Tag Archives: pictures

Help a blogger out

Today was another “Yes! I am inspired! I will write about this Topical Topic! I can feel a kick-ass rant coming on! Wait, but the baby needs to nurse. And now I only have one hand. And the big kid is yelling at me. And now I am a parenting failure, and feel completely drained. No, I will write! Are you fucking kidding me? My blog won’t let me log in. Fine, I’ll restart the computer. WHAT DO YOU MEAN SYSTEM ERRORS?? And now The Man has to go back to work. Right. I will never blog again. Think I can make it as a professional pumpkin carver?” day. Which, minus the pumpkin carving, is at least the third time that’s happened in the last three weeks, and honestly, I’m starting to despair.

See, I could totally go pro with the pumpkins. Yes, that is a rotary cutter. Mmm, power tools.

So, while I wait for The Man to come home ~~three~~ two hours early in an attempt to give me half an hour of writing time¹, I ask you: how do you eke time out of Life to, y’know, write? Or how do you stay out of the crazy-dark-despair when you can’t? How do you work on one piece a piece at a time over several days, a skill I’ve never quite managed? How do you make your sleep-deprived, slug-like brain function during the fifteen minutes an evening you carve out? How do you convince yourself that the little you can do is good enough for now?

How the hell do I do this?

And:

Happy Halloween

Think that’s unrealistic? There’s getting Vulva Baby transfered to him, reminding myself what I’m supposed to be writing about, taking Vulva Baby back to nurse, re-reading my Twitter rant on the topic for inspiration, getting interrupted by the Boychick telling me about his video game/asking me to play Chinese Zodiac with him/breaking my heart by talking about how much he misses his dead grandparents and wants to put out a path of petals so they can find him on The Day of the Dead, redirecting him to his dad, trying to shut out the cries of Vulva Baby who has just been woken by her brother’s yells of protest, completely losing it myself, attempting to repair the damage done to both kids by hearing a mother’s primal scream, nursing Vulva Baby again, talking with The Man about dinner, remembering there’s a Halloween party to get ready for, looking at the computer with longing and breaking into tears…

You’re right, it is unrealistic. No way am I getting even half an hour. ↩

17 Comments | Posted on 31 October 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Parenting | Tags: comment begging, Halloween, Mental Health, pictures, sleep

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Shamelessly showing off picture post

It ain’t that I don’t have things to say, it’s that no way do I have time to sit and type them. I may have to start vlogging. But no one wants that.

Anyway. TO THE PICTURES!

The first three were taken by the amazing Amy Lynne Watson (the grinning goddess checking out my baby’s back, below), when the Girlchick¹ was less than two days old:

I wasn't sure about this whole "getting my picture taken without showering or dressing or aught" thing, and then I saw this. Yeah. Amy made it work.

When two days old you were, neck this strong YOU had not!²

The artist and healer herself.

And now back to shitty iPhone pictures…

With the move, there's not been enough of this, but The Man got baby snuggles in when he could.

One week old:

Why yes, I do have the most beautiful baby in the world.

And just last night:

Babywearing: maximizing quiet alert periods since Homo became Sapiens.

And there you have it: cuteness galore.

Next up³, a guest post on a topic all too familiar to yours truly: postpartum OCD.

One day, I will blog about gender, genitals, pronouns, provisional assignments, and imperfect compromises. One day. ↩
Geek points galore for those who get which famous line this is filking. ↩
If all goes as planned. Cue laughter from those in the know. ↩

30 Comments | Posted on 10 September 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Parenting | Tags: baby, babywearing, pictures

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Fat and pregnant and beautifully blessed

And more than a wee bit exhausted. Especially since we’re also¹ buying a house and moving.

But, I took some time out last week from packing, panicking, and sleeping to be blessed by a lovely group of friends, both near and far. And, for the first time, got myself hennaed, a gorgeous stylized tree right on my already-lovely fat and pregnant belly.²

a picture of the breasts, torso and stomach of Arwyn, a white woman. she is wearing a black bra, and her 38.5 week pregnant stomach is covered with a large hennaed oak tree, henna paste still on and quite dark. ps she is gorgeous.

Right after finishing, henna paste still on

I walked around for the next week randomly smiling as I remembered this was under my clothes:

another photo of Arwyn, this time a full body shot taken in a mirror with the phone she's holding upright in her left hand. She's wearing glasses, jeans and a navy blue blouse with white stars and white-and-rouge moons which is tucked up underneath her breasts to expose her pregnant belly. her belly is covered with a large hennaed oak tree, skin stained light red-brown by the henna. she is smiling slightly, and remains gorgeous

And the next day, after flaking off the paste.

But also because this³ was echoing in my ears:

And so, we offer this prayer today, for you, Arwyn:

May you
be valued and cherished,
as a woman, a writer, a healer
a lover, a partner, a mother,

May you
be given help when you need it

May you
love this child fiercely, and gently

May you
have the strength to seek connection, not control

May you
be surprised,
and answer “here I am” when you hear the call,
and may you bend like a willow tree
in the face of the unexpected

May you
forgive freely, forgiving even the unforgivable,
and be forgiven in return

And finally, and perhaps most importantly,
may you be kind to yourself, to your children, partner, family and friends
and be treated kindly in return.

And for your child:

May it grow up given every chance to thrive, to flourish, to live a life as rich and full of experience as can be. May the child live free from harm, from trauma, from unnecessary pain and suffering. And most of all, may it be it happy and loved, by you, [The Man], [the Boychick], and all in its life.

This, please. In these last hours, days, perhaps weeks⁴, I walk in the hope of this.

WHAT THE HELL WERE WE THINKING OMG NEVER DO THIS NEVER EVER EVER EVERRRRRRRR ↩
The Fetus was not making it easy, doing barrel rolls more or less the entire time, but the lovely Nichol did perfectly anyway. ↩
A blessing written by a dear friend rendered by distance unable to be there herself, but whose presence was felt via her words, read aloud by those there. ↩
Please, at least one week. ↩

8 Comments | Posted on 28 August 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: Fat is a feminist issue, pictures, pregnancy

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Fat and 36 weeks pregnant and… ready for birth?? Pictures, pools, and ranting

Tonight the midwives dropped off the birth pool. As of today, if I go into labor, we’re not calling it premature, we’re not going to try to stop it, and, barring other indications, we’re not going to the hospital.

Give me a moment to boggle, run around in a panic, and faint from all there is left to do.

…

!!!!!!

_______

Ok, back now.

Fat and pregnant: 36 weeks

Ignore the confident expression: I’m too stunned to realize I should be panicking.¹^,²

One of the many reasons I love and appreciate the midwives model of care is the normalization of the wide range of experiences of humanity, and of pregnancy and birth in particular. Midwives, in general (and as allowed by law, by which they are often, instead, constrained), would not induce at 36 or 37 weeks — but neither would they immediately call spontaneous labor at those gestational ages “abnormal” or pathological. Similarly, midwives not bound by laws on gestational length rarely are concerned by 41 or 42 (or, depending, 43 or 44) week pregnancies.

Those who do not follow the midwifery model of care, whether they name it such or not, are much more likely to have a narrow range of non-pathological — and, conversely, be much more willing to interfere in the biological process, with the assumption that whatever complications might be introduced by such interference they can “manage”.

What is the point of this?

We are finding out³ that when it comes to pre-term inductions⁴, it simply isn’t so. When we induce large number of babies at (what we believe to be⁵) 37 weeks of pregnancy, more babies get sick. More babies spend time in the (expensive and traumatic) NICU⁶. More babies have breastfeeding problems. Likely, more babies die.

That is all old news to a birth geek like yours truly: the more we interfere without needful reason, the more problems we introduce. (Even when we interfere with compelling need, we introduce problems, but the balance of good can be on the side of intervening.) No, what makes me rant is the headline this “news” is appearing under:

Doctors To Pregnant Women: Wait At Least 39 Weeks

If you don’t see why this makes my eye twitch and keeps my massage therapist permanently employed de-kinking my neck, let me explain:

It is, once again, women’s fault.

Nevermind that doctors⁷ were the ones who convinced women that inducing at 38, 37 weeks was just fine and perfectly safe. Nevermind that the majority of early inductions are based on medical advice and/or scare mongering. Nevermind the host of misogynist, anti-family, capitalist forces leading to women wanting to schedule a birth:

desire to have the attendant with whom they have built a relationship — which is no trivial reason! — in a system that devalues humanity and relationships in favor of maximum profitability; limited parental leave postpartum or limited medical leave prenatally; pressure from employers and the need to overcome the perceptions of the “mommy track”; need for community and familial support postpartum; limited community support or understanding for the normal discomforts and changes of pregnancy; and the list goes on…

No, it is, simply, always, women’s fault — this time for being silly, for being vain, for being ignorant, for being selfish. Nevermind also the breathtakingly beautiful and complex calculations all pregnant mammals engage in, often unconsciously, as we weigh the best good for our offspring (both in the moment and singularly, and in the long run and in aggregate)⁸: women, when it comes down to it, need to have our babies rescued from ourselves. Thank gods there are doctors.⁹

Or, for my part, thank gods and my many privileges — including living in Portland, Oregon aka Midwife Central — that I have access to alternatives, and the health necessary to enjoy them. While there is still so much to worry about — which house will I birth in? will we get our act in gear and get the tub liner and other supplies in time? am I going to get the professional pictures I so desire? is everything going to go well; will my baby be ok? — I don’t have to worry that my care providers will pathologize my experience, interfere needlessly, and blame me for any bad outcomes.

Leaving me free to enjoy this, likely final, pregnancy — however long it lasts.

The bump above my belly button? Baby butt.

Totally happy-bragging aside: there’s a “plus size women’s resale” store just half a mile from the Boychick’s new preschool — and, with luck, less than a mile from our new house — and I scored three new-to-me tops for pretty cheap there today, meaning I now have more than three dresses, one blouse, and two stolen-and-cut-up tshirts I can wear without flashing obnoxious belly panel everywhere. AND I got to support a local, fat-friendly establishment. Win all around! ↩
Aside the second: this taking pictures of myself thing really does get easier the more I do it. ↩
Or rather, the medical community is finally admitting. ↩
And, really, a whole slew of other interventions, but let’s focus on induction for now. ↩
I get very annoyed at comments like “without an ultrasound measurement in the first trimester, a woman’s due date could be as much as two weeks off”. No, without accurate dating, the “due date” could be inaccurate by days to weeks. But ultrasound is not the only method of accurate dating: I could tell you the exact date of ovulation for both the Boychick’s and this pregnancy, thank you charting. ↩
Neonatal intensive care unit. ↩
Here being used as shorthand for all those who attend birth under a more medical, and not midwifery, model of care. ↩
For more, see Sarah Blaffer Hrdy’s Mother Nature. ↩
This is sarcasm. ↩

29 Comments | Posted on 3 August 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: birth, Fat is a feminist issue, homebirth, midwives, pictures, pregnancy

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Fat and pregnant: 30 weeks

Since it’s been a while, allow me to present a selection of pictures in payment for your patience.

27 weeks, in the same position as the baseline:

Yup, everything's growing

29 weeks, taking video of the three most adorable vow-renewal attendants you could imagine (I haven’t gotten permission from the parents of two of the three to share any of the pics of them, so you’ll have to trust me):

And two days ago, at 30 weeks (little did I know when I bought this dress it would make such a fabulous maternity top):

(You can tell which picture me and my dinky camera phone did NOT take, aye?)

And now, a wordy tangent:

All the clothed pictures you’ll see of me from here on out (until the Fetus decides to come out, at least) are likely to be either in a dress or wearing a dress-as-top, for the simple and pragmatic reason that that’s all I have that fits. It’s a strange feeling, to dress so femme, not on the occasional whim, when the mood strikes, but every single day, because there aren’t any other choices that cover these gawdawful belly panels.

And it’s all the stranger because I’ve long had a complicated and difficult relationship with femininity. Internalized misogyny thanks to a second-wave era upbringing, the micro-culture of my nonconformist family, having my body take on a woman’s shape before I was ready to let go of a child’s life, a lifetime surrounded by fat shame and fat hate, including in my own family, and a deeply hurting psyche that said (and, as we’ll see, says) I’m not good enough, worthy enough, beautiful enough for beautiful things: these all contributed to a discomfort with anything “feminine” and especially with any desire of mine for femininity, for “girly”, for pretty, for nice. Wanting these things is a sign of weakness, these factors conspire to inform me, a deviance, an acquiescence to colonization by patriarchy.

It pains me to write these words, and know that some part of me still — always? — believes them to be true, for all I can see their falseness.

It’s getting better. I can buy make up now without wanting to hide it (though I will never want to wear it more than twice a year). I can ask for recommendations for and schedule an appointment with a hair stylist (though I will never buy Product, for a variety of reasons not least of which is I can’t be arsed). I can shop for and say I want a gorgeous, versatile dress (though I will always pull jeans on by default).

But when the dress shows up wrong: I can’t stop from hating myself for how much it bothers me. I can’t admit how much I care. Because it’s wrong. It’s weak. It’s shameful. It’s just a silly dress, and I shouldn’t be bothering with them anyway, it’s all foppery and femininity and I’m too good and I’m too ugly for such frilly finery.

It’s just a dress, and if I care, then I’m just a girl.

My brain is not always a stable or comfortable place to be. (But then, whose is?)

I care. And there’s a girl inside of me, who hated pink but wanted to sometimes, just sometimes, love it too, who hurts like hell when she’s finally allowed something pretty and it all goes pear shaped, because perhaps she’s allowed an indulgence, but only if it’s clear that it doesn’t matter, that it’s a silly pastime, a self-aware amusement and nothing more. But she’s not allowed to care.

It’s that message, from my own mind, that hurts more than anything. And the tears that flow from that only fuel the disdain.

The whole situation is more than a little ridiculous.

But it’s also entirely serious.

The dress in question, by the way, is the one in the second picture above. I’ve been assured it looked lovely, and it went well enough on the day that I didn’t devolve into a panicky puddle (it helped that my mantra was It’s Not My Day), but it didn’t show up the way it was supposed to. And I wasn’t supposed to care. But, of course, I did.

It would be easy to laugh it off and blame pregnancy hormones, and certainly that’s a culturally accepted out. But although they complicate it, exaggerate it, I cannot lie and say they created this too-much-caring, this contempt-of-caring.

For if nothing else, it’s not unique to me. If you listened to the Think Out Loud radio show I participated in¹, you heard much confusion between gender-neutral parenting and anti-femininity parenting, where the point was not so much to offer our children options but to erase any leanings toward the girly.

The activist in me sighed to hear it, but the girly-girl, the long-denied dress-wearer, cried.