Ugly Plants

I buy flowers from the clearance section at Lowe’s.

I wish I could say that I felt convicted to save ugly plants because of some benevolent desire to nurture the dying flowers of Brazos County, but this is not an act of compassion. This is an act of frugality.

Ugly plants are cheap. The same flowers that sell for $3 sell for $.50 in the clearance section. Sure, they’ve lost their flowers. They may die. They won’t look fantastic the moment you plant them in the ground.  You may not know what colors the blooms will be; however, with patience, you eventually get your garden. Eventually, you get tiny bursts of color that you may–or may not–have expected. It’s wonderful. I definitely recommend it.

Recently, I found this forgotten picture on a saved draft in my WordPress account:

I remember seeing the flower, and purposefully stopping to take a picture.

“I can make a blog post out of this.” I thought.

But the flower slipped my mind–as did the purpose of the blog post–and eventually, spring turned to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter…And here we are. We’ve had a few freezes that have long since killed the poor plant (I’m not exactly the world’s most talented gardener). I feel as though this photo means more to me now than it did before, and frankly, I’m glad that it was forgotten until now.

This semester has been one of the most difficult few months I have ever had. I’m trying to be patient with myself–to remind myself that I am young and my life is constantly changing in the biggest of ways–but frankly, I’m disappointed. I’m struggling with the same old anxiety, the same old depression, the same old perfectionism that chips away at who God has built me to be. I’m going to be vulnerable with you guys and tell you: God and I aren’t talking as much as we used to. I have so much resentment in my anxious heart. I’m working on it. I feel wounded. I asked God to provide for me in a specific way, and it didn’t work out the way I had planned (shocker). You would think, one surprise daughter and one foster child later, that I would take God’s plan for me in stride. Though I have come a long way, I’m still learning. I’m still growing. God is pruning me (or Satan is attacking me. Or both. Who knows). If it wasn’t for the community of believers around me, I would have succumbed to the belief that I was a forgotten plant at Lowe’s, rotting in the Texas heat.

But I’m not.

And neither are you.

I may be the ugly plant at Lowe’s, but I’m most definitely not forgotten. And neither are you.

God loves you. He sees you. He’s the guy that buys flowers from the clearance section. He’s the gardener that sees the wilted and the dying and he transplants them and brings them back to life. He doesn’t do it because he’s cheap.  God the Creator doesn’t have to do anything for us that he doesn’t want to. He does it because he sees the potential in us–he sees what we can be–and he uses his infinite wisdom to prune us, mold us, and shape us into who we were meant to be all along. He buys us because we are worth the effort (yes, even you). And damn, it hurts. But the results are incredible.

Love,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Anxious Believer

Reformed Ugly Plant

 

 

Grieving Freedom

Recently, I visited a dear friend in Austin. We ate good food, drank good beer, and played good music. It was a wonderful respite from the demands of daily life that, recently, have been weighing me down. It was an entire weekend where I could just be me–the role I am most comfortable in. I love my role as mother and wife, but they are new and not entirely worn in. Being with Kate was like wearing an old pair of Dr. Martens after nearly a year of walking around in Tevas (literally and figuratively).

Out of all of our conversations, one stuck out to me the most. We spent the morning paddle-boarding on the lake, and Kate asked me,

“Sarah, did your twenties turn out like you think they would have?”

I snorted. Of course not. Until my twenties, everything had gone according to plan. I graduated high school with decent grades. I went to ACU and majored in helping people. I was involved in a drama ministry and met my best friends. I worked at Deer Run and met the love of my life.

You know, the usual.

If everything had gone according to plan, I would be sending you post cards from Thailand right about now. But since you haven’t gotten a quirky souvenir from me yet, that obviously did not happen. The freedom that I thought I would have in my twenties vanished when I became pregnant. Though I absolutely love Zoe–and I wouldn’t trade her for all the money in the entire world–sometimes, I feel like I’m missing out.

A couple weeks ago, I was talking to my therapist about this very issue. I was feeling guilty for my grief. She justified it, saying, “It’s like a 21 year-old finding out they have a chronic illness. It’s OK if they’re mad that they are sick.”

Except this is not an illness, it’s a child. I am grieving the loss of the life I could have if Zoe had waited to come until my 30’s. I can tell myself that I am mourning the loss of independence and spontaneity, but in reality, what am I really complaining about–that I have a wonderful, fearfully-made daughter for whom it is a privilege to care for?

My twenties have been a lesson in reality. Until my twenties, I was extremely future-oriented (When I get to high school I will…When I get into college I’m going to…When I’m a social worker I’ll always…). I was constantly looking forward. Then, I graduated college and went into the field. I discovered that social work was not what I thought it was going to be. I got sick. I gained a ton of weight. I got pregnant way before I had planned. And after finally being able to admit it to myself, and to others, I found something out: everyone is hurting. Everyone has disappointments. Almost everyone is wondering if the choices they made were the correct ones. My single friends are hurting. My married friends are hurting. My childless friends are hurting. Everyone in their twenties has had to deal with reality, and it sucks. Because of everything–my illness and my pregnancy–I was forced to stay present. Because of the path my life is on, I had to shift my perspective from always looking forward, to always looking at what is right in front of me.

So, no.  My twenties are not what I expected them to be. I don’t have the freedom I had anticipated. Instead, I am in the ministry of being available. You need your laundry done? I’ll help out. Need someone to hold your hand at a doctor’s appointment? I’ll be there. There’s no one to let your dog out? Cook your lunch? I got it. Do you need a walk and a listening ear? I’m here for you. Because my situation is different then I have planned, I have time for you. I can be late to a play date; the dishes in the sink can wait. I may not have the freedom to travel when I want to, or stay out late; however, I do have the freedom to stop what I’m doing and physically be there for people who need me. I have the freedom to help others in a way I never had before, and I’ll do it with a cute baby strapped on my back. It’s a different freedom then I had planned for my twenties, but I will take it–100% of the time.

Essential Baby Items (As Told By Me)

Since having Zoe, I have had several people ask me which items I use the most, or what they should buy their expecting loved ones. Well, here you go! Here is a list of some items that you may not think of that Zoe and I use every day.

1. Boppy Newborn Lounger

I use the Newborn Lounger every day. If you follow me on social media, you have probably seen several pictures of Zoe smiling while using one. It has been a lifesaver for me. It enables me to have her safely seated on the couch or bed while I get dressed, eat lunch, or write in my blog. At $30, it is fairly affordable and is well worth the money. The only downside is that it does not come with a removable cover.

You can find the link to purchase a Newborn Lounger here. 

2. Gerber Flannel Burp Cloths 

Zoe spits up. A lot. In fact, just the other day she projectile-vomited straight into my face. It was glorious.

Anyways…

These Gerber Flannel Burp Cloths are lifesavers. They soak up everything and are the perfect size for throwing over your shoulder during burps. They come in several colors, and you can find them on Amazon or at your local Walmart. I suggest you buy a dozen. They’re amazing. Seriously.

3. Dr. Brown’s Natural Flow Bottles 

Before I started using these, Zoe had terrible gas and stomach pains. She cried constantly. Someone had given me the gift set at a baby shower, but I had forgotten to open them. Desperately looking for a solution, I found them in the kitchen cabinet where we keep the rest of Zoe’s feeding items. We tried them out, and her gas pains have reduced significantly. We were given the Natural Flow set, and given that Zoe has ZERO nipple confusion (as I do breast and formula feed) I would say that they are very effective. You can find the gift set for less than $15 at Target. The gift set includes three 8-oz bottles, two 4-oz Bottles, three steel cleaning brushes, two storage/travel caps, two level 2 silicone nipples, three 8-oz bottles, and five Level 1 Silicone Nipples. Some say that they do not use them as they can be difficult to clean; however, we have not found that to be an issue (perhaps it’s because we don’t use anything else).

4. SwaddleMe Velcro Swaddles

Guys. Embarrassing motherhood secret: I never caught on to swaddling with a muslin blanket. I just can’t do it. I know, I’m horrible. But we have these Velcro swaddles, and Zoe only wakes up once a night at 7 weeks old, so I’d say we’re doing pretty great. You can find them pretty much anywhere that sells baby items, and they come in several adorable prints and colors. They go for about $24 at Walmart for a pack of two. Before you buy your favorite mother-to-be ANOTHER muslin swaddle blanket, look into these instead. She will get plenty of blankets…Promise.

5. Bubula Jr. Steel Diaper Pail 

I know this is a controversial one, as many moms hate their diaper pails. But in my work running group homes for adults with disabilities, we used our diaper pails every day and I could not see myself having a baby without one. The Bubula diaper pail is made of steel, so the smell does not permeate the can. It is compatible with regular trash bags (which is my favorite feature) and looks sharp in the baby’s room. We received the Junior version, and it is plenty large for our singleton baby. If we were to have twins, I may have considered the larger version, but for us–this is perfect. The only downside is that it is not readily available. You can find it in store at Buy Buy Baby, or at their online store and Amazon. Here is the link for the one we have here.

6. Graco Pack ‘n Play Quick Connect Portable Bouncer with Bassinet

While the other items on my list are very affordable, I thought I would add my favorite splurge item: Our Pack ‘n Play. I know a lot of people say that they never use their Pack n’ Play, but I’m glad Kylar and I received one, because it has been well used. This thing is amazing, and has already accompanied me to Abilene, Garland, and McKinney to visit family. Not only can it turn into a crib on road trips, it also has a changing table, bassinet, and a storage basket included. We use our Pack ‘n Play every single day, and it was  worth the investment (Thanks United Way for the gift!) You can find it here on Amazon.

What are your favorite baby items? Is there anything that you would recommend?

 

 

Welcome, Zoe: Part 2

Zoe girl is a month old today. Right now, she is asleep on my chest. I can hear her soft breaths and gentle heartbeat. She is soft and warm. Her hair is fuzzy after I wash it. She smells sweet, like Dreft and baby lotion. She can push herself up onto her forearms, and today, held herself up for an entire minute. She likes tummy time, ceiling fans, and Ranger kisses. She is beginning to re-actively smile at things: my voice, her reflection, her Gigi’s wide smile…The smile is my favorite part. It makes the late-night feedings worth it.

 

Now, back to her birth story…

We checked into the hospital at 5:30 AM. I was examined by the same nurse, and was given the same room as the night before. Immediately, the began the process of inducing labor.

First, I was to be given an I.V. for fluids. Typically, this is an easy process. The nurse expected to be in and out within 5 minutes. My husband and I knew better. I was stuck 5 times by 3 different nurses before they were able to successfully insert the I.V. in my right hand. This would prove to set the tone for the day, and ultimately, my labor. My doctor came to visit around 9:30 AM, where he talked me through the day’s labor and delivery process. Afterwards, he broke my water. Now, I’ve never been one to flinch at physical pain, but for some reason, Dr. Price breaking my water hurt worse than I could have imagined. I believe it was fear. And possibly the large knitting needle that had been inserted into my personal space.

    Yeah, it was definitely the knitting needle.

        Once I was able to relax, he was able to break my water easily. They gave me a choice as to when to receive my epidural, and I chose to have it administered immediately. I had been through so much pain during my pregnancy, I did not see any reason as to why I could not enjoy the labor.

The epidural was a different horse altogether. I am allergic to silicon, and as you may have guessed, quite a few common medical supplies are made of silicon: including, but not limited to, catheters. Whenever my nurse looked at my chart, she looked puzzled. She asked me a few more questions, and left the room in search of a silicon urinary catheter. Thirty minutes later, she returned. “This is the last one we had in the entire hospital,” she said, holding up something in a sealed plastic bag, “we threw out all of the latex ones last week.” The knowledge of this allergy created an even bigger problem with the epidural, and the anesthesiologist was certain that his catheters were also made out of (you guessed it) silicon. The only plastic caths they had were outdated, unsafe, and rarely used. They inserted it once, but it began to bleed. They removed the plastic cath and debated as to whether or not they would try again. Luckily, after further research, they discovered that the new, safer catheter was made out of nylon, and they were able to comfortably insert it. Again, I was frightened. Hunched over, I held onto the nurse’s hands and tried to think of anything–anything at all–to take my mind off of the procedure. I was forced to stare at my hands for what felt like hours. Nervously, I said,

“I think I need one of those stupid fidget spinners.”

    I’m not as funny as I like to think I am.

With the epidural successfully administered, all that was left was to wait.

And wait we did.

And wait.

And wait.

Once 5:00 hit, we were ready to push. The nurse, Kylar, and myself were the only three in the room. The lights were dimmed, and the sun was beginning to set. All things considering, it was peaceful and quiet. I began to push. Despite the nurse stating that I was pushing correctly and doing an excellent job, nothing was happening; Zoe wasn’t moving. After several tries, we began to notice something alarming on the monitors. Zoe’s heart-rate was dropping, but was not recovering. When it did recover, her little heart overcompensated. The medical team knew they had to intervene, and they had to intervene quickly.

The nurse left me to rest while she searched for my doctor. Finally, she found him, finishing up another emergency C-Section in the O.R. The two came in, and with sympathetic eyes, told me that they recommended a Cesarean. They approached me as if they were going to have to try hard to convince me. “Just do it. Get her out of me.”

Once we decided to do a C-Section, everything felt as if it moved very quickly. Last week, someone asked me how long I was in surgery. I was tempted to say 20 minutes, but I knew that couldn’t be accurate. I looked at Kylar, who replied, “Well over an hour.”

Over an hour? Sheesh. 

Once in the O.R., they injected a large amount of anesthesia into my body. The initial epidural injection was making me cold and shaky. The increased amount caused me to almost convulse. They made my stretch out my hands as if I were on a cross, and I know I looked..Scary…to say the least. At one point, I accidentally grabbed one of the poles that held the surgical screen, and I shook the screen unintentionally and violently. Kylar noticed before I did, and quietly slipped his hand under mine to prevent any embarrassing accidents.

I could feel pressure and tugging beneath the screen, but I felt no pain or discomfort. Kylar and I laughed and made jokes with the anesthesiologist. We pushed through the nerves and dealt with our fears the only way we knew how: through humor. Finally, a sharp cry was heard. It was the most beautiful sound, and I cried. In between sobs, I looked at the love of my life and said,

“She’s O.K. Our baby girl is O.K.”

 

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Exhausted New Mom

I’m a Feminist and I’m Excited About My Baby’s Sex

I’m a feminist and I’m excited about my baby’s sex.

There. I said it.

I know, I’m bad. Is there a “Fem-Card” that gets taken away in situations such as these?

When it came down to it, my husband and I had no preference towards the sex of our baby. I was convinced the baby was a boy, not by any sort of desire, but instead due to a dream about a baby boy named Elijah Lee (maybe someday).

Whenever I was 15 weeks pregnant, I took a blood test to find out if our daughter had any genetic abnormalities. As a result, I was able to find out her sex through her own genetic makeup (isn’t science amazing?). Not only was I wanting to prepare myself in the event that she did have a disability, I was clinging to anything that would help me get to know her as a person. I felt disconnected from the child that I was creating. Instead of a mother, I was a human incubator. And though I never thought it possible, finding out that my kid had two X chromosomes brought me a feeling of relief. We could narrow down our list of names. We could refer to our child as “her,” instead of “The Baby”. I could begin to picture her in our daily lives. I could picture her playing in the mud with her siblings. I could picture my father teaching her how to garden, and my mother teaching her how to paint. I could see her scoring a winning soccer goal, or hitting the high note in the local children’s choir.

“My daughter,” I thought, “I’m going to have a daughter.”

We did not have a huge reveal party or anything of that nature. It’s not our style. Instead, we asked the receptionist to seal the result in an envelope. We went out to dinner and opened it together.

Recently, I’ve been seeing articles that put down women who find out their baby’s sex. I’ve seen articles that slam women for putting their daughters in dresses or signing them up for ballet lessons.

It made me feel small. I began to question myself: Is it right for me to look forward to parenting a girl?

And the answer I came up with, was: Absolutely.

True feminism is not a war against pink but instead a celebration of it. It is a celebration of choice. It is a celebration of staying true to one’s core self. The war against femininity is one of America’s greatest ironies. Instead of empowering women, it has the capability of oppressing those who do identify with traditionally feminine traits. How often was I told that I cannot be a feminist while wearing a skirt? How often do articles tell me that I cannot be a stay at home mom and an advocate for women’s rights? What about my high school boyfriend, who lectured me on my choice of career because it was not “masculine enough to be empowering”?

I am proud to give birth to a daughter. I don’t care if she prefers to dress like Scout Finch or Elizabeth Bennett; I’m going to support her. I don’t care if she tears up a soccer field or shreds an opponent in speech and debate. I will support her. Should my daughter fall in love with princesses and the color pink, I will proudly wear a crown along side her (even though glitter makes me cringe). Looking forward to having a daughter has no correlation with the way in which I intend to raise her. My daughter may dress in overalls or Ugg boots, but no matter what, she will be kind, responsible, and aware. She will care about those in need. She will see those that are hurting and will have been taught from birth that it is her duty to ensure that the outcasts have a friend in her.

Whether my daughter decides to dress in pink or blue, she will be a super hero. I just know it.

 

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Sorry About That

Rant Over

Not Bad, Just Excessive

I should have expected her here.

I am sitting at my desk, exhausted. My eyelids feel like lead. My joints are stiff. I should not be surprised to see her here.

She slinks quietly into the office and eases into my cubical. She thinks she belongs here. Sitting with her arms crossed, spinning in an office chair, she smirks as she says to me,

“So, how are you feeling today?”

I nervously bite my nails. “Don’t answer her. Ignore her. Don’t answer her.”

“I know you hear me,” she laughs, ” So…How do you feel?”

“Fine.” I growl back at her. I continue to pick at my nails. One begins to bleed. My husband would not be happy if he saw me doing this.

She knows I’m at my whit’s end and she continues to taunt me. Her smile hovers over my shoulder. Though she does not touch me, I carry the weight of her burden on my back. I feel her warm breath on my neck, and I begin to feel angry.

She laughs, knowing that she has won this round.

Luckily, the clock hits five. I gather my things and head out the door. In the car, I feel fine. For a few moments, I am distracted from the pain in my joints and the swelling in my feet. I feel “normal”. As I pull into my driveway, the relief I had felt in my during my commute begins to wear away.

“Hi!” She says loudly. My ears begins to ring. Having your Hormones follow you around all day is exhausting. I glance to my passenger seat. Her blonde hair is frizzy and unkempt. Her face is red from excitement. She’s in my personal space, and she knows it.

“Hello.” I glare at my steering wheel and take the keys out of the ignition. “Leave me alone.”

“You know I can’t do that.” She grins. “You need me.”

I ignore her and head into the house. I can feel my stomach stir. The dishes are not in the washer like I was told they would be. My dog’s hair is on the floor, and I have a load of laundry waiting to be folded. I just can’t seem to keep up and–

Suddenly, she pops up beside me again.

“It makes you angry, doesn’t it?” She grins, “Let it make you angry.”

“I can’t let it get to me. It’s no one’s fault that the house is messy, I just need to buckle down and do it.”

“Yeah, right.” My Hormones smile a half smile and plops on our sectional. “You’re never going to be able to keep up. What’s going to happen when the baby comes? If you can’t keep the house clean now, what’s going to happen when you have a baby and a full time job? You’re not going to be a good mother and you know it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh it’s true. You know it is. I can hear your doubts. I can feel your pulse quickening, Sarah. You think that this is going to be forever. You think you’re not going to be able to keep up. You’re alone in this and there’s nothing you can do about it–”

“STOP!”

She jumps back. She’s startled, but amused.

“What, am I bothering you?” She whispers.

“Leave me alone.” I begin to cry. Tears slowly roll down my cheeks, staining my face with mascara.

“Here’s the thing. You need me. Your body doesn’t work correctly without me. You’re in this situation because of me. Your baby needs me, and I’m not going  anywhere.”

She’s right. Nothing I do will get rid of her. The truth is, I do need her. She’s not bad, she’s just so…Excessive. She’s too much. She’s too close, and I don’t know what my next move should be. I sit next to her on the couch. I guess I need to embrace it.

Suddenly, her eyes light up. Her bright blue eyes turn and look at me. “Icecream.” She whispers.

“What?” I furrow my eyebrows.

“Icecream!” She says loudly. “And a BLT!”

I breath heavily and head to the kitchen. I may as well give her what she wants.

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Under-Control

A Little Hormonal

 

Human Bowling Ball

We have all been there.

We have all made the brave steps into a department store dressing room.  We have all donned the fake mask of confidence and scrutinized our body in an unforgiving, unyielding 4-way mirror.

But, here I was in tears, desperately texting my best friend from the stall of a Target dressing room.

“I thought that getting bigger during pregnancy would be empowering. Instead I’m crying in Target because I can’t get these jeans over my massive hips.”

When I finally did find a pair of maternity jeans that fit, I stood there in the harsh florescent lighting, staring at my new body. I did not see a strong, empowered woman. Instead, I saw mascara rings around a pair of tired, desperate eyes. I saw frizzy hair and red, tear stained cheeks. I saw a child that needed her mom, not a cheery Target employee knocking at the door asking if she needed a bigger size. Everything I saw was rough, and raw–

it was honest.

I wiped my eyes and fixed my pony-tail. I painted on a smile and bought those jeans. I drove home, and tried them on for Kylar. He looked at me, tilted his head, and said,

“Those don’t fit.”

I gave him a sideways glance.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re too big.” He observed, pointing out the the imperfect fit. He was right. They did not fit. In fact, they were two sizes too big, and I did not even notice. I feel large, and I look large, so I must be large, right?

In November, I was prescribed a medication that made me gain 25 pounds in 30 days. I had not changed my lifestyle. I ate what I had always eaten and exercised 4 days a week. I was constantly criticized by my endocrinologist, who was not familiar with this specific antidepressant. I told her that I was suspicious of the medication, but she was cold and I felt dismissed. I began blaming myself, believing that I was at fault. I tried eating less, I exercised more–nothing worked. Whether I liked it or not, I had a new body to love. In order to change my image, I had to first change how I viewed myself. I had to learn to love the body that I was in.

It took time, and I was finally beginning to adjust to the idea of being overweight whenever I found out that I was pregnant. I began to get excited.

“Great! Now that my body is supposed to gain weight, it will be even easier to love my body!”

I was dead wrong. It ended up taking me until my 24th week to “show”. Up until that point, I did not look like a cute pregnant woman. I looked like someone with swollen feet and a food baby. Even though I’m showing now, my belly hangs low, it’s not cute and round–and guess what? I’m OK with that. I have to be OK with it because this the body that I have.

Whenever Kylar and I moved to our home in College Station, I was able to begin swimming laps in the community pool. Swimming was a turning point in appreciating my body. In the pool, I felt light and airy. When I swam laps, I concentrated on my breathing and building muscle tone. I imagined having a successful birth, and replayed the images over and over again. Whenever I swam, I imagined holding my daughter; I imagined taking her on walks and showing her the world. The water felt cool, and the pool provided a quite space to collect my thoughts. Through swimming, I began to feel that empowerment that I had neglected to feel in the hot, cramped, Target dressing room.

Whether you are pregnant or not, I believe there is something to learn from my experience. Find something that empowers you. Only then will you be able to reach optimal health. Being physically healthy involves being emotionally and spiritually healthy too. Find something that gives mental strength and pursue it. Love your body, and find something that helps you do so.

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

A Little Chunky

A Lot Happy

There Are Some Perks, Too

I promise, there are good things about being pregnant.

For instance:

1. Free stuff. I promise I’ve gotten a couple of discounts since I started to show.
2. VIP parking at HEB. Doesn’t get much better than that.
3. A built-in excuse for anything I don’t want to do (Sorry, Kylar).
4. I was told by my doctor to eat ice cream…
5. AND bacon!
6. It gives me something to research on the internet (as long as I don’t look too hard at the pictures)
7. I get to wear stretchy pants.
8. My boss lets me wear Velcro shoes to work. Granted, this is because my feet are swelling; however, I choose to look at this as a positive.
9. I get to wear stretchy pants, AND pants with no waist bands (the stretchy pants perk is so good, I have to list it twice).
10. Frequent bathroom breaks.
11. If you say you’re craving something for dinner, that’s where everyone in your group will agree to go. You want nachos? It doesn’t matter if everyone had Mexican last night. I never had this kind of power pre-pregnancy.
12. Getting to speak with other women about their experiences, and in turn, having an opportunity to write about yours.
13. You can wear tighter shirts without worrying if your food baby will show…Because, you know…Real baby.
14. It has expanded my cooking skills. Since I’m limited to gaining .5-1 pound/week, I have to get creative with my healthy cooking recipes.
15. Baby clothes
16. Baby GIRL clothes
17. Feel like introverting tonight? No worries, just blame the morning sickness and get back into those stretchy pants.
18. At the end of all of this, I know I will have a child. And she will be wonderful. And even though the thought of having her scares me completely, I know it will be worth it.

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

Current Dog-Mom

Future Child-Mom

So a Pregnant Woman Walks Into a Bar…

Starbucks Happy Hour.

The best 30 hours May sees every year.

On Saturday, I visited a local Starbucks with my mother. We waited in long line while my swollen feet spilled over the sides of my yellow ballet flats. It was a hot day, and I was ready for some relief. Finally, it was our turn to order.

“I’ll have a Venti Green Tea Frappucino, no whip for Sarah please.”

The barista behind the counter grabbed the cup, began writing my name, and paused.

“You do realize this has a lot of caffeine in it, right?” She eyed my stomach suspiciously.

Initially, I did not understand her implication. I said yes, and she finished writing my name and order on my cup. After the drinks were ready, my mother and I left the shop. As I stepped out the door, I realized what she had meant to say.

Now, before anyone starts thinking, “But SARAH! Caffeine is dangerous to your baby,” hear me out. I am allotted 200 milligrams of caffeine a day. A Venti Green Tea Frappucino is 95 milligrams of caffeine. Up to that point in the day, I had only been drinking water. After that point, I only drank water. That drink was well within the units of what my doctor had recommended as safe for me and baby. I had planned to have that drink. I made accommodations to ensure that I would not ingest more than the daily recommended amount of caffeine.

When you’re not pregnant, no one cares about the amount of caffeine you drink, or your sugar intake. You will never see a barista stopping a fat man from ordering a scone, or saying,

“Do you KNOW how many calories are in that?”

The moment you begin showing, you become a public commodity. Suddenly, strangers feel it is their duty to inform you of their opinions on how to dress, how to exercise, how to eat, and how to drink. The running program your doctor recommends is “no good” to the helpful stranger, who fears you may overheat. Suddenly, lunch meat is the enemy and tuna is untouchable–even though your doctor recommends you eat 12 ounces of light tuna (or other fish) a week. Strangers at the grocery store feel entitled to touch your stomach, and older women at the gym ask you how much weight you’ve gained without batting an eye.

When you’re pregnant, you cease to be a human in your own right, and are often made to feel like nothing more than a human incubator. I am not advocating for pregnant women to excessively drink alcohol or eat raw meat; however, shouldn’t we trust women with their bodies? People do things we do not agree with every day. It is not until they become pregnant that we feel it is our duty to intervene “on the baby’s behalf”. However, the world is changing. Doctors are discovering that pregnant women can do more than ever before. Caffeine is not bad, and even some sushi is allowed every once in awhile. If you see me in a bar, drinking a beer, assume it’s non-alcoholic–if I say I’m craving a tuna fish sandwich, offer to pick one up for me–and if you see me at Starbucks, let me order my green tea. It’s delicious.

Sincerely,

Sarah E.B. Christison

A Little Bit Pregnant

A Little Bit Gassy

We Might as Well Get to Know Each Other

“Does anyone have a parasite? You know, someone that just sucks the life out of you?”

 

I went to a conference last week titled, “Dealing with Difficult People”. Only in the social work field do you have opportunities to attend conferences with such titles. The speaker tried too hard to be charismatic. I was not his biggest fan. During his speech, he began enthusiastically speaking about “annoying” coworkers, as if talking bad about the people I was attending the conference with was going to win me over. At this point, he asked the crowd,

“Does anyone have a parasite? You know, someone that just sucks the life out of you?”

I laughed.

Umm…Yeah. Literally.

Connecting with Baby has been a difficult road for me. I wish that I could say it is an easy process. I wish I could say that the moment I saw the plus sign was the same moment I became a mother. I wish I could say that her first tiny flutters feel like kicks and not uncomfortable muscle spasms,

but I can’t.

I am writing this blog because not enough women talk about how difficult pregnancy is. Not enough women are willing to admit that the idea of becoming a mother is incredibly scary. Not enough women out there that are willing to publicly say:

“This is not what I wanted.

This is not what we planned, but we can make it part of the plan.”

Growing up, I believed that the moment I became pregnant, I would have an overwhelming rush of motherly warm and fuzzies and be automatically connected to the child growing inside of me.  This isn’t a reality for me. Pregnancy makes me feel much more connected to my toilet than it does to the life I’m carrying. Becoming a mother is a process. It is not something that instantly happens. We allow the men in our lives to process their role change, but rarely do we stop and think about how long it may take women to adjust and “become” as well.At the beginning of my pregnancy, before I could feel her kicks, I knew I needed something to make my situation real for me. I prayed to feel her move. I prayed that I would start showing sooner. I even prayed that my morning sickness would return, because if I had that, I would have some semblance of a relationship with her. I grasped at straws for proof of a relationship that doesn’t exist yet.

There are small connections happening every day. Sometimes the connection is formed in a distinct kick in the rib, sometimes it’s through a painful, late night leg cramp. I see connections in my stretch marks and varicose veins. I see it on my scale as it groans under my feet. The biggest connection that I have made with her so far hurts the social worker in me. Never, in a million years, would have believed that finding out her sex would be a turning point for me, but it was. Even though her sex is not important, it allowed me to picture her as a child, and to give her a pronoun. Pregnancy has made me realize that our connection with others is not a single line, but hundreds of small strings that hold us together. 

Sometimes I imagine who she will be. I try not to, as I want her to be brought into this world with a blank slate. I can’t help imaging what she will be like. Will she be a movie buff like me? Will she be an athlete like her father? Will she have an intense passion for learning, but a deep fear of math homework? Will I be able to instill my love of 80’s music, or will I have to leave that up to my father? Will she love Camp Deer Run, or despise the bugs and heat? (I try not to think about that one too much). There’s no way to know. But for now, I am carrying a child. She is with me whether I am ready to be a mom or not. We might as well get to know each other.