Wanna know how to lose 20 pounds in 5 days?

Have a baby.

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Hot Jambalaya! I almost look and feel normal again, well, except for the leaky breasts, the purple puff bags under my eyes, and the not being able to sit in a chair for longer than 12 minutes.

So, do you want to hear my birth story?

I have to tell you about it because it makes me a bit of a hypocrite.

Yes, me. A hypocrite.

I had 12 hours of the most intense labor, and then I demanded the drugs.

THE DRUGS!!

I went into the whole labor process clear-minded and ready to experience the natural and beautiful gift of childbirth, with all the pains and sensations that go with it. I was excited, and a little nervous, but mostly excited.

Cut to me 12 hours later–

And I was done.

My body started to feel like it was being ripped apart. With each contraction that came on, I felt myself uncontrollably fight it, and I was unable to acquiesce to the work that my uterus was doing despite all the preparation I did before labor that taught me how to handle that type of pain. The room was black with agony, and my back, my legs, my abdomen all throbbed with fire.

My husband and doula tried to remind me that I wanted a natural birth, but that seemed such a miniscule notion in light of what I was going through: all I wanted was this baby out, and the pain to stop.

After the epidural I was happy again.

And then 9 oozy gooey hours later Hudson Jack was born.

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12+9 = 21 hours of labor.

WTF?

I thought second babies were supposed to come out faster?

Whatever.

The good news is I had a successful VBAC.

And a beautiful healthy baby!

ZING!

My Birth Plan

I’ve never really taken a stand on anything. I’ve always seen both sides to most things, and usually just shrug and think whatever.

But something happened between this pregnancy and my previous one, and it shook me to the core of who I am as a woman. It has made me take a stand on both how this baby will enter the world, and how the hospital will mandate the way I should labor and deliver.

So many women are passive about their births. They think that it’s easier to just have drugs and be done with it. Why would I want to scream and writhe with pain when I have the option of feeling nothing? My first birth I thought the same way; I figured it was just what we do. And yes, as American woman 90 per cent of us choose to have a hospitalized, and medically assisted birth. But with America bringing in the highest mortality and c-section rates in the world, something about the way we do it might just be flawed.

Because my first birth was a C-Section, my OB gave me the option to have another C-Section, and in the same breath he also told me that I have a slightly higher chance of birthing vaginally than a first time mother. Wait? What? So, which is it Doc? Do I birth vaginally or have surgery? I looked into to it, and realized that so many other women take the surgery option because it’s easier. And my doctor was just giving me an easier way out.

EASIER?!! Easier to have more risk to myself and baby? Easier to recover for 8 weeks instead of 1? Easier to not bond with my baby directly after giving birth? I told him I was going to have this baby vaginally and naturally. It’s important for me that my first birth experience will not be repeated, but to also be present and alive for what my body was created to do. I want to feel the rush of adrenaline and opidids that will naturally coerce through my veins as I have a contraction, I want to feel in control, but simountaunisly surrender to my body, I want to be covered with endorphins as my new baby is pushed through me.

Am I scared? You’re damn straight I’m scared. Not a minute ticks by in these last few days that I don’t think of the trauma that I’ll endure to get this baby out. I’m scared that as much as I try to prepare, things are out of my hands and anything can happen. I’m scared that I’ll end up with another C-Section. But just knowing that I have prepared, and I’ve made myself an active participant in this birth, and not just an observer, has given me peace. And I know whatever outcome God has for me and my baby, will be the right one.

Meaty Ass Fat

I’m 38 weeks pregnant.

And my ass couldn’t look any fatter.

Oh, my mom even said so. Yeah, while we were walking through the mall, she’s all, “Whoa, Beckey, you finally have some meat on your butt.” or something grotesque like that.

And then I turned around all frantic, like people do when you tell them that have something on their backside. And I was like, “WHAT? Where!? Oh, sick get it off? What kind of meat is it? Is it the pork loin I had for a mid-afternoon snack, or is it a piece of that corn dog I ate for breakfast?”

And she was like, “No, You don’t actually have any meat products on your butt, I was just saying you had a fat ass.”

Ahhh, that’s a relief.

Thanks mom.

Next time you see me at Target you should probably push your cart the other direction because I might verbally assail you, and when I’m done, I’ll make you buy all my stuff.

The lady in front of me wrote a check at while I was at Target today.

A check.

Like those little pieces of rectangular paper where you fill out stuff.

With a pen.

It was weird.

And then I felt sorry for her.

But instead of feeling sorry for her, I should have given her some very valuable information:

Hi, you know that when you open a checking account, the bank gives you a debit card? It’s shiny like your sparkly eyeshadow, and you zip it through this machine right here, see? This red box? Yeah, you just zip your card through that, and press some buttons, perhaps contract a communicable disease, and then…listen up, because here’s the important part…you leave. Yup. that’s it.

See, that adorable 18-year-old standing behind the cash register? She has no f-ing clue what to do with your check, and after she figures it out, she has to stamp stuff on the back, and write your drivers’ license number down, and then she’ll call her older, and slightly hotter sister when she’s in the stock room later and cry about how she’s not good at anything, and maybe she should go back to stripping, because at least she felt like she belonged. DO you want to be responsible for sending a young girl out into the yeasty world of stripping? Again!? No serrie, I don’t think so. So, why don’t you do us all a favor, and rip up that silly check with the picture of Garfield eating an entire casserole dish of lasagna, and grab your credit card, because I know you have to have one of those somewhere in that musty bag of yours. And while you’re at it, pay for my shit too.

Ugh, some people can be so inconsiderate. Isn’t it just a Christmas miracle that I’m here to set some nutbags straight?

Probably

I should probably write something.

It’s been a week.

I should probably do a lot of things.

Like read a book, learn Mandarin, do some laundry, or figure out how to attach socks to my dog so I can mop the floors.

I almost had three baby socks on her yesterday, but she bit them all off and thought it was some wildly amusing game. I thought it made perfect sense, and if she’d just participate, then I could let her walk around on my freshly mopped floors.

Gawd, Zoey, sometimes you can be such a bitch.

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