Birth

My baby was late. I get it, I'm Brazilian. Punctuality isn't our forte. But all that talk of how magical being pregnant is, or the elusive pregnancy glow, goes out the window during your last few weeks carrying a bowling ball around. A bowling ball that is stretching your skin and pressing on your bladder.

For weeks, people had been asking me what my birth plan was.

"No drugs, a doula, a big tub of water." And that's how Maya was delivered. It was beautiful, poetic, painless.

Oh my God I AM JOKING! That was not at all close to either my answer or how childbirth actually goes down.

My answer, honestly, was "a hospital and a lot of drugs".

My baby was measuring big, and based on my OBGYN's guestimate of when I was due, she had to come out, and soon.

[Brief explanation on the guestimate: counting the weeks of pregnancy starts from the menstrual cycle that precedes the actual conception. BUT I had an IUD in, and my husband knocked me up before I even got a period, hence giving him the nickname of American Sniper].

So Doc called the hospital and scheduled me in. She told us we just needed to arrive at the hospital and tell them we had a scheduled induction and they would send us to the right place.

So Monday night, my husband and I arrive at the hospital via the parking lot. As we walk in, we're greeted by a security guard.

"Hi, we're here for an induction."

If a picture is worth a thousand words, the image of his face said "confusion" said one thousand times.

"Go to the Assumption Hall."

I knew that wasn't the place, because the Assumption Hall is a big room with no windows where the hospital holds all the (relatively useless*) maternity classes.

*I learned more from binge watching Jane the Virgin.

We nod politely and head to the lobby.

"I feel I'm having Deja Vu", I tell husband, as again, another security guard stares at us in confusion when I tell him what I'm there for.

At one point, he figures out that the best way to get rid of the pregnant woman with fancy words is to call someone, so in walks Wheelchair Dude, and I'm whisked away to the maternity ward.

A few hours later I'm in pain. I mean, PAIN. That pain scale? One to Ten? I know what then is. Ten is labor. No man should ever be allowed to say ten.

"DRUGS", I demand. "I was promised drugs!"

The nurse said something about "relief for a couple of hours" and "feels like you've had a couple of glasses of wine". So, basically, you're offering me something that is going to get rid of the pain, albeit temporarily, and give me my first buzz in nine months? WHERE DO I SIGN.

I'm honestly happy I don't know the name of whatever delicious chemical they dripped in my IV. I haven't stopped thinking about it. I'm not alone in loving this unnamed, magnificent high. Talking to my sister:
"And then they gave me this great, amazing--"
"Oh, I know. I know exactly what you're talking about."

But two hours later, as warned, it wore off and I was back into excruciating pain.

Time collapses after that. Hours go by. I dilate slowly. I meet my new best friend, the anesthesiologist, who exchanges the momentary pain of a massive needle entering my spine for hours of numbness. I find out that my baby's heartbeat is erratic, the doctor is worried, the word "c-section" is mentioned.  He breaks my water, and apparently things calm down, for a few hours later, my contractions are coming frequently - and, oddly, they have shifted. You see, when they first started, they felt like what I expected them to feel like, as if my uterus is being squished by the fist of a particularly strong giant. But slowly, they move... backwards. Like, towards my... butt.

So when they tell me it's time to start pushing, I know, deep in my heart, that some amount of poop, however small, will be involved. And my husband, my romantic partner, the love of my life, will be there to witness it.

"Don't look! Don't look!" I would yell at him, every time he would walk past my wide open legs.

"I can see the head", my mother would say.

"Don't look at the head! Don't look at the head!", I'd yell at my husband.

"Push", the nurse would say.

I pushed and I pushed. There was, indeed, some poop. There was yelling. There was a nurse shift change. But there was no baby.

---

I can hear her, but I can't see her. There is a massive blue tarp in front of me, covering my wide open belly. I cry, I shiver. I just want to hold her, this amazing little creature I've been carrying around for nine months.

And then I do. And I know, holding her, hearing her breathe, smelling her head, that life will never be the same. That I will never be the same.

Body Image

I love my mom-bod. I have embraced the extra skin, the ridiculous amount of pounds I gained during pregnancy, the huge breasts that now nourish my child, the scar across my lower abdomen. I am strong enough to ignore society's pressure that I "bounce back", like pregnancy is this huge trampoline of fat. I am a woman, I am a mother, and I think I look more beautiful then ever since having my baby, even though I had a six-pack before pregnancy. Fuck the patriarchy!

NOT!

Maybe it was my upbringing: I grew up in Rio de Janeiro. And, yes, the legends are true. Walk down Ipanema Beach, and you'll ask yourself: how are there this many model-looking non-models? In Rio, everyone goes to the gym. If you're average looking and 10lb overweight, sorry, you can go be average in other cities.

I don't think that's cool. It made me grow up with a complex. I never thought I looked good. I would always SWEAR that everyone was pointing at my wide hips at the beach.

And, yet, before getting pregnant, whenever I looked at my pictures of a few years ago, I couldn't believe how amazing I looked, but failed to see it at the time. This led me to an epiphany: this would always happen. "Now" would some day be "a few years back". In the future, I would have the same thought of my current self. So I made a promise to myself that I would always appreciate my body.

I have not made good on that promise.

I went to Macy's today. It was a one-day-sale, and my mother and my mother-in-law, in town from Los Angeles, wanted to go.

We walked around a bit. I felt a funk approaching. Should I buy clothing for my now-body? Or for my future body? Would I ever have a future body, or was this it? I then saw this beautiful dress. Ralph Lauren, perfect cut, good price. I took it off the rack, confident it's wrap design would allow me to feel good in clothing sized Medium.

I was wrong. My arms barely fit the sleeves, and the dress wouldn't close around my chest.

I left it on the rack and walked out, where my mother and my daughter were waiting.

I was fighting tears.

As soon as I sat next to my mother, I lost that fight. The word "meltdown" is appropriate. There I was, a mother, being consoled and hugged by my mother, in public, as I cried sad, sad tears.

I know how neurotic and silly this sounds. I want to be hot again. For myself, for my husband. Sue me. I know that a lot of this comes from a sexist society, that has crazy expectations as far as our bodies. I know I succumbed to that pressure, and I'll make sure to protect my daughter from that pressure more than my mother protected me.

A few minutes after my very public meltdown, I met up with my husband and mother-in-law. As I waited for them to pay, a lovely sales representative came to drool over my baby. I don't blame her, my baby is very cute and very droolable over.

"She's yours?"

"Yes."

"She's so cute! How old?""

"Five weeks".

"Five weeks? You had her five weeks ago? You look amazing!"

"Ok, who paid you to say that?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Thank you. That means a lot to me."

I felt the tears coming again, so did whatever normal thirty year old who has a breakdown in Macy's over a dress while pushing the stroller in which she carries her baby: I pretended to cough to justify the red eyes and tears.

"Oh, this weather always gets to me."

I took the dress home. It will serve as inspiration. As soon as Doc clears me, I'm back in the gym. Of course, my priority is keeping healthy. I have a baby whom I feed with my body. But hopefully, that body will be back to (at least most of) its former glory.

And for those who think my priorities are out of order, I have three words: I don't care.

And for those who think I'm naïve, that I'll never be able to shed those pounds, I have two words for you: Soul Cycle.

Actually, it might me one word. SoulCycle.

I should check.