their hoohoos. All I said was that she’d have it too someday, and she happily dropped the subject and left. The idea of a thong seemed much more disconcerting to her though: 

“Why are you not wearing undies?”

Me, flashing front hip area: “I am wearing undies. See?” 

Tuesday, looking worried: “Why are you not wearing undies…in the back?”

If pantylines and wedgies are such troubling issues to discuss with a three-year-old, I am quite skeerd to describe the logistics of childbirth.