Not too long ago, my sister had a baby. We live several states apart, but I got to see her many times and kept in touch as often as possible through the 40 (plus) weeks. During the pregnancy and especially after the birth, I thought often about all she was experiencing and enduring to bring this baby into the world. About this thing that women do that is so commonplace and yet so extraordinary.
Her pregnancy was the result of IVF, so she tracked her period, scheduled blood tests, submitted records and kept appointments. And then, after the transfer, she self-administered progesterone shots for 8 weeks until it was confirmed that the pregnancy was well established. That's one shot per day. In the butt.
Then there was the ultrasound to determine the health (and number) of the embryos that were thriving at that point (just one!). No big deal, really, but those vaginal one are, well, you know. A bit invasive to say the least. As is the load of paperwork that comes along with an IVF pregnancy and any medical procedure, so there was that to deal with too.
After that, things were pretty standard. Shifting work and childcare schedules to accommodate monthly and then weekly appointments with the midwife. A growing belly that brought on back pain. A baby that kicked just when she finally drifted off to sleep. Swollen ankles. Exhuastion. Par for the course, right - this was her fourth pregnancy, after all, so she certainly knew what to expect. So did her sons, I guess, though the youngest was none too thrilled to find that her lap was getting smaller and her breastmilk less available than it had been before.
The baby didn't come on his due date. In fact, he didn't come til 12 days later, so those last days were surely filled with plenty of thoughts of "enough already". Each day past the due date brought prying quesions about how she was feeling and speculation from the mid-wife on just how big that baby was going to be (10lbs.).
My sister is a very private person, so for her to share any of this with another was probably a difficult thing to do. But share she must, for this pregnancy was much talked about and the baby's birth was anticipated by all. She endured lots of questions and many belly pats form family and friends, though I know she'd have rather they kept their hands to themsleves. She shared details of every procedure and appointment and let me come along for ultrasounds and baby checks. And when the time care, she let me be a part of the birth. So I saw firsthand not only that baby's precious head as it emerged but also the extreme effort and pain that it took to bring it forth. I heard her say that she couldn't do it and then watched her as she did. I am still in awe of the work she did in those hours.
And why, you ask, wouldn't she do all of that? Go through so much? That, after all, is what women do. But here's the thing: that baby wasn't hers. I got to be there because that baby was mine. Which makes it more than just women's work. That, dear reader, is love.
Not too long ago, my sister had a baby. We live several states apart, but I got to see her many times and kept in touch as often as possible through the 40 (plus) weeks. During the pregnancy and especially after the birth, I thought often about all she was experiencing and enduring to bring this baby into the world. About this thing that women do that is so commonplace and yet so extraordinary.
Her pregnancy was the result of IVF, so she tracked her period, scheduled blood tests, submitted records and kept appointments. And then, after the transfer, she self-administered progesterone shots for 8 weeks until it was confirmed that the pregnancy was well established. That's one shot per day. In the butt.
Then there was the ultrasound to determine the health (and number) of the embryos that were thriving at that point (just one!). No big deal, really, but those vaginal one are, well, you know. A bit invasive to say the least. As is the load of paperwork that comes along with an IVF pregnancy and any medical procedure, so there was that to deal with too.
After that, things were pretty standard. Shifting work and childcare schedules to accommodate monthly and then weekly appointments with the midwife. A growing belly that brought on back pain. A baby that kicked just when she finally drifted off to sleep. Swollen ankles. Exhuastion. Par for the course, right - this was her fourth pregnancy, after all, so she certainly knew what to expect. So did her sons, I guess, though the youngest was none too thrilled to find that her lap was getting smaller and her breastmilk less available than it had been before.
The baby didn't come on his due date. In fact, he didn't come til 12 days later, so those last days were surely filled with plenty of thoughts of "enough already". Each day past the due date brought prying quesions about how she was feeling and speculation from the mid-wife on just how big that baby was going to be (10lbs.).
My sister is a very private person, so for her to share any of this with another was probably a difficult thing to do. But share she must, for this pregnancy was much talked about and the baby's birth was anticipated by all. She endured lots of questions and many belly pats form family and friends, though I know she'd have rather they kept their hands to themsleves. She shared details of every procedure and appointment and let me come along for ultrasounds and baby checks. And when the time care, she let me be a part of the birth. So I saw firsthand not only that baby's precious head as it emerged but also the extreme effort and pain that it took to bring it forth. I heard her say that she couldn't do it and then watched her as she did. I am still in awe of the work she did in those hours.
And why, you ask, wouldn't she do all of that? Go through so much? That, after all, is what women do. But here's the thing: that baby wasn't hers. I got to be there because that baby was mine. Which makes it more than just women's work. That, dear reader, is love.