One of the things I was the most curious about, post-pregnancy, is what the hell happens to all that stomach. Does it deflate? Does it hang there like a half-full beach ball attached to your torso? What does it feel like? What does it DO?
It was weird not long after my c-section to find that I still looked pregnant, just... less so. Frankly, that's about what I had expected, but it's jarring nonetheless, in part because in my case I never got to say goodbye to being pregnant. I was, and then all of a sudden, I wasn't any more. I missed that one last chance to cup my belly, to feel the kicks, to appreciate the closeness of carrying the beans with me all the time in one portable package. It was just me and them, 24/7, in a relationship no one else could see or feel in its complete truth except the three of us. And it'll never be quite like that again. For me, it pinged a little extra hard because I grappled with the idea
that I'd stopped being a good home to them somewhere along the way, and
all the attendant guilt. But my advice to pregnant ladies out there would be to take that extra second or minute every day to love the experience even when it's miserable. Because when it ends, if it ends suddenly -- or maybe even if it doesn't -- there's a tiny sense of withdrawal.
Dylan, under the bili lights, Day 3.
The funny thing about gaining almost all my weight out in front of
me is that the natural comedown that comes from giving birth -- a slow,
gentle process -- has left me looking more or less like myself but for a little round bulge
right smack in the middle of my stomach. (Well, I've got slightly wider hips, but whatever; if you didn't know me you wouldn't notice, I don't think.) For the most part, the gut spends its time bound by an abdominal brace that holds a long, thick sanitary napkin in place over my incision. Whenever The Belly is free, it's soft. Very soft. Doughy, springy. It's kind of fun to push on
when I take off my brace. It doesn't feel detached from me, but it's not like just being a regular ten pounds overweight; I can still see my feet, but when I look down at it in the shower, it is unmistakeably an artifact of having a baby or two in there. It's very much its own beast. Kevin is fascinated by it.
Liam under the lights; Kevin calls this his Kanye West photo, figuring Kanye would totally wear those for real someday.
Every day it's gone down a little bit. Where at first I could probably pass for pregnant-ish, now I just look like a Bic Mac addict. Which is fine. I'm
not concerned with losing the weight -- I figure, come January, when
I'm potentially staring down the barrel of another Fashion Week
appearance, I might mind if I can't fit into my clothes. But otherwise I refuse to get bogged down in it,
because holy hell, I just had twins. And I'm breastfeeding, so I need to eat, bitches. I don't have time to be one of those Hollywood douches who resumes training two weeks after a c-section and hires a meal service to get skinny in two more. F' THAT. I am having a Milky Way right now.
Dylan getting some skin-to-skin time late last week.
The incision itself burns every now and again. I'm resisting the Motrin or Tylenol with Codeine that I've been prescribed, at least whenever possible. The pain, at this point, isn't so bad that I need to stay in front of it by popping pills all the time, so I just wait for it to get irritating -- its way of keeping me honest, I suppose -- and then take something if I need it. I got lucky. Once my spinal fully wore off, I stayed on a good enough pill schedule in the hospital that I was never debilitated by any discomfort, and it got to the point where I never really remembered to ask for pain meds. All told, it's been a pretty positive recovery period, and for my first-ever surgery I'm rather heartened that it didn't break me. Kevin admitted to being a bit surprised it didn't knock me on my ass -- and he has a point there, considering that I am the person who stubs her toe and announces it with a loud string of expletives one might expect to hear after having a toe amputated rudely by a kitchen knife.
Liam's skin-to-skin time, again late last week.
I think my other piece of advice to moms would be to make sure your hospital has a NICU, and a good one. It's worth driving that little bit further for one, and doing so isn't pessimism -- it's practicality. There are a couple babies we've seen roll into this NICU, all singletons and thus not the births you'd automatically consider high-risk, from other area hospitals. Which means somewhere, there's a mother who just gave birth and can't even be in the same building as her baby while they both recover, and a husband/wife/partner caught in between wanting to be with the ailing child and the ailing, emotional mother. I cannot imagine I'd have been doing nearly as well if I were up in a maternity ward without access to my twins, and without the benefit of Kevin being able to dash down and get an update, take a picture to show me, or even just be there to squeeze their feet before squeezing my hand. So find thee a NICU, and yes, pray you never need to see it -- but man, knowing it's there? Priceless.
And finally, the update: Dylan lost weight two nights in a row -- a total of 60 grams, which isn't great, and which put him below 1100 grams, and I wish they didn't use grams but it's more precise than pounds and ounces (I assume) so I am trying to learn to speak metric -- but then gained 20 g back last night. Liam lost one night and then last night put it back on, so that's good. But both are back under the bili lights, because after one day out (Dylan) and two days out (Liam) their bilirubin levels both shot up again. That, though, we can deal with -- as long as they keep gaining. Come on Dylan! I mean, it's so EASY for ME to gain weight. Here's hoping that gene got passed along...