What nobody wants to talk about...well, I like to talk

It's been awhile, almost two years awhile, since I've last written here.  To me, writing is my therapy, my sanity, my I don't need a $40 copay and a therapist.  Sometimes, I write here or there, most of the time, it's somewhere private.  But for the most part, I am an open book.  And that's okay.  I can respect that other people are more private.  But I feel better when I talk things through.  I love the idea that something I may have said may make someone laugh or not feel alone.  We all go through the same emotions from time to time, and I feel comfort in being someone's support, as well having people support me.

I don't write sad things for pity or attention.  In fact, I despise attention.  I'm shy at heart, but I am a talker.  I love to talk and I love meeting new people and being with friends.  It doesn't change however that I am shy.  Can't someone be an introverted extrovert?

That being said, when I get excited, I get excited and I can't contain myself.  I can keep other peoples' secrets forever...vault it, take it to the grave.  But if it's me...well, that's a different story.  I was the kid at Christmas who opened up her presents and rewrapped them.  Hey, who's perfect? You could ask me what I had for lunch and and I would blurt out, "I'm pregnant!" I just can't contain happiness.  But why should I?

The line has switched.  I am no longer pregnant. I now am the woman who has two sad stories to tell instead of one. But, why is miscarriage so taboo to talk about? Why are women instructed to wait until after 12 weeks to share their joy? I think for the private people, this unspoken rule makes sense.  But for the excited crazies like me, why do we have to wait? Why do we have to be made to feel guilty? Just so we don't have to tell people that we miscarried?

I just had a miscarriage.  Twice in a row.  I.  am.  devastated.  I may punch someone who tells me, well you shouldn't have told.  What does that have to do with it? I actually told close friends and family and people I work with because I had joy.  I will not apologize for that.  Ever.  Not to mention, there were times when I needed help and sometimes we all have to ask for help.  My body also made it hard for me to keep a secret.  I was showing at 6 weeks.

I don't want pity.  I don't want that sad look.  But I'm a talker and if I bring it up, it's because it's part of me and sharing helps me heal.  I believe in celebrating life and joy, even if it's short lived. I loved my twins even though we only had 12 weeks together.  I loved this baby, even though God saw that it wasn't the time again.  These experiences are a part of me.

I hope other women can find the strength to not blame themselves when these things happen.  Deep down, I know it wasn't my fault.  And I hope other people will learn to not offer up things like, "She shouldn't have announced it" or "Be thankful for what you have."  Believe me, I am.  But it doesn't hurt any less.  I sometimes envy the girls who hold it all in, but deep down I know they must need a release too.  And it's okay to fall apart for a little bit.  I know I did, still am. But to me, my support system is amazing and I thank my loud mouth for that. :)

Since that whole line about how you should sleep when the baby sleeps is bs, here goes...

I am awake.  It's midnight and all I want to do is sleep, desperately sleep.  My very noticeable under eye circles prove this.  Yet, I can't sleep, partly because I jump out of bed to check if Reagan is breathing every other second, in between checking my phone to check if I have a text from John, wondering if he's safe. Safe from the storm, safe from patrolling.  When I see the steady rhythm of Reagan's breathing from her little belly going up and down, I am satisfied, if only for about five minutes.
I have noticed, increasingly over the past few weeks, that my life has changed considerably.  I could go on to list all the wonderful experiences that having Reagan has allowed me to enjoy, but I like to hold those close to my heart, as my own personal keepsakes...unless it's an adorable picture of her, because that, you know, I'll share with the world on facebook. Instead, I'll share a few of my latest realizations, and if you're a mom, you can't deny them.  They come with the territory.

When you become a mommy...
1. People ask you if you're getting sick.  No, but thank you, I just look like shit from lack of sleep.
2. Leggings are a staple. They can be dressed up or down.  Hell, I'll wear them as pajamas and then throw on UGG boots the next morning and call it an outfit.
3.  Coffee takes the place of water.
4. Washing and sanitizing bottles makes you want to cry.
5.  You get "mommy wrist".
6.  You will rock, paper, scissor your significant other just so you can sleep 5 extra minutes.
7.  You will hide out in the bathroom.
8.  Your showers will never be the same and you will have to plan them.
9.  Without realizing it, you will sing nursery rhymes in your sleep.
10.  You have wanted to fight any other child that hurts yours, even if they are two years old.

Heartburn = hair?

Everyone has heard the old wives tales at least once or twice.  If you carry all belly, it's a boy.  If your face gets all messed up and your nose gets wider, it's a girl because she's stealing all your beauty.  If you're craving red meat, boy again.  None of these rang true for me, except for the classic, if you have crazy heartburn, your baby is coming out with a whole head of hair.  Reagan certainly came out with a mix between an afro and a mullet.  Jet black hair, long in the back, but short and spiky in the front.  She had beautiful angelic face from day one, with a Rod Stewart circa 1983 hair do.  So, for me all of the heartburn really was a true indication of what was in store for my little girl.  I still would endure all that acid indigestion times twenty, all over again for my little punk rocker in training.

Second Trimester Tease

When the second trimester finally arrives, you are so happy it's finally here because you really do get a much needed break from all the craziness.  Your hormones are somewhat back on track, your energy level spikes back up to normal, and you don't really want to kill anyone at this point. It's a miracle! The worst is over and you are starting to embrace your little belly and even think it's kind of cute.  I remember loving the way my belly stuck out at around four months.  It really was kind of precious.  I hadn't gotten "all over fat" yet and I didn't even mind when random ladies in the neighborhood where I worked decided it was okay to touch and rub my baby bump while speaking to me in Spanish.  Touch away friends, I'm in a great mood! I finally felt like myself again and I didn't even get upset when I ripped my leggings on the way to work and had a huge gaping gash in the thigh.  It's okay, I'm pregnant, this stuff happens! I was starting to do all the fun stuff like build my baby registry, decide on names, and even help plan the baby shower.  When I found out it was a girl, I started to really get excited.  This was cake and all the torture was done for.  I mean I was petrified about labor and still had yet to throw up in public, but I braved the first trimester! What could be worse? Who knew heartburn, Tums, lightning bolt pains, and what felt like broken ribs would become my life very soon. For any future mommies out there, keep Tums at your bedside for late night doses.  It was so much easier for me to grab than trying to roll out of bed and getting stuck mid turn over...oh yes, it happened!

Nicky Monster

Beginning the first trimester was hard.  I wanted to cry all the time, partly from exhaustion, mostly from stress.  I realized I had to find a new place to live, deal with crazy hormones 24/7, and try to find away to put a million dollars in my savings account by the baby's due date.  I needed to be organized and prepared, and I was far from it.

I wasn't so terrible at first, at least I didn't think I was.  Taking into account that after baby daddy and I  had moved almost an hour away from our jobs and were now commuters, I thought I was behaving beautifully.  I was in the stage where nothing was fitting and my sexy bras were a thing of the past.  I had graduated to the bras I used to see hanging on my grandmother's clothing line.  The girls were out of control and I looked like I had indulged in one too many donuts at each meal.  Waking up at 4:30 am with nothing to wear will put anyone in a bad mood to start their extremely long day.  I honestly felt like I had been hit by a truck and I wanted to kill anyone in my path of destruction, which unfortunately enough for my sweet boyfriend, was him.  He was right in the line of fire.

I think I first knew I was the devil when John told me that he had changed my name in his phone to Nicky Monster.  Really?  Was I that bad? Was I that evil pregnant woman that everyone warns people about?  To this day I didn't think I was all that miserable.  I mean who would be able to handle nausea, heartburn, crying spells,  and pure exhaustion gracefully? Okay, so I did threaten his life when he drove over bumpy roads too fast and made sharp turns.  I was convinced he was doing it on purpose to make me suffer.  And yes, maybe once or twice, I did promise to run away with our baby if I wasn't allowed to be cranky whenever my heart desired.

John took the whole first trimester like a champ.  Hey, I even think I did a pretty good job even if no one else agrees.  We both came away unscathed from the battle, and for me that was a success.  If only I had known that the second trimester was like the eye of the storm, before the real fun started.

Those two pink lines are liars!

So, I decided to start a blog.  Original idea. I'm sure one million other new mommies have taken to this idea as well, but writing has always been therapeutic for me, so here I go.  Not to mention, I really think there is some important, if not embarrassing information to be shared to future mommies out there.  I wish I had known half of all the things that were going to happen to my body and mental well being!

Let me start off by saying that after nine and half (lesson one-it's really ten months long!) ridiculously LONG months, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy, baby girl named Reagan McKenna.  She is truly amazing and I really can't picture life without her now.  I am very, very lucky.  Reagan already has a wonderful disposition and I can already see her little personality shining through.  She is what everybody hopes for, "a good baby."  She was even good in the womb.  I had a relatively easy pregnancy and an amazing delivery.  But that didn't mean I wasn't shocked by what went down...

Here's what they fail to tell you.  And by "they" I mean all the pregnancy books, web sites, magazines, and doctors, except for Jenny McCarthy.  Her book on being pregnant was amazingly funny and honest. When you become pregnant, your first thought is usually not joy and euphoria.  At least it wasn't for me.  My initial reaction was a nervous laugh and a 5 minute long tirade how my baby was swimming in vodka sodas considering I had just come back from a weekend bachelorette party in wine country.  Oops.   Or the fact that I had ordered two spicy tuna crunch sushi rolls for lunch yesterday. Damn mercury!  Oops again.  Then the sheer terror when I realized that I live in a fourth floor walk up with neighbors who miraculously have not started a fire yet and who randomly ask me if they can "borrow my power" by sticking their electrical cords through my windows.  Shit.  After convincing myself and my boyfriend that two pink lines were most likely, "a crazy mistake," I forced myself into bed and my head proceeded to spin.  If only I had known just how crazy the next two months would be.  The first trimester.  Hell. On. Earth.