The worst, I mean, best week ever

Oh, my friends.  

This is NOT the birth story - please don't hate me.  But I really have to set it up, because the birth story is so for real and it needs to be set up.  Because good LORD, what a story I have for you.  This sweet little peanut blasted onto the scene like the Kool Aid man, making the grandest of entrances.

Only my kid could make busting through my body look so cute.

Because it was that fast and she left a hole that big.

Andrea was born on a Friday.  Looking back, I absolutely recognize the signs that my body was getting ready for labor, but because I'd never gone into labor on my own, I didn't know that's what they were.  I just attributed everything to general stress and discomfort and wrote it all off, just knowing that I was going to have to get induced and I didn't want to spend all of February wondering if 'today was the day.'  So I went on about my business, making appointments and procrastinating like crazy.

Monday February 3rd:  Huge snowstorm.  We spent the day inside just watching the snow fall for hours and hours.  And hours and hours.  I tried to shovel the driveway because it was going to be a mile high by the time Drew got home but I didn't get very far before I had to quit and within minutes you couldn't tell I'd done anything.

It took forever to do that one little strip down the driveway and

by the time I made it back up it was already getting covered.

Thankfully, the neighbors let Drew use their snowblower so he didn't have 

to work too hard to get the driveway clean.

Tuesday February 4th:  Sofia's school is only two hours long and they delayed the start time for an hour so I just decided to keep her home.  I didn't see the benefit of battling with her to get her dressed and brave the weather only to turn around and have to pick her back up.  However, I felt guilty for being lazy so I rallied and took her to dance class that evening.  Drew was at a work dinner so I didn't have to worry about cooking.  I was supposed to make all my freezer meals the Sunday before, but I hung out with my girlfriend instead so I promised myself that *this* weekend (the weekend of the 7th) I'd get my shit together, finish the nursery, make the freezer meals and get stuff off my to-do list.

Wednesday February 5th:  Thank GAWD I procrastinated making the freezer meals and doing the grocery shopping because we woke up without power.  Could you imagine if I'd filled the fridge and freezer only to lose power?!  Sofia and I stayed inside once again and it was actually kind of nice to have no electronics and just be together reading books and playing games.  I really thought it was only going to be a couple of hours, so I didn't start panicking until 3 that afternoon, knowing it was going to get dark and the house started getting uncomfortably cold.  

Sofia is doing really well with potty training, pretty much only wearing diapers at night, which means two things.  One, I'm going longer between diaper laundry since she's only wearing one diaper a day.  However, they're the nighttime diapers, which means they're that strong nighttime pee so when it's time to wash, it's time to wash.  Guess what, Tuesday night was time-to-wash night - really I should've washed them on Monday but again, procrastination.  I was thisclose to putting them in the wash Tuesday night and moving them to the dryer Wednesday morning.  Thank God I didn't because I would've had a washer full of cold wet diapers to deal with and no power.  Around four that afternoon, I called my girlfriend and asked to wash diapers at her house.  I loaded Sofia in the car, braved the weather and threw the diapers in the wash as soon as I got there.  I started the first cycle, which is the one with no detergent, and she lost her power.  Thankfully, it was out for less than an hour, but then when her washer kicked back on, it started the short cycle over again, so that was even more time added and it was already after five and Sofia was started to recognize that she wasn't home and she was out of her routine.  Read:  She started climbing the ceiling and terrorizing my girlfriend's little boy.

The diapers were finally done close to 8pm.  There is a huge difference between putting a load in the wash and getting on with your day, versus pretty much twiddling your thumbs waiting for laundry to finish.  That load of laundry took forever and I was starving.  She had food, but I was in that pregnant uncomfortable place where nothing sounded good and I just wanted to be home, but I didn't want to be ungrateful so I just snacked on grapes and water until it was time to leave.  Drew wanted to put Sofia and me in a hotel, but I was adamant that we stay together and he didn't want to leave the dog.  So I stopped at the grocery store, bought a case of water and some sandwiches and headed home around 9pm.  I was exhausted, Sofia was more exhausted and I was at the end of my rope.  We walked in the door, the house was about 55 degrees and we busied ourselves putting a ton of blankets on the bed.  

I started crying because I was so overwhelmed.  A full day without power, I was hugely pregnant and uncomfortable, Sofia was off her routine, we didn't know if we'd have power the next day and I had no more energy to keep it together.  I put Sofia in a shirt and leggings and put her fleece pjs over that but I couldn't find a hat for her to wear to bed.  

"Where's her hat?"  *sob sob heave cry*

"Babe she's okay, we'll be warm enough together in bed."

"NO!!  She needs a hat!  Where's her hat?  She has to have a hat!  She needs a hat!!"

"Babe it's fine."

"It is NOT fine!  It's LATE!  She should be in BED!  She NEEDS A HAT!  Stop yelling at me and help me find her hat!!!" *bury face in bed and cry way too much over a hat*

At this point, Drew saw that I was spinning out and took over.  He found Sofia's hat and finished putting blankets on the bed while I put my layers on.  We were in bed a little after 10pm, under the blankets, together and it actually wasn't that bad.  We were warm and we prayed that the power would come on sometime during the night.

Thursday February 6th:  We woke up and still no power.  School was delayed again, but this time I had doctors' appointments so I just brought Sofia with me.  The house was officially too cold to stay in, so I called my other girlfriend and asked if we could hang at her house until the power came back on.  I cleaned out the fridge of the little bit of food that was there, bundled Sofia and headed to the doctor that morning.

First up was the non stress test.  They hooked me up to the monitors and Sofia and I hung out, listening to the baby's heartbeat.  Of course I couldn't feel them, but the tech said I had three contractions while we were there!  That was encouraging, but I still said "See you next week!" when we left because I just knew I was going all the way to my due date.

I bought some diapers for Sofia because even though her cloth diapers were clean, I wasn't going to risk it while we had no power and then headed to my OB for my regular weekly appointment.  We talked about my options for induction because their office uses Cytotec and I wasn't a fan.  After telling her how things went down when I had Sofia she said, "You know, I really think this whole conversation about inducing you is going to be moot.  I just really feel like you're going to go on your own."  I was like, yeah well, you know if we leave this to chance then I *will* have to be induced and I don't want to make decisions and explore options at the last minute so let's chat, ma'am.  

She didn't commit to anything but I wasn't letting her off the hook.  "We can chat more about this when I come in next week.  Would you mind looking into ordering some Cervidil for me for my induction?  I'd really prefer that to the Cytotec.  See you next week!"

We left there and headed to my girlfriend's house and I was about halfway there when I got a call from the utility company saying that the power was back on.  I was too tired to even be happy about it, and I was over this dumb week.  I was over winter, I was over being pregnant, I was over everything.  I turned around and headed home, already planning the curse words I would use when I called the power company if they were wrong and the power was not on.  I rounded the corner and our street lamp was on, so that was a good sign.  I walked in the house and was never happier to hear our appliances beeping, to see our lights on, and to hear the hum of the heater.  I nearly wept, again.  I swear, I've done nothing but cry in these last weeks.  I rushed to finish the laundry and dishes, positive that the power would go out again because that's how life is.

Thankfully, the power stayed on and we spent the rest of Thursday getting back to normal.  We went to bed at a decent hour in a toasty warm house and I was never more grateful.

7:45am, Friday February 7th:  Drew was gone to work, Sofia was still asleep next to me and a period-type cramp rudely woke me up.  Okay, um, ow.  That's not fun.  I tried to go back to sleep but suddenly I was very uncomfortable and had to go to the bathroom.  

Now, I don't like talking about poop; I hate when bloggers do that - I think it's distasteful and there's plenty of other things to talk about.  However, we're talking about childbirth and pooping is sometimes part of it.  So, I'm going to talk about poop but I'll try to keep that part to a minimum.

So.  I pooped.  It was big.  

That's all.  

Moving on.

I texted a few of my girlfriends who had gone into labor on their own. "Hey, how long was it from when you got the first period cramp until you were in full blown labor?"  They said it was between 8-12 hours and they asked if I was in labor, but I told them it was probably nothing, that I wasn't feeling anything beyond that one cramp and I was just going to get on with my day.  Sofia woke up about an hour later and while I had some more cramps, it was annoying but not anything I couldn't deal with.

I had a playdate with one of the little girls from Sofia's school that morning and I made it through without incident.  I fixed lunch for Sofia and even laid down with her for her nap, just feeling like I needed to be with her.  I needed to hold her, feel her near and we slept for about an hour.  But then I woke up with more cramps so I snuck out of her room and tried to lay in our bed, thinking that I was just cramping because Sofia's bed was so small.  But the big king-size bed didn't work and I didn't like laying down anyway, so I got back up and just did busywork-type stuff around the house until she woke up again around three.

And then the hurricane came.

Please please please don't hate me, but it's almost ten and I have to get Sofia to bed so I have to stop here.  Hopefully she'll go to sleep easily and I can finish tonight.  Otherwise, I promise promise I'll finish tomorrow because it was such a great and intense and crazy birth and I really want to share the story.  

So, I'll be back soon.  Promise.  

In the meantime, can I appease you with a picture of 

Drew and his babies?

They're very seriously watching Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2

and I was able to take my first shower.  It was heaven.

Life is good today.

Andrea Luz Pieprzyk

Andrea Luz

Born February 7, 2014

6 pounds, 9 ounces

18 inches long

She is named for my husband, my favorite cousin and my grandmother's favorite sister.  Her middle name means light and she is named for that moment when the sun rises and the world is pink and gold and perfect.  Baby Andrea and I have seen many sunrises together and she has already brought so much light into our lives. 

She is beautiful and perfect and while she is very much her own person, I definitely see glimpses of Sofia in her.  She blasted her way into this world, unwilling to wait one more second to get Earthside and see what all the fuss was about; I hope we live up to the hype!

I can't wait to share her birth story (three hour labor, anyone?) and share the other pictures we have of her.  For now, we are safely home and resting and getting to know each other.

We are a family of four.  We have two beautiful daughters.  God is good.

Hard habits

Good LORD you guys.  So much for getting Sofia situated and coming right back to blog.  I am so sorry if I caused any of you any worry for even a fraction of a second.  I am so lame for even putting up such a dumb cliffhanger type post and then not following up immediately after.

I'm lame, I suck, I know it and I'm sorry.

But I'm here now and I have a story that I'd like to share with you.  And since I have no idea where to start, let's just start.

Over the years of me writing this blog, it has morphed from a casual pastime to something much more real and important and valuable to me.  It's more than me just telling stories; over the years you have helped me.  You've seen me through four miscarriages, one successful birth (soon hopefully two), finding out about a new sister.  You've been THERE for me while I worked through my issues, you've made me laugh, think, cry and everything in between.  I've shared more with you, my readers, than I have with a lot of my real life friends.   For that, I thank you.  Thank you for reading, thank you for reaching out, thank you for being there.  You have created a safe space for me; you know my thoughts and my only hope is that I have somehow in some way done the same for you.  It means the world to me to hear from you and know that something I've gone through or shared has helped you in some way, big or small.  That's why I'm here and that's why I'll stay here.

A few days ago, I received an email followed shortly by a phone call talking about the exact same thing and I took that as a sign that I should share my story.  For a while, it's been on my mind but I was always like, Nope.  That's too much.  I CANnot keep doing this to my readers and friends.  I need to talk about sewing pillows.  I must entertain.  But as much as that stuff is my life, this is too and if by sharing my story maybe someone else shares theirs, then that's a good thing. 

Trigger alert:  We're going to talk about eating disorders.  There's a picture.

.......................................................

I've been skinny my whole life.  I've never had to worry about my weight, and at nearly 38 years old and all other things remaining equal, I think it's safe to say I probably never will.  I've also been teased about it my whole life.  When I was younger and got my yearbook signed:  Hey Skeleton Girl, I hope you eat food over the summer.  When I was older and my 'friends' would 'tease' me:  Ugh, you're such a skinny bitch, I hate you.  Must be *nice* to eat whatever you want and not gain an ounce.  Just wait till you hit 30/just wait till you have a kid - you're going to BLOW UP and I'm going to LAUGH.  I was never allowed to say 'that's hurtful, don't say these things to me' because you don't get to feel bad about being thin.  I felt like I couldn't stand up for myself because being thin isn't a real problem.

When I was about ten, I cried to my mom but I never really got a lot of empathy as she spent her whole life being overweight and often told me how lucky I was, how the other kids were just jealous and how I shouldn't let it get to me.  Except it's not that easy; you can't cope when you don't have any coping skills.  When you're a kid you want to be accepted, you want to fit in and if you don't have a place where you're comfortable, life becomes difficult to manage.  

Once, my mom took me to GNC to buy some weight-gain powder but we didn't buy any; when we saw the jugs were nearly fifty dollars, I felt too guilty to ask her to spend that much money on something she clearly didn't think was necessary.  I told her I changed my mind and that was the last we ever talked about it.  As an adult, I understand:  When you have your own demons it's hard to see past them and instead all you see is someone complaining about having something you wish you had for yourself.  Plus, there was that idea back then that kids aren't capable of having complex feelings like adults do and I couldn't really be that upset and it wasn't *that* serious.

Besides, there really was no such thing as 'thin-shaming' when I was growing up and who in their right mind would ever think being skinny was a bad thing?

My mom encouraged me to start modeling, because in modeling being skinny is prized.  You get praised for fitting into a size 0 and I could do that without even trying.  Looking back, that probably wasn't the best decision, but I don't blame my mom for this one.  In this case, I truly believe she did her best.  She didn't know.  I started competing in mall beauty contests and school was always the priority, but the seed was planted.

I was never tall enough for fashion modeling, but I was thin with curves and boobs which made me a perfect candidate for swimsuit modeling, and in my mid 20s I discovered swimsuit competitions.  By this time, I'd moved away from home and was responsible for myself; I still hadn't learned many coping skills and was less emotionally mature than I should have been, to be standing on some stage in a bikini getting judged for my looks.  But I'd been bitten by the competition bug and it wasn't long before I was in the thick of it.

That world revolved around exercise and food:  Bikini models can't be bony sticks, and the best body is a toned body.  I quickly learned to eat egg whites and a small bowl of plain oatmeal for breakfast with a salad for lunch and grilled fish for dinner, while toting around a giant jug of water between trips to the gym to spend hours on the treadmill and lifting weights.  I nearly always at least placed in the contests and I quickly grew to love the spirit of competition.  Eating healthier and working out harder than the next girl became my goal, not because I had to or because I hated myself.  I just wanted to see just how long I could run without passing out; how little I could eat and still survive.  It became about molding my body, about controlling myself and it was only exacerbated when I won, when they applauded me, handing me those giant bouquets of flowers and prize money.  I wanted more and that meant eating less.

No one ever confessed to having a problem with food because the idea was to make it look as effortless as possible.  You don't complain about being hungry; if you can't live off a bowl of oatmeal and a hard boiled egg you didn't need to be there.  If you can't knock out two hours on the treadmill at a hard run, then you're obviously not cut out for the competition.  Winners don't worry about food and I had an edge because I came into the game skinny; it wasn't much of an adjustment to get used to eating less.  The hardest part was the exercise; I hated the gym, but if there was a girl on the elliptical at six in the morning, then I was right next to her.  If I was going to lose a contest, it wasn't going to be because I didn't work out hard enough or I didn't eat small enough portions.  

This is an old and grainy picture of a picture

but you get the idea.  I was in my mid 20s.

At this time in my life, I was proud of my body.  I loved it, I never punished myself and there was never any negative self-talk.  I was in the prime of my youth; I traveled, met famous people, and I had tons of fun.  We always got special treatment and VIP access.  Crowds literally parted when contests were in town and all us girls came out to the clubs.  Even though the drugs and sex were there, I knew enough to never mess with that stuff.  I could have won more contests that way and sleeping your way to the top is a very real thing, but even back then I knew the price wasn't worth it.  

Not that I got out unscathed - my brain was re-wired.  Just like muscle memory, after I stopped competing and modeling my brain remembers the satisfaction of being able to control my body and even though I wasn't on stage anymore, I still sought that validation for having that control.  It was powerful and it became a tool.

I began to notice that I was using not eating to manage my stress when I was in my late 20s.  I was in college, working full time and everyone sort of expects that college stresses you out.  It's sort of a badge of honor to walk around in a daze during finals and no one blinks when you eat once a day, or when you eat too much - Freshman 15 anyone?

I really can't even remember when it started again but when I got stressed, I stopped eating.  One of the worst episodes I had was when I got pregnant for the very first time.  It was the darkest time of my life and I went several days without eating.  I have never resorted to binging and purging; I'm not into causing myself pain (stuffing your face makes your stomach hurt too much) and I was too vain to vomit.  Plus, it's too much of a giveaway.  Vomiting makes your teeth rot and your breath stink and I was never keen on sticking my fingers down my throat.  It was much easier to simply never let the food in to begin with.  Plus, vomiting will show a lot quicker than restricting calories.  You have to starve yourself for a little while longer before it starts to show in your skin and hair; at least that's my experience.  I was good at it because no one ever knew.  I could walk the line like a pro.  While I'm genetically thin, I was artificially skinny.  People noticed, but it was more like You're so lucky to be so skinny.  I wish I could be skinny like you, and my brain heard:  You don't get to complain.  You can't ask for help.  What you see as an issue is a blessing most people would love to have.  Keep your mouth shut, you don't have real problems.

So that's what I did.  I found yoga and it actually helped enormously in helping me deal with stress and I thought I was 'cured.'  I even told myself that I probably never really had a problem to begin with, that it was in my head.  Finally, I had coping skills and with the help of a ton of therapy over many years, I took pride in having kicked my bad habit.  I got married and having miscarriages didn't even knock me back into my old habits.  But it's always there; once your brain is re-wired it never goes away. 

One day, I looked in the mirror.  I was a new mom, my husband had gotten a new job in another state, I was alone more than I wasn't, we were trying to sell our house and the burdens got heavy again.  I didn't really have anyone to talk to and using any coping skills became too much effort on top of everything else and it became easier to simply stop eating. 

May 2012.

I keep this picture to remind myself to never get back to this place.  Breastfeeding was literally sucking the pounds off and I was too stressed to replace them.  It was easy to focus on my child and not take care of myself.  Again, no one blinks when you don't eat because you're taking care of your kid; if anything you get praised for losing the baby weight so quickly and being such a devoted mother.  Once again, I didn't feel like I had the right to ask for help, I didn't have the right to speak up and say that I was handling stress in an unhealthy way.  I just quietly stopped eating, just so that there was some tiny part of my life that made sense; I got through the day on crackers and water, not because I was too busy taking care of my baby; crackers and water was a purposeful and conscious decision.  I needed to control something, anything because the world was getting too big and I was feeling too small.

We finally sold the house, moved to Pennsylvania and we were finally together as a family.  Again, I thought it was just an episode and it was over.  And then it happened again.  I cried every day because I knew what was happening and I wanted to face it.  I wanted to deal with it and make the stress go away before I hit that no-eating point but I couldn't.  It was like being trapped in a locked room with a snake and I had to just let it sting me over and over again and I couldn't get away.  I felt trapped and threatened and unheard and alone.  I couldn't get off the roller coaster and I felt like the only way I could survive was to not eat.  I was six months pregnant and I found myself staring at the open fridge at nine at night, realizing that I'd only eaten two bites of lasagna all day long and that was more on purpose than not.

It was one day but one day of choosing not to feed your fetus is one day too many.  Plus, it scared the shit out of me and I was on the phone faster than my shaky fingers could dial, calling any and every hotline I could Google, begging someone to help me eat because I literally couldn't put anything in my mouth and I'll be damned if I make my kid pay for my issues. It was a Saturday night and of course all the hotlines I found were only Monday through Friday 8-5 because don't you know, eating disorders only flare up during business hours.  One place I called directed me to the suicide prevention hotline and I was offended.  "I'm not fucking suicidal you fucking morons.  I just can't eat and if you'd just fucking say the magic words or tell me what I need to do so I can eat, I will fucking do it.  You think like feeling like this?!  You think I'm doing this for attention?!  I need fucking help you fucking assholes." 

I finally found a treatment center in Arizona that picked up the phone and I talked to a 'counselor' whose only words of advice were "Well, you've just got to eat."  I swear to fucking God that's what this bitch said to me.  Very politely, I was like "Ma'am I am well aware of that, unfortunately I CAN'T EAT.  I'd very much appreciate it if you could just give me a tip or a trick that will help me manage my anxiety enough to where I don't go any longer without eating."

This bitch had nothing.  She was of ZERO help and she was supposed to be a counselor specializing in eating disorders.  I hung up with her and cried my way through the rest of the night and by the grace of God, I was able to eat the next day.

But I was shaken.  I thought I was past this but I realized that this was always going to be an issue and traditional treatment centers and even counselors don't really talk to you until you're 80 pounds and hate yourself and have already attempted suicide.  I felt like that because I never got that far I didn't 'qualify.'  

That's why I'm telling my story.  I got an email the other day from someone who wasn't drowning but knew enough that the water was getting high and they reached out to me.  And then I got a phone call from someone else who also confided their food issues to me and I felt such urgency.  I wanted to grab their shoulders, look them in the eye and say "You qualify.  Your problems are real and valid and I hear you.  I'm beside you, fighting with you.  You matter.  You have the strength to grab that snake by the head and stomp the shit out of it.  You can do this."  I have no expertise, I have no formal training, but I know that when I feel weak, I need to be reminded that weakness is a state of mind, that I've come a long way through a lot of shit and we all need cheerleaders in our corner.

I do not believe in suffering alone.  We all have burdens to bear and we all have some bad habit that we could stand to lose, but there is no reason any of us should take those steps alone.  We all have to walk our own paths, carry our own burdens and be responsible adults but there's no reason why we can't have some company along the way. That night, in that moment I didn't feel like I had anyone in my corner and it was the worst feeling in the world.  

I posted this picture on Facebook and 

one of my 'friends' (more of an acquaintance really) was like 

'OMG could you be any skinnier right now?'

I wanted to say "Well I suppose I could but that would mean my eating disorder is flaring up."

Then I remembered, I've hidden quite well and it's no one's fault if they can't find me.

You can't be mad at people for saying stuff like that if you don't educate them.

So I didn't say anything, but it still stung.

That's the bottom line of why I'm telling my story - to say don't hide so well that you can't be found.  Don't put on a stiff upper lip and try to power through it alone.  At best, it's lonely and makes things harder than they need to be.  At worst, it's dangerous and harmful to your health.  We all need someone in our corner when things get too big and too loud and too much to handle and help should not be restricted to those who have sunk so low that they've gone ahead and attempted suicide or have already lost an alarming amount of weight or they've done whatever other dangerous thing.  Even if you're only two steps down the wrong path, it's still the wrong path.  

I will soon have two daughters and our society is still quite broken and we still have a terribly skewed ideal of body image.  I'm hyper sensitive to it and I'm always on the lookout for my warning signs and I spot my triggers a mile away.  I will keep lines of communication open and I will pray every day that I don't miss warning signs in my daughters.  I will make sure they know every second of every day that I'm in their corner, that while they will have to walk their path with their own two feet, that I will never be far.

I don't know if aaallll these words made any kind of sense or that they conveyed my message, but I sure hope so.  Don't suffer alone, it's not worth it.  I did for just a night and it scared the shit out of me.  I'm not talking 'oh I had a bad day' - it was dark and nasty and I would have given anything to hear someone say "It's going to be ok.  You're not alone and you're going to make it."

I guess what I'm trying to say is I can say that to you, if you need me to.  I've gone through some things and I've made it to the other side in one piece.  I've made it through with your help and if I can return the favor, then sign me up.  Sometimes you need someone who has walked the path before you to tell you that you can indeed put one foot in front of the other, that you can make it through to the other side because they've done it.  I've lost babies and I'm still standing.  I struggle with food and I'm still here.  I have a jacked up family and I still get out of bed in the morning.  And God KNOWS I have zero problems compared with what some people have to go through, but all I'm saying is you've helped me and if by sharing my story I can help, in even the smallest of ways, then I'm here.

Okay, thanks for letting me share.  I'll get back to the funny and the light and the entertaining in short order.