On January 7, 2014, my life changed forever when Habibi and I welcomed our baby Hulk into the world. After three months of violent "all day" sickness, six additional months of a low-risk-but-high-intensity pregnancy, about 22 hours of labor, four hours of pushing (at least two and a half to three of which involved crowning), a third degree "starburst" tear, and one operation later, I was finally able to hold my wiggly little girl.
I worked hard to earn the title of "ummi."
As I was going through pregnancy, labor and delivery, and the subsequent postpartum period, I didn't realize that my experience was unusual; I simply thought that everything I went through was standard procedure. It wasn't until later on when my somewhat befuddled doctor informed me that I ended up having more sutures "down there" than I would have had I opted for a voluntary c-section, or that most women don't push for four hours and tear that bad, or that my plumbing is atypical, that I realized what I'd gone through to bring Hulk into the world. There were times after I had returned home that I wished for another epidural. Scratch that: I needed a horse tranquilizer.
Now that I have almost fully recovered from labor and delivery, I have learned that I still have a long road ahead. After over two months postpartum, I could not figure out why I still looked about four or five months pregnant. I gained 28 pounds during pregnancy (almost smack in the middle of the recommended 25-35 pounds), and have lost all but the last ten pounds or so (which, to my dismay, are spread throughout my entire body). This wouldn't account for such a large bulge in my midsection, would it?
Absolutely not. As it turns out, I have the worst case of diastasis recti my doctor has seen in his 30+ year career. Once again, I have proven to be a medical enigma. Many women get this dreaded "mummy tummy" postpartum, but few have to be referred to a physical therapist to rectify it.
Even fewer have nurses suggest surgery to them...before they are even discharged from the hospital with their babies.
I was never deluded enough to think that I'd bounce back immediately -or perhaps ever- to my pre-pregnancy shape, but it stings a little to know that I would more or less resemble my former self were it not for my flayed abdomen exposing my intestines. (Yes, I can literally watch myself digesting breakfast. It's cryptic.) My inability to use my abdominal muscles has created quite a challenge for a variety of things: playing on the floor, getting out of bed, breastfeeding, etc. Furthermore, it frustrates me to no end when I walk into a coffee shop, carrying my baby in her car seat, only to have the barista ask me, "How far along are you?" Can I hold up my baby in front of my belly and reply "negative three months" without sounding bitchy?
So what if I can't. She's the moron who thinks that a pregnant woman typically carries her unborn baby in a car seat on the outside of her body.
As this Mother's Day approaches, I am eager to claim it for the first time. After all that I have been through, I feel that I truly deserve more than some corny coffee mug that reads "#1 Mom." (I realize that may sound prematurely ungrateful, but I don't care. I did not put in all the time and effort towards growing and feeding a baby -all with my own body- for such a trashy gift.) Granted, I would repeat every miserable moment of it for one glimpse of my beautiful girl, but I'm looking forward to the once-a-year recognition that I'm truly a badass woman with stamina, grace, and an unusually large appetite for pancakes at brunch.
I worked hard to earn the title of "ummi."
As I was going through pregnancy, labor and delivery, and the subsequent postpartum period, I didn't realize that my experience was unusual; I simply thought that everything I went through was standard procedure. It wasn't until later on when my somewhat befuddled doctor informed me that I ended up having more sutures "down there" than I would have had I opted for a voluntary c-section, or that most women don't push for four hours and tear that bad, or that my plumbing is atypical, that I realized what I'd gone through to bring Hulk into the world. There were times after I had returned home that I wished for another epidural. Scratch that: I needed a horse tranquilizer.
Now that I have almost fully recovered from labor and delivery, I have learned that I still have a long road ahead. After over two months postpartum, I could not figure out why I still looked about four or five months pregnant. I gained 28 pounds during pregnancy (almost smack in the middle of the recommended 25-35 pounds), and have lost all but the last ten pounds or so (which, to my dismay, are spread throughout my entire body). This wouldn't account for such a large bulge in my midsection, would it?
Absolutely not. As it turns out, I have the worst case of diastasis recti my doctor has seen in his 30+ year career. Once again, I have proven to be a medical enigma. Many women get this dreaded "mummy tummy" postpartum, but few have to be referred to a physical therapist to rectify it.
Even fewer have nurses suggest surgery to them...before they are even discharged from the hospital with their babies.
 |
| Pre-pregnancy |
 |
| Still had a good two and half weeks to go at this point! |
I was never deluded enough to think that I'd bounce back immediately -or perhaps ever- to my pre-pregnancy shape, but it stings a little to know that I would more or less resemble my former self were it not for my flayed abdomen exposing my intestines. (Yes, I can literally watch myself digesting breakfast. It's cryptic.) My inability to use my abdominal muscles has created quite a challenge for a variety of things: playing on the floor, getting out of bed, breastfeeding, etc. Furthermore, it frustrates me to no end when I walk into a coffee shop, carrying my baby in her car seat, only to have the barista ask me, "How far along are you?" Can I hold up my baby in front of my belly and reply "negative three months" without sounding bitchy?
So what if I can't. She's the moron who thinks that a pregnant woman typically carries her unborn baby in a car seat on the outside of her body.
As this Mother's Day approaches, I am eager to claim it for the first time. After all that I have been through, I feel that I truly deserve more than some corny coffee mug that reads "#1 Mom." (I realize that may sound prematurely ungrateful, but I don't care. I did not put in all the time and effort towards growing and feeding a baby -all with my own body- for such a trashy gift.) Granted, I would repeat every miserable moment of it for one glimpse of my beautiful girl, but I'm looking forward to the once-a-year recognition that I'm truly a badass woman with stamina, grace, and an unusually large appetite for pancakes at brunch.
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