Womb Raider

I gained about 50 pounds when I was pregnant with Kiddo. To put that into perspective, I should mention that I’m barely 5 feet tall. You do the math.

About 10 of those pounds went directly to my nose. At the height of my pregnancy, it seemed as if I was a nose that a face just happened to be attached to. (Think Neozep “Ilong Ranger” commercial.)

Other “infanticipating” women spoke of having a pregnancy glow; of an indescribable happiness at having Life grow inside of you. In my case, my nose was the only thing growing faster than my belly. I never felt so fat and ugly in my entire life.

My only consolation was that except for the exponential weight gain and engorgement of my nose, I had a pretty smooth pregnancy. Kiddo consistently passed the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” monthly checklist, indicating that her progress was on track according to fetal development standards. I had no morning sickness or nausea. The only pain that I experienced was when Kiddo would kick so hard that either her elbow or her foot would jut out of my belly. I just felt really icky, ugly…and fat.

When D-Day finally came around, I thought that, like my pregnancy, it would be a breeze. I even put on make-up before I went into the Labor Room. (The Higher Powers must have known that it was more difficult for me to deal with the aesthetic difficulties of pregnancy, rather than the physical ones.)

I couldn’t have been more mistaken in thinking that my uneventful pregnancy would be indicative of what labor, actual delivery and life with Kiddo would be like.

The anesthesia that was administered to me knocked me out right before I gave birth to Kiddo. You know those incredibly emotional Mommy-Baby scenes you see on television? The ones where the baby comes out and is immediately placed on Mommy’s chest for the first time? My first introduction to Kiddo was so not like that. I didn’t hear Kiddo’s first cry nor did I see her right after she was pulled out of my belly.

My first post-pregnancy memory was waking up in the Recovery Room, alone, not knowing the outcome of my delivery. I became a bit hysterical hearing the screaming and groaning of the other women around me as I waited to be released.

As I was wheeled into my room, the pediatrician informed me that Kiddo was only 4.9 pounds. Her respiratory rate was higher than normal so the pediatrician decided to give her oxygen to regulate her breathing. Since she was so small, despite my carrying her full term, she had to be hooked up to an IV and put in an incubator.

When I went to the Nursery and saw her skinny frame for the first time locked inside an incubator, an intense sadness washed over me. I looked wistfully at the other babies, who averaged about 6 pounds and were significantly fuller than Kiddo. To make myself feel better, I joked that already she had the makings of a supermodel.

We were finally discharged from the hospital after a full week’s stay. (Friends would gently remind me that it was a hospital, not a resort) After being home for just 2 days, Kiddo had to be re-confined as she was diagnosed with Jaundice. In lay man’s terms, she was too yellow.

Being purely breastfed, Kiddo quickly put on weight and became stronger. I was her personal milking cow at her beck and call, but I lost 20 pounds within the first month after I had given birth. My face, at last, was visible under my nose.

It seemed though that after my womb, Kiddo’s alternative place of residence was the hospital -- for the first year of her life, she was in and out of them. Kiddo even celebrated her 1st birthday in the hospital, recovering from pneumonia.

Life thankfully settled down a bit after that first year as adventure started to come in the form of Kiddo’s little antics and quirks, rather than hospital confinements.

When she was barely 2 years old and enrolled in The Little Gym, she would go around waving “Hi!” to all the parents. Her teachers called her a beauty pageant contestant in training. In the playground, she introduces herself to the other kids (even to those who are quite bigger than her) and asks them if they want to play.

Now that she’s almost 4 and stands at 3 feet 6 inches, she is taller than most of the boys in her class. She likes soccer, basketball, and baseball. She conned her way into getting a skateboard and roller-skates, which she likes to play with or try on for a few minutes before saying that she’s tired already. Being the only girl in her class has not made her lose touch with her feminine side, though. Case in point, one time, while we were playing soccer in the playground, she stopped in the middle of it and said “Wait, Mom, I have to put on make up”.

My little Womb Raider has come a long way from that tiny fragile baby that first came into this world. (There is no doubt in my mind that she will grow up kicking some serious ass.)

Only the stretch marks remain as a lasting reminder of my pregnancy. They are not just my battlescars, they are the indelible mark of my Womb Raider’s strength and proof that she is not just a fighter -- she’s a survivor.