Party Pooping: Let it Go

What trickery is this? I put the kids to bed and they…stayed there? Not a single solitary “I need to go pee” (for the third time), no “mom I have a question for you” (hold on while I think of something), not even “I forgot to hug and kiss you” (the most adorable, nearly irresistible and therefore the most frequently used by those manipulative little twerps). 

It’s the bouncy castle. That did it. I love a good bouncy castle. They suck the energy right out of all children.

We went to a birthday party today. It was for one of Dirt’s preschool classmates—a big first for me, going to a stranger’s house for their kid’s birthday. Well, not total stranger, but very casual acquaintance—like one you’ve spoken to in passing when dropping off or picking up your kid. And once at the neighborhood playground. 

Hold that thought. Let’s go back in time a couple years. The potty training diary…

Phase 1: Poop in diaper. Gross but contained. Except for those epic blow-outs where strange yellow ochre poo mysteriously gets on your baby’s neck. (That’s one of my favorite paint colors, incidentally.)

Phase 2: Poop in pullup, occasionally on training potty, occasionally elsewhere…like on the floor, or outside. Extra fun because you get to clean poo in SO. MANY. DIFFERENT. PLACES. (Sometimes the dog helps though.)

Phase 3: Poop almost exclusively on training potty. This is super gross because a parent (aka MOM) has to dump it into the real potty for disposal, but they (the poops) typically don’t roll out all neatly and…let’s just say they (the poops) can have serious sticking power. It’s also quite problematic when there’s no training potty to be found, and in a moment of desperation you offer to let your kid poop in a trash can since they refuse to go on the big potty. Yeah. That happened. Go read "Poop Soup" if you're in the mood.

Phase 4: Poop on big potty. Hallelujah! Except you still have to assist with the butt-wiping, unless you’re a big fan of super skid marks in all those little underpants. This phase usually includes a very demanding small person yelling at the top of his or her lungs: “I’m DOOOOONE! Come wipe my BUUUUTTTTTTT!” Or, if they’re more self-sufficient, it may involve them emerging to show you how well they wiped by themselves, typically by bending over and spreading cheeks. In the living room. 

We’re on phase 4 with both kids currently (Boy is 5 and girl is 3-1/2). We’ve had a few more *adventures* with boy than girl. A fun quirk Dirt recently developed is that he insists on being completely nude when he poops. Well, sometimes he’ll keep the socks. 

When he was in phase 2 he liked pooping outside a LOT. Maybe because little boys are thrilled about peeing outside and that seemed like the same thing. Maybe because dogs do it. Or maybe we encouraged it in order to avoid cleaning poo elsewhere. For some reason he really liked pooping on the deck for a while. We live in a rural development so there weren’t too many neighbors to witness such an appalling display, but we still told him no…at least just go in the dirt or grass. Then he started pooping in front of more witnesses, like in my parents’ yard. Then at large family gatherings. Just drop trou and go on the spot, happy as can be. Then one time he did it at a baby shower…at a stranger’s house. On their lawn. With people everywhere. Mostly people I didn’t know.

Which brings me back to today’s party, the party where the only adult I know is the mom of the 4-year-old birthday girl. My husband/social lubricant is out of town. I’m being brave and chit-chatting with her friends and family while all the kids play (everyone is super nice), when Tuesday runs up and abruptly shouts in a very forceful tiny voice, “I need to go POO!” Okay, fine. I politely excuse myself. We go. She doesn’t poo. She laughs and says “I was just kidding I needed to go poo.” Hilaaaaarious joke.

Shortly thereafter she accosts me a second time. “I need to go POOOOO!” I wince at her volume and vigor. I tell her to wait for the piñata, because I don’t want to miss it. She pulls on my hand anxiously. I tell her CANDY will soon be falling from the sky. Suddenly her urge subsides. Weird.

It is a Frozen themed party, because duh. All little girls are obsessed. The piñata is appropriately Frozen-themed too: it’s the main character Anna. A human. This makes it especially creepy and especially awesome because the children take turns beating a Disney princess until her limbs fall off, all to the tune of the traditional Spanish Piñata Song, performed by the host and all her female family members. Dirt, the only boy at the party, is the first to knock off a leg, which we take home with us as custom dictates. Our prize kill. Then, because the family is Mexican, Anna ultimately explodes with spicy mango lollipops and Strawberry con Chili candies. 

 

Oh and they left the disembodied head hanging. All Game-of-Thrones-ish. A warning to all princesses.

After Tuesday has one piece of candy she remembers. Poooooooo. We barely make it and she’s whimpering by the time I put her on the potty. This time she means business. I realize we are stinking up the main bathroom at a stranger’s house. I search for air freshener to no avail. Rummaging through all the drawers and cabinets I find some all-purpose 409 and spray that around. It helps a little. 

Much to my horror and dismay there is someone waiting when we finally come out. An adult. I awkwardly apologize for my daughter’s stink and then get more embarrassed as I walk away, thinking how I probably totally looked like the person who blames their OWN stink on their children.  Eh.

So then there’s more bouncy castle time and lots of food and other party-ish stuff. Then comes Dirt with the same look. He’s a little older now, much more discrete. He informs me quietly that he needs to go poo. (I’m thinking: Seriously?! BOTH of you? Like you had to both go in the same 2-hour window that we weren’t actually at home???)

We go. He tells me firmly to stand RIGHT outside the door. His stink is so powerful it immediately creeps out from under the door and into the hallway. At least this time I’m clearly not the source. After several minutes go by I peek in, to be greeted by an overwhelming blast of stink and an angrily yelling, completely naked boy. “MOM! I’m not done yet!” 

The host passes by and I sheepishly ask if she has any air freshener. She gets me a lighter for the candle, which I go in the bathroom to light despite Dirt’s wrathful demands for privacy. I also spray some 409. Giddy-up. Dirt soon accepts my presence and starts thoughtfully discussing the consistency of his deposit, lamenting repeatedly that it’s diarrhea and saying “Poor tummy. Poor, poor tummy”. 

I wonder what the frick I fed those kids to give them both the runs at the exact same time. Maybe they just thought a Frozen party was the best place to "Let it Go". Heh.
I also wonder if that family will ever want to hang out with us again. 

At least we'll always have the bouncy castle. 

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, Housework Edition

This is just an example of the overwhelming, never-ending crap that happens daily when staying home with the kids. Just like "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie", but terrible and mean--and involves zero cookies--where one chore leads to another, which leads to another, and to another and another and another.

If I want to do a workout video, I’ll see that the dirt, food, and dog hair needs to be vacuumed off the floor first.

If I get the vacuum out of the closet, I’ll see that the canister needs to be emptied.

If I take the canister to the garage to dump it in the trash, I’ll see the garage needs to be swept.

If I go to get the broom out of the laundry room closet, I’ll see the litter box needs to be cleaned.

If I clean the litter box, I’ll notice the washer and dryer are both full of laundry that needs to be processed.

If I process the laundry, I’ll have to take the dry clothes out of the dryer and fold them so I can put the next load in the dryer and another in the wash.

If I fold a load of laundry, I’ll have to take it to the bedroom to put it away (or to let sit on top of the dresser for a week).

If I go to my bedroom with the folded laundry, I’ll see that I need to pick up the kids’ toys and bring them to their rooms.

If I go to the kids’ rooms, I’ll see that they are a complete disaster and I’ll holler at the kids to come pick up.

If I holler at the kids to come pick up, I’ll realize it’s their lunch time so I’ll head to the kitchen.

If I head to the kitchen to make lunch, I’ll see all the dishes in the sink.

If I go to do the dishes in the sink, I’ll see that the dishwasher needs to be emptied first.

If I empty the dishwasher, I’ll see how badly I need to organize the cabinet where the plastic cups go.

If I organize the cabinet, I’ll need to have a beer (seriously).

If I get a beer out of the fridge, I’ll see how much the refrigerator needs to be cleaned.

If I clean the refrigerator, I’ll need to get the cleaner out from under the sink.

If I get the cleaner out from under the sink, I’ll see the Scotch guard I bought and remember how I was going to use it on the couches.

If I Scotch guard the couches, I’ll have to get the dogs off them first.

If I get the dogs off the couches and put them outside, I’ll see that the sliding glass doors are so dirty they’re opaque.

If I Windex the back doors, I’ll see how terribly our deck needs to be fixed.

If I fix the deck—F that—I go back inside.

If I go back inside I will see the kids are about done with lunch and I need to put them down for a nap.

If I put them down for a nap, they’ll need to go poop first.

If they go poop, I’ll need to wipe some butts.

If I wipes some butts, I’ll put the wipes in the trash (because they’ll clog the toilet).

If I put the wipes in the trash, I’ll see that it’s full and needs to be emptied.

If I take the trash out, I’ll walk by my half-finished painting.

If I walk by my half-finished painting, I’ll remember I need to use nap time productively, so I go into the dining room to work on a painting (yes the dining room is my studio).

If I go into the dining room to paint, I’ll need to clear off the table first.

If I clear off the table, I’ll have to empty the moldy food and dishes from my husband’s lunchbox, which was on the table.

If I clean out his lunchbox, I’ll find the letters of recommendation his boss wrote him for admission to a master’s program (the papers are nice and moist and smelly from having such an excellent choice of storage location).

If I find the letter, I will read it and be proud.

If I read it, I’ll remember his laundry. So I’ll go back to the bedroom to put our laundry away.

If I put the laundry away, I’ll have to try on my new dress.

If I try on my new dress, I’ll see how wide I look from behind.

If I see how wide I look from behind, I’ll want to do a workout video…

If I want to do a workout video, I’ll need to vacuum first…

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.