Smelly Feet vs Baby Kicks for Weirdest Post-Pregnancy Side Effect

Three words make the the Weirdest Thing Ever About Life After Birthing A Baby:  phantom baby kicks.

Yeah, they’re still happening two years later.

So I’m sitting there at my desk, happily tapping away at expenses & BAM! there’s a flutter in my uterus area.  It’s enough to make me take pause & freak the eff out that OH MY GOD, I’M GOING TO BE ON “I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT.” 

But then I remember that I’m already doing that female thing (send nachos & wine!) & we are staunch supporters of the Trojan man & there is simply NO WAY there is a bambino kicking away in my uterus.

But still.

Totally trippy.

HeirtoBlair500x150 v41 Smelly Feet vs Baby Kicks for Weirdest Post Pregnancy Side Effect

Random complaints about body after baby.

I have a problem.

Actually, I have two of them.

It all started after I gave birth to Harrison.  I expected the weight gain, was horrified at the water retention, & I took a little while to adjust to my bigger ribcage that just never went back down to the 32 measurement.  The lingering carpel tunnel has sucked, but a cortisone shot every few months helps.

First problem:  Hip pain.

My hips hurt.  They ache, all the way down into the bone & they feel overstretched & sore & nothing seems to help.  I’ve tried stretching & yoga & having Doug rub them, but all I do is yelp in pain the moment his hands hit that weird spot between butt & back.  I’ve tried to not carry Harrison as often.  I started wearing flats more than heels.  I gave up running.  Mostly, they hurt after I clean the house, which seemed weird at first, but cleaning the house requires a lot of lifting & squatting & reaching, not to mention occasionaly holding a baby while I vacuum.  Pretty please, oh wise internets that hold internet M.D.’s given by the School of Web MD, diagnose me.  Should I see a chiropractor?  Should I invest in bionic hips?

Problem Dos:  I gots me some stanky feet.

No, really.  Last night, Doug told me that my feet smelled like Satan’s breath.  (okay, he just said they smelled bad & I elaborated.)  Sure enough, I’m sitting here & I can SMELL MY FEET even though they are in shoes under the desk.  I bathed this morning, people, & sprayed my shoes with the smell-good stuff I picked up at Target last night.  God forbid I’m wearing my Born Mary Janes in the car with you, because we’ll just have to roll down the windows even though it’s 15 degrees outside.  I should get Botox injections into my feet, right?  I hear that helps for smelly pits, which thankfully, I do not have.

I cannot be alone in this.  Tell me you have stinky feet & aching hips, too.

Stigma. Supermom. Shame. Struggle. Shattered. (You are worth more.)

From the National Institute of Mental Health:

  • One in four women will experience severe depression at some point in life.
  • Depression affects twice as many women as men, regardless of racial and ethnic background or income.
  • Depression is the number one cause of disability in women.

Only one fifth of women who suffer from depression seek treatment.  One fifth of one in four, which means that in a room of sixty women, fifteen suffer depression but only three are getting help.

shatteredglass 300x199 Stigma.  Supermom.  Shame.  Struggle.  Shattered.  (You are worth more.)Translation?  Women are suffering, hurting, bruised to the core…& not seeking help.

What is it about us as women that makes us vulnerable to depression, & then paralyzed to receive help?

Through our determination to be seen as strong, rather than the weaker sex, do we not recognize the symptoms?  Do we push aside the exhaustion & irritability as “being a woman,” not understanding that they are signs of imbalance, just as much as tears?  Or maybe that guttural instinct to “buck up” as a mother & push through, despite the nagging anxieties & cloying despair.

In the era of the supermom, we feel pressure to be an odd mixture of a June Cleaver housewife & a Martha Stewart business mogul — are we afraid to verbalize that we cannot do it all?  Is there shame in that feeling that maybe, somehow, someway, we failed womanhood?

Or the shame that buries deep in our soul when the depression pulls us away from children & spouses & the focus of our life, but we fight a losing battle against it & we are too afraid to say, “I am sorry, but my heart is not here.”  We are told that women should not feel this way.

Or perhaps the shame of the neighbor’s wagging tongue that has already weighed the label on our sweater, the car in our driveway, the organic qualities of our dinner, & the manners of our children.  Dare we expose one more Achilles Heel to the harshest judges?

Is it the rising cost of healthcare in this downtrodden economy where some of us struggle to keep shoes on small feet & food in mouths?  Perhaps it is a failure of the medical field to screen properly & then offer options.  Or even the lack of options (did you know there is only ONE inpatient postpartum mood disorder clinic in the country?!).  Is it because it is one more task on our growing lists, where small children cannot tag along?

No matter the cause, I boldly say this —   Women, you are worth it.

If you are hurting & suffering & scared, please know that you deserve to feel better.  It is not weakness that asks for help – instead, there is courage in the acceptance.

photo credit

Look, ma! No undereye circles! aka CoverGirl Lash Perfection

Despite what some may think, I’m not a weirdo that holes away in a basement selling Avon & listening to Christmas music in August.

Okay, scratch that.  I totally listen to Christmas music in August.

I have a job that I love as it challenges me & puts me in front of clients on the daily.  Which is wonderful, because I love people.  But having to look my best every day?  oh, do I often fail.  I was most worried before returning to work after my son – I had 40 extra pounds on my frame & no clothes that fit.  I was losing hair like a husky & had this weird thing going on where my feet sweat a lot.  (new motherhood = totally glamorous)  But after three months of maternity leave, we still had a mortgage to be paid, so I bought a few new pairs of slacks, slipped my stinky feet back into my pumps, & tried desperately to still feel confident & pretty in my job.

I realized quickly that the weight would take awhile to melt off.  But I could brighten my face up in just a few minutes with my old trusty friends, the blush stick & mascara wand.  So I covered the dark circles under my eyes that appeared sometime during the 3am feeding & dusted a little bronzer across my cheeks to help me look among the living.  I am not a huge make-up enthusiast, but surely, I entered my new stage of life as a working mother with a little more confidence each day until I was comfortable with my clients once more.

CoverGirl & BlogHer wanted to make sure I was staying on top of my game almost two years into the gig of being a working momma, so they sent me the new CoverGirl Lash Perfection mascara to try out in a brown-black shade.

covergirlcollage Look, ma! No undereye circles!  aka CoverGirl Lash Perfection

Oh, my.  It is very pretty on.  I never really believed that mascara could “lengthen” lashes until this one & I didn’t even have to dig out a toothpick to take out clumps!  (kidding! I’m too clumsy to put sharp objects near my eyes.)  It held up beautifully, even though the tears of a therapy session.  Also, this may have been the first mascara I have tried where I didn’t look like a raccoon by 5pm.  Thank you, Lash Perfection, for not smudging under my eyes.  Love you, mean it!

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Broken mess.

The water falls warm & I wonder if I am broken.

I sit down on the tiles, leaning back against the cold sides, but I’m staring at the belly, so stretched & soft from child-bearing.  The child-bearing that led me to this place so many times, both physcially & emotionally, for the past three years.  I close my eyes against it’s constant reminder of miracles & pain & the sacrificial love of motherhood.  I sit up cross-legged & spread my hands through the running water, tracing the rivers they make with my palms & I wonder if I will ever leave the floor.

The floor where I cried over my lost baby.  Where I ripped out my heart over the baby I birthed.  Blood & tears, both escaping me.  Where I escape & pray to find answers to the part of my brain that does not seem to click the way it should, the part that wraps silently around my entire life until I back into a corner & let the water fall, warm & steady.  I am a constant mess; ripped & broken & pieced back together so many times that I wonder if my flaws show to the outside world.

I wonder how I feel both renewed & trapped behind the white curtain, relaxing to the rhythmic fall of the water while I place my head in my hands, raggedly running fingers through my hair as I fight for hope, for relief, for feeling that it will all be okay.

A soft knock on the door, a patter of small feet wrapped in cotton as the boy flings back the curtain with a joy & exuberance I wish for in myself.  Relief floods my heart, hope reaches up to my eyes.  His impish smile stretches past his cheeks into my heart & I nod over his blonde head to my husband that yes,  I am okay.

____________________

p.s. i wrote this two weeks ago. i’m doing better now.

Stealing is for losers. Copyright 2011 Beth Anne Ballance