Now that we know she’s got a great sense of a humor, on a more serious note, actress Brooke Shields went to Capitol Hill this week, pushing Congress to pass the “Mother’s Act,” legislation introduced by Sen. Robert Menendez, D-N.J., that would provide funding for education, screening, treatment, and research for postpartum depression.

What do you think? Is it the government’s role to step in and help fund education about postpartum depression? If not, whose role is it? Why can’t the medical community focus as much on new parents’ mental health as they do newborn care? I mean sure, you’ll be the best parent on the block if you know how to operate one of those plastic bulb snot suckers they send home with, but what about advice for transitioning into your new role as a parent? What about some frank affirmation that you might not really love being a parent the first few weeks? I certainly don’t remember any child birth class material or nurses telling me to take all the help we could get and run with it like it was the last pack of newborn Pampers on the planet.

Thankfully I was advised during the final weeks of my first pregnancy that being a “mommy martyr” was a bad idea and that despite all the commercials I’d seen on TV through the years, babies weren’t all sunshine, lullabies, and cooing. There were long dark nights of marathon pacing and bouncing, making up incoherent lullabies because I’d run out of words, and serious critical analysis of bowel movements. Like so many mothers before me, I relied on the sage advice of my mother, my mother-in-law, my sisters, and girlfriends who were already mothers. But what about mothers who don’t have family or who are isolated from friends and family? Maybe they’re a single mom or maybe their spouse is in the military and stationed abroad? I realize how fortunate we are to have a support system and both sets of grandparents nearby.

I don’t really think I had true post-partum depression, but for someone who is a former anal retentive planner and perfectionist, motherhood slam dunked me into a guessing game that made me doubt my parenting abilities. You can have everything in your baby’s nursery color coordinated, but you can’t really anticipate what those early weeks of parenthood will really be like. Will your baby sleep all day and stay up all night? Will they chill out in their bouncy seat or freak out? Will they find soft classical music soothing, or will they prefer the white noise of the vacuum cleaner? Or, like Caitlin and Amelia, will they love the sound of the hair dryer? Yes, even as babies the girls loved anything remotely related to primping.

I had an unexpected emergency c-section with Caitlin. I was physically wiped out and was anemic due to losing so much blood, my incision was very painful the first two weeks or so, and my body was like a freak show game of hormone Russian Roulette. Things got easier and easier and before I knew it I’d mastered taking Caitlin to the grocery store all by myself. Oh sure, you can laugh, but if you’ve ever been a rookie parent, you know what I’m talking about. By the time Amelia came along I was more prepared, relaxed, and I didn’t pack a 20-pound diaper bag stocked with every infant remedy from our medicine cabinet every time we left the house.

Life in the motherhood is great, but don’t be afraid to ask for help. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad parent.

This is quite possibly the longest post I’ve ever written, but I want to record these things before they slip away. You might want to skip it if you don’t enjoy reading birth stories or are eating liver and onions. And can I just say for the umpteenth time that I can’t believe my baby is about to turn two?

When I got pregnant with Miss A my OBGYN recommended that I have a scheduled c-section, considering my previous labor and delivery experience.

My emergency c-section with Miss C was way more than I’d bargained for. I remember crying in the middle of the night after she was born, feeling like I’d been hit and dragged by a semi while a burning serated knife cut through my abdomen. Where was that piece of cake delivery that my friends had assured me I would have, once my epidural kicked in? No one in my family had ever had a c-section and as luck would have it, we missed one of my birthing classes and, you guessed it, we missed the c-section portion.I never, however, felt like many women apparently do after a c-section. I never felt cheated because I was not able to deliver her vaginally. I was too exhausted and too relieved that I’d just survived the entire ordeal with a healthy baby as the final outcome to worry about not pushing her out down there.

After a horrific hospital recovery with Miss C, which included nearly having to have a blood transfusion, passing a blood clot that resembled, and felt like, a large, uncooked cow liver, and a four night hospital stay wherein I watched couple after happy couple go home with their little bundles of joy, I was willing to do anything to circumvent laboring all night and pushing unsuccessfully for 2 1/2 hours. The grand finale with Miss C was the nurses helping me stand up and hold on to a birthing bar. At that point I wouldn’t have balked had they asked me to swing from a ceiling fan and recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards.

Turns out Miss C was snugly situated face up with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. No wonder she didn’t want to come on down!So at the mere mention of a scheduled c-section, I was all SIGN ME UP like a Botox addict at a plastic surgery convention.Apparently, however, my doctor subscribes to the male OBGYN school of thought that flies in the face of female impatience, because unlike every other woman I knew who rattled off their scheduled c-section date months in advance, as if it were a pedicure appointment, my OBGYN waited to schedule my c-section. And waited. And finally at about week 36 I asked him, again, WHEN he would schedule it.

He told us that his philosophy was to wait until as close to the due date as possible because he wanted to make sure the baby was ready. I wanted to pout and protest, but I kept my mouth and my cervix shut.I was on pins and needles until my 39th week appointment with Miss A. Literally. Miss C had arrived just a few days after my 38-week appointment, which had been fairly routine, with no indication that she was coming any time soon so I was convinced I’d go into labor early with Miss A, too.

At about week 38 with Miss A I started having those lovely stop you in your tracks sensations in my cervix, where the baby feels like they are jabbing you with a fork, while gravitational forces give you the sensation that a giant water balloon is about to fall out of your vagina.I remember waddling into Walgreens two years ago this week and having the cervical lightning bolt jabs take my breath away. Grown men recoiled in horror and dropped their jaws, and nearly dropped their cell phones, watching me as I’d stop, grimace and look like I was about to give birth in the greeting cards aisle, only to witness me breathe a sigh of relief and head on over to look at fingernail polish like it was no big deal.The hubby and I went to the doctor’s office for my 39th week appointment, excited about finally having a date for my c-section. My doctor had news.The hospital was full.There were no vacancies for my c-section until SATURDAY.

I had to make it five more days without giving birth and would be close to 40 weeks. The hubby was forbidden from touching me as we believe that certain activities the night I went into labor with Caitlin contributed to the whole chain of events. I wouldn’t even walk to the mailbox. And I made it five more days to March 12.It was the first 70 degree day of the year with not a cloud in the sky. The hubby snapped this photo from the hospital window that morning.

My father came over to stay with Miss C and my mother met us at the hospital bright and early. It felt surreal filling out hospital paperwork and knowing that in a few hours we would meet our baby girl. I learned that having an epidural while not in the throes of labor is a tad unsettling, to say the least. When I arrived at the hospital in labor with Miss C, my water broke on the examining table and I was already 5 centimeters dilated and would have gladly taken an epidural needle in my big toe, if that’s what it would have taken. I was given an antacid during the c-section prep for Miss A’s debut and remarked to the nurse that I’d had a lot more acid reflux during this pregnancy. She commented that Miss A would probably have a lot of hair. And she was right. She had a head full of beautiful dark hair.

The mood in the operating room was more festive than frantic. The nurses were wearing St. Patrick’s Day theme scrubs. Like big sister, Miss A was wedged tightly in my belly, and at one point the nurses were helping my doctor pull her out while I felt that odd tugging and pulling sensation in my abdomen. When I asked again what time she was born, my doctor jokingly responded, “Which part? Her knee or her elbow?”

Soon I was in the recovery room and holding Miss A, who sported a lovely tiny purple bow in her hair, a little something extra from the nurses. I remember holding her the next night while she contentedly slept in the crook of my arm, swaddled tightly, as I watched Law and Order from the hospital bed and thinking, “Wow, this feels good.” I remember Miss C coming to visit her new baby sister and how she climbed up into the bed with us and was all grins for the camera, but was a little confused when she and the hubby went on home. I remember coming home from the hospital with Miss A, placing her in the same white wicker bassinet we’d used for Miss C, and thinking our family was complete.

I have a coping mechanism that kicks in during my annual pap smear.

I MUST TALK during my exam.

Pretty much any topic will do…work, weather, wallpaper.

I’m already a nervous talker by nature and really is there nothing more nerve wracking then lying on your back, feet perched on padded stirrups, scooting your bottom to the edge of the examining table, waiting for your hoo ha to be probed? You’d think that after giving birth to two children I might view a pap smear as a walk in the park, but I never really get over that ick factor when I book the appointment.

Another thing that’s a constant is my socks. I always wear socks during my OBGYN exams. Even in the heat and humidity of late spring when I was pregnant with Caitlin and waddled in with sandals strapped over my water retentive sausage toes, I stuck a pair of socks in my bag. For one thing, my feet get cold as I hang out in the examining room. And as you sit in your a flimsy cloth gown, that’s pretty much all you can do…hang out, literally, and perhaps flip through a pre-Brangelina issue of People. I can think of some simple changes that would make pap smears so much more tolerable: current magazines, a full service bar, heated blankets, and perhaps chair massages in the waiting room.

Back to the socks. Not only do they warm my toes, I think they provide some comfort in ensuring that at least one part of my body is covered.

Any way, during my recent exam my doctor takes a look at my black Gold Toe brand, very utilitarian, very warm socks and comments, “I’ve got socks just like those.”

Great. I have the same black socks as my close to retirement male gynecologist.

Before I left, he asked a few standard questions for new patient paperwork. Although I am not a new patient, he is sharing office space with another doctor until he moves into his new office space this summer and therefore all his patients must be treated, at least on paper, as new.

He asked what medications I was taking and what I was doing as far as birth control.

I should have looked at him and said, “I wear these black socks to bed!”

Say what you like about Britney Spears, but I love this photograph of a newly brunette Britney and her adorable son, Sean Preston, from the August issue of Harper’s Bazaar via the Popsugar celebrity gossip blog. And is it just me, or does she look slightly like Katie Holmes here?

Did you have any professional portraits made while you were pregnant? A friend of mine had breathtaking black-and-white pregnancy portraits taken and some of the shots included her with her older sister, who was also pregnant. During the latter part of my first pregnancy I never felt exceptionally pretty or womanly. I felt fat. I didn’t have the pregnant “glow.” I had acne. Although I was overjoyed with the thought of having our daughter, I didn’t feel my best physically. Now during my second pregnancy I took better care of myself, watched my diet and gained less weight and retained less water. I actually had ankles during my entire pregnancy and my fingers didn’t feel like fat vienna sausages.

Personally I’m glad we live in a day and age when pregnant women are considered en vogue enough to grace the cover of a fashion magazine. The whole image of pregnancy being “cool” has been boosted by the popularity of celebrity moms, from Gwen Stefani to Heidi Klum. Maternity clothes have come a long way from matronly mumus to stylish designers making fashionable maternity wear maintstream (thank you Liz Lange!) And while Britney is no Demi Moore (remember her pregnancy photos taken by celebrity photographer Annie Liebovitz for a 1991 Vanity Fair cover), I think the photos are lovely. At least she’s not smacking gum. Now the Matt Lauer interview? I couldn’t bring myself to watch it because I couldn’t get past the gum and the country girl act and the outfit, which looked like it was straight off the rack from WalMart (not cutting on WalMart or cheap clothing in general as most of my clothes are from TJ Maxx or Target). Now why couldn’t girlfriend have worn something cute like this little number from Pea in the Pod? Only her stylist knows.

The hubby and I went out for a celebratory dinner earlier this month. A rare night out on the town! Time to squeeze into my favorite jeans and blouse…a sleeveless silk top in a brown funky print (love TJ Maxx.) My mother-in-law snapped a few photos of us and when I saw them I didn’t look as cool and hip as I’d envisioned. The top I was wearing is a bit “blousy” in the front, so the souvenir pounds I have from pregnancy really make a difference between blousy and, er, bloated, seeing as I’m barely 5 feet 2 inches tall. Cafeteria ladies wearing hair nets are barely 5 feet 2. Sweet, blue-haired grannies are barely 5 feet 2. Twelve-year-olds are barely 5 feet 2.

Thank God for digital cameras and the easy edit option of photos I hate of myself. Delete!

I’m fortunate that I can still barely squeeze into my pre-pregnancy clothes and that’s contributed to my laziness. But with summer around the corner and the mere thought of putting on a bathing suit pushing my mental panic button like a game of Whac-a-Mole, I must get off my lazy tush and get physical. And lifting the girls into the bathtub and blog surfing don’t count. I had just started kickboxing when I got pregnant with Amelia in the summer of 2004. The teacher was an amazing woman…40 and a mom of FOUR. I felt empowered punching and kicking to AC/DC’s Thunder Struck and I sweated more in that hour than I had possibly sweated my entire life. I was sweating out my toenails and hair follicles. Once I made it through the first class without having a heart attack, I was hooked. But I quit the classes when I found out I was pregnant and it was a slow downward spiral into “make any excuse to not exercise.” These days when I step on the dreaded scale I am reminded that I weigh a bit more than I did last summer just a few months AFTER GIVING BIRTH. And that is depressing. I’m someone who is lucky enough to have never had to diet or really exercise much. I blame my recent weight gain on sheer laziness, my love for chocolate and cheese and anything sandwiched into a burrito, and the fact that I weaned Amelia during the holidays. Not a smart move.
(Read on …)

Last March I was watching the clock and unable to walk to the kitchen without feeling the uncomfortable jabs and pains that were Amelia’s in utero Morse code for, “Mommy, I’m going to bungee jump out of your womb if you don’t let me out soon!” I had officially begun maternity leave February 28. I was convinced I would go into labor before my scheduled c-section on March 12, after all that was just three days before I would hit the 40-week mark and I’d gone into labor with Caitlin at 38 weeks. Physically and mentally I was prepared to meet our newest baby girl. The nursery was ready—the changing table was stocked with those newborn diapers that seem unbelievably tiny when you unfold them. I’d washed several loads of laundry, from onesies decorated with bunnies and flowers to socks to soft blankets and infant gowns. Although I could have easily put Amelia’s things in the dryer, I hung most everything up on a wooden drying rack outside. I loved to see the blur of pink each time I walked by our patio doors. The infant carseat, long outgrown by Caitlin, was installed in my car for the trip home from the hospital. We’d purchased a gift for Caitlin from Amelia—a toy picnic set that we would have waiting for her at the hospital to open when she would meet her sister for the first time.

I’ve been working on Amelia’s baby book this week. Putting things down in writing is bringing back a flood of memories. It’s amazing how fast the past year has gone by and how easy it is to forget the small details. Not necessarily the first words or first steps, but the newness of a baby and the way they look and smell and feel. The way their legs curl up and their wrinkly pink toes and the little grunting noises they make when they are waking. In a blink, Amelia is nearly walking and talking. I try to grasp on to the quiet moments that come in the midst of life’s craziness…the times when I am rocking her and I look down at her sweet face full of contentment and I know in my heart these precious times are dwindling. I want to grab on to those last remnants of her newborn days for as long as I can. I know they won’t always seem as familiar and near, but I’ll never forget them.

I couldn’t resist putting together this pre-baby and post-baby comparison of Britney (She recently went to Hawaii with her baby boy minus her husband and the celebrity rags went WILD…uh, not that I read any of that trash). I love how it looks like she’s checking out her pre-baby self and saying, “Ya’ll…no way is that me all tan and buff! Ohmygawd!”

I don’t envy the white hot celebrity spotlight that shines on Britney. OK, maybe the money part of it. Darn if I wouldn’t want to just relax at the beach with the latest In Style and Vanity Fair and a margarita or two and let it all hang loose, literally! It is somewhat comforting, though, to see that even gorgeous celebrities have trouble losing those last stubborn pounds of pregnancy. Photo on right courtesy of Perez Hilton’s blog…he predicts she is pregnant again. Let’s hope she’s figured out the carseat thing if that’s the case.