Survival of the “mommest”

I’m surviving,

But just barely.

Runny noses, fevers, crying, screaming, tears;

Long days that run into dusk before tiny feet can grow tired;

How dare you steal the time while making me curse the minutes I have?

Crying, screaming, tears.

Save me daylight.

Let the sun shine on their curls.

Bring warmth to their cheeks.

Five minutes,

Lord, give me five minutes.

Going on four days of fevers. First, I had the bug. Then came Millie, then came Hayes, and now Jack. No, it’s not the “rona,” and no, I don’t plan on giving them the shot. But that doesn’t diminish the struggle of any run-of-the-mill virus. Any illness sucks. I haven’t slept in days and they haven’t either. Everyone is grumpy.

Most days aren’t like this, and yet, I’m overwhelmed at the prospect of tackling these days with four. Inevitably, I will. Whether it’s a cold or a stomach bug, I’ll have to tackle it (puke bucket in hand). Baby number four wasn’t a surprise necessarily. We’d discussed the matter, shrugged our shoulders, and decided it was fine if it happened. On days like today, though, I have to wonder if we’re insane.

We’re still months away from starting our home build. Our kids are sharing space, and so are we. Can we do this with a newborn? Can we cram a family of six into a cabin loft without driving us (or my mother-in-law) insane?

I’m being dramatic, I know, this has just been a hard week. Part of my anxiety stems from my first obstetric appointment this Friday. I’m well past the point of my first appointment in my other pregnancies, but honestly, I’ve been dreading this. I don’t like hospitals, and after my last pregnancy, I dislike doctors even more (no offense physicians).

And this has mostly nothing to do with Covid and everything to do with the unbalance power dynamic between doctors and patients.

My last pregnancy was routine until week thirty-seven. At that point, I was threatened with an induction to appease the “Covid Gods” and told my husband would be absent if I didn’t comply. My doctor lied about contraindications for my VBAC and pressured me to have tests I didn’t need.

Later, I found out from a chatty labor and delivery nurse, the doctor was having medical issues (none that I will repeat), but essentially she could only work certain shifts and she was trying to control when I went into labor while citing a push from the hospital to induce every pregnant woman at thirty-nine weeks (despite no medical necessity).

Now, I’d rather give birth in our barn than walk into another labor and delivery room. I don’t trust hospitals that are focused more on profits than the health of their patients. Interventions lead to cesareans and cesareans carry risks. To mitigate my fears, I’m doing my best to see a nurse midwife this go around. I toyed with the idea of a home birth, but our insurance allows us to have a hospital birth without paying a dime. That’s hard for any family to pass up.

It’s an uneasy situation, no matter which way I toss it.

The United States has some of the worst maternal mortality rates of any developed country and your care during pregnancy should not be taken lightly. I’ve learned that the hard way. Just because a doctor can catch a baby, does not mean they should catch your baby. You shouldn’t feel you’re on a schedule and you definitely shouldn’t feel scared for your appointments.

The takeaway?

If I don’t like what I see on Friday, I’ll go back to the drawing board, pay out of pocket, whatever. Women are made to give birth. They can do it without strapping them to the bed, taking away their food and drink, and putting them on a deadline.

That’s my hill and I’m happy to die on it. So, until Friday, I’ll continue wiping noses, changing diapers, and crying in the shower.