Perfection
Stephanie Chockley
I am a firm believer that self-esteem is created by learning what you are and are not good at, and understanding how to deal with both of those realities. Self-esteem is not created by telling a kid they are perfect and shielding them from failure, which is a misconception I saw way too often back when I was an elementary school teacher. This philosophy was easy for me to apply to other people's children. Would I be able to practice what I preached once I had kids of my own? Eh. . . sort of.
I am usually able to let my kids try and fail at things, as long as I know they won't get hurt. But I have a hard, hard time withholding praise for praise's sake. Because look at my children! They're perfect and gorgeous and perfect!
I think having a boy first caused me to let my guard down a bit. I have told him he is the most beautiful boy ever to exist pretty much since day one. And that's okay for a boy to hear, because he will inevitably be told he is smart and strong and fast and all the other wonderful things boys hear just because they're boys. As he has grown, I have worked to compliment him on his good qualities and call his attention to areas that need improvement. Since his teachers tell me he's smart and helpful, I have no problem complimenting him on that.
But Chloe—you just can't tell a girl that she's gorgeous every day of her life and not have it come back to bite you in the ass. So when she was a baby, I tried to temper the "beautiful girl!" exclamations with "and so smart and strong!" But really, what does a baby do to show you her strength of character? Not much, really—she just sits there, pooping and drooling and being breathtakingly gorgeous. So eventually I gave up, because I didn't want to lie, and just reverted to the beauty angle.
And boy did I ever screw up.
She's talking now, and I tried to use that as an opportunity to bolster her sense of self, but it might be too late. She's easily frustrated by things she can't do—way more than her brother ever has been—and she seems to rely on the adorableness thing rather than her vocabulary to (successfully) get what she wants out of us.
The nail went in the coffin this morning when, after refusing one pair of shoes in favor of another, she declared, "I cute!"
Her elementary school teachers are going to hate me.
Showing posts with label Stephanie Chockley. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stephanie Chockley. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
An Alternative Birth Story
An Alternative Birth Story
Stephanie Chockley
Some time after the “stuck-at-nine-and-a-half-centimeters-so-you’re-going-to-need-a-C-section” birth of my first child, I retroactively educated myself on the whole process. One night I explained to my husband all of the things that had gone wrong. “. . .and so basically without the pitocin my labor would have progressed more slowly so my body would have had time to dilate properly and I probably wouldn’t have needed the C-section,” I concluded with conviction. “So you will want to try the VBAC next time we do this?” my ever-supportive husband asked. My reply was just as full of certainty as my diatribe, “Of course not!”
It’s fair to say that I do not thrive on uncertainty and spontaneity. I try really hard to go with the flow, but even when it appears I’m doing a good job of it, the inner me is struggling to relax. Waiting on the baby to arrive was pretty hard on me in that regard. It wasn’t about my physical discomfort or the anxiety of what was in store- it was about not having it on the schedule. Not being able to plan my maternity leave to perfectly maximize my paid time off. Not knowing what day relatives would come to my house. Not knowing. So while I’m officially opposed to scheduling unnecessary C-sections just for purposes of planning and keeping order in your life, I was not about to turn down a semi-reasonable excuse to do so when I got pregnant a second time.
Also, I am a total fraidy-cat. I’m scared of everything. During my first labor experience, I had already told my husband that at the first hint that anything might go wrong, I was willing to be cut open. Because what if the baby got stuck? Umbilical cord around its neck? Upside down? Sideways? What if I ripped open to my tailbone and pooped out of my vagina for the rest of my life? Add to those fears the (admittedly small) possibility that the scar tissue from my first C-section might rupture, and I’m knocking on the surgeon’s door before the pee has dried on the EPT. Even though surgery should be infinitely scarier than the amazing, natural act of childbirth, I was willing to give myself over to it in a heartbeat. Probably because it can be planned for. They draw a line where they’re going to cut. They control the pain. They have a better handle on the baby’s condition. The certainty of the decision to plan a repeat C-section wrapped around me and made me feel safe. That was definitely something I needed amid the craziness of pregnancy.
I found myself disappointed, though. Not that I had made this decision - I was relieved and actually happy about that! But why was I willing to settle? I know people who work with midwives or have their baby at home in the bathtub or at the very least don’t get an epidural. I wish I was the kind of person who wanted that experience, but I’m just not. I wondered if maybe I would regret the decision later. “I hear second babies come out pretty fast- maybe if I go into labor before my date, and if I’m pretty far along by the time we get to the hospital, then maybe. . .,” I limply threw out one night over dinner. Chip just looked at me and smiled his knowing smile. “Whatever you want to do,” he replied, knowing better than I did that it wouldn’t happen that way. And it didn’t. And it turns out I’m perfectly fine with that.
My due date was March 22. We scheduled the C-section for the afternoon of Thursday, March 16. The Saturday before, I suddenly had high blood pressure. Since it was the weekend, my doctor’s office was closed and I had to go to the hospital. At one point I heard the nurse talking to the on-call doctor, “. . .since she’s already scheduled for Thursday. . .” “No!” I said to myself, and then to everyone within earshot. I had concert tickets for that night, and stuff to do around the house on Monday after Connor and Chip left for the day. I hadn’t even had a day off work! I didn’t have the cushions on my glider rocker re-covered yet! Many tears later they let me leave, promising to see me Thursday. I stayed home that night sulking while Chip went to the concert without me, but I was glad to be back on schedule. I cleared my to-do list by Tuesday afternoon, and looked forward to relaxing all day Wednesday.
But Tuesday night when I got in bed, I realized I was in labor. I tossed and turned for a few hours, checking the time of my contractions and making sure it was really happening. I had an unreasonable fear that I would cause a lot of commotion getting my mom over to stay with Connor and heading to the hospital, only to be embarrassingly sent home with some Tums. I felt I needed to be sure. Pretty soon I was, but I let Chip sleep awhile. I figured it would be good if one of us did. Around 1:00 a.m. I shook him a little. “It’s time,” I whispered. “Really? You ready?” And I was. I had a fresh mani-pedi (Don’t judge me-it was a gift!), there was a newly upholstered chair in the nursery and clean sheets on the guest bed. We called Mom to come stay with Connor, and she arrived in minutes. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to warn Connor, but I knew it was best to let him sleep. He knew it was happening this week and he was excited about it. He’d be happy to wake up in a world where he was a big brother.
We arrived at the hospital and I was monitored in all the appropriate ways. The contractions were strong and closer than I had realized, but I hadn’t dilated much at all. We called Mom and Chip’s parents to let them know it was happening. The on-call doctor came to see me. Dr. King! He did my first C-section. “Um, doc? Not to knock your work, but my previous scar is somewhat asymmetrical. Dr. Miller said we could fix that?” No problem. One more thing checked off my list. (My list of neuroses, that is!)
They wheeled me in, alone, to administer the spinal block and get me ready. I concentrated on trying not to move my immovable legs and asked repeatedly, “When can Chip come in?” I found myself more frightened of the surgery than I had been the first time, when it all happened much faster. I narrowly averted a panic attack after giving in to my instincts and trying to move my leg- the nurse talked me down from it and reminded me that it would all be worth it in just a few minutes. In came Chip, and it was on. No, I don’t want to watch. Yes, I know I’ll feel pressure. Just do it! In that moment all you want is to hear that baby cry, no matter how she’s getting out of you. And minutes later, she did. I exhaled and begged them to get her to me. “Hi Chloe! I love you!” I said through my tears. Although I wish I could have nursed her right then, I knew I would be able to soon enough. So, I relaxed a bit and watched them go about the business of welcoming a newborn. Nine pounds four ounces? At 39 weeks? Suddenly I was really glad I hadn’t tried that on my own. It wasn’t long before the three of us were in a room together, watching Chloe gleefully suck the skin right off my nipples. I hadn’t done it in my own living room, but I had done it and I was proud. And it was nothing to be ashamed of.
Stephanie Chockley
Some time after the “stuck-at-nine-and-a-half-centimeters-so-you’re-going-to-need-a-C-section” birth of my first child, I retroactively educated myself on the whole process. One night I explained to my husband all of the things that had gone wrong. “. . .and so basically without the pitocin my labor would have progressed more slowly so my body would have had time to dilate properly and I probably wouldn’t have needed the C-section,” I concluded with conviction. “So you will want to try the VBAC next time we do this?” my ever-supportive husband asked. My reply was just as full of certainty as my diatribe, “Of course not!”
It’s fair to say that I do not thrive on uncertainty and spontaneity. I try really hard to go with the flow, but even when it appears I’m doing a good job of it, the inner me is struggling to relax. Waiting on the baby to arrive was pretty hard on me in that regard. It wasn’t about my physical discomfort or the anxiety of what was in store- it was about not having it on the schedule. Not being able to plan my maternity leave to perfectly maximize my paid time off. Not knowing what day relatives would come to my house. Not knowing. So while I’m officially opposed to scheduling unnecessary C-sections just for purposes of planning and keeping order in your life, I was not about to turn down a semi-reasonable excuse to do so when I got pregnant a second time.
Also, I am a total fraidy-cat. I’m scared of everything. During my first labor experience, I had already told my husband that at the first hint that anything might go wrong, I was willing to be cut open. Because what if the baby got stuck? Umbilical cord around its neck? Upside down? Sideways? What if I ripped open to my tailbone and pooped out of my vagina for the rest of my life? Add to those fears the (admittedly small) possibility that the scar tissue from my first C-section might rupture, and I’m knocking on the surgeon’s door before the pee has dried on the EPT. Even though surgery should be infinitely scarier than the amazing, natural act of childbirth, I was willing to give myself over to it in a heartbeat. Probably because it can be planned for. They draw a line where they’re going to cut. They control the pain. They have a better handle on the baby’s condition. The certainty of the decision to plan a repeat C-section wrapped around me and made me feel safe. That was definitely something I needed amid the craziness of pregnancy.
I found myself disappointed, though. Not that I had made this decision - I was relieved and actually happy about that! But why was I willing to settle? I know people who work with midwives or have their baby at home in the bathtub or at the very least don’t get an epidural. I wish I was the kind of person who wanted that experience, but I’m just not. I wondered if maybe I would regret the decision later. “I hear second babies come out pretty fast- maybe if I go into labor before my date, and if I’m pretty far along by the time we get to the hospital, then maybe. . .,” I limply threw out one night over dinner. Chip just looked at me and smiled his knowing smile. “Whatever you want to do,” he replied, knowing better than I did that it wouldn’t happen that way. And it didn’t. And it turns out I’m perfectly fine with that.
My due date was March 22. We scheduled the C-section for the afternoon of Thursday, March 16. The Saturday before, I suddenly had high blood pressure. Since it was the weekend, my doctor’s office was closed and I had to go to the hospital. At one point I heard the nurse talking to the on-call doctor, “. . .since she’s already scheduled for Thursday. . .” “No!” I said to myself, and then to everyone within earshot. I had concert tickets for that night, and stuff to do around the house on Monday after Connor and Chip left for the day. I hadn’t even had a day off work! I didn’t have the cushions on my glider rocker re-covered yet! Many tears later they let me leave, promising to see me Thursday. I stayed home that night sulking while Chip went to the concert without me, but I was glad to be back on schedule. I cleared my to-do list by Tuesday afternoon, and looked forward to relaxing all day Wednesday.
But Tuesday night when I got in bed, I realized I was in labor. I tossed and turned for a few hours, checking the time of my contractions and making sure it was really happening. I had an unreasonable fear that I would cause a lot of commotion getting my mom over to stay with Connor and heading to the hospital, only to be embarrassingly sent home with some Tums. I felt I needed to be sure. Pretty soon I was, but I let Chip sleep awhile. I figured it would be good if one of us did. Around 1:00 a.m. I shook him a little. “It’s time,” I whispered. “Really? You ready?” And I was. I had a fresh mani-pedi (Don’t judge me-it was a gift!), there was a newly upholstered chair in the nursery and clean sheets on the guest bed. We called Mom to come stay with Connor, and she arrived in minutes. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to warn Connor, but I knew it was best to let him sleep. He knew it was happening this week and he was excited about it. He’d be happy to wake up in a world where he was a big brother.
We arrived at the hospital and I was monitored in all the appropriate ways. The contractions were strong and closer than I had realized, but I hadn’t dilated much at all. We called Mom and Chip’s parents to let them know it was happening. The on-call doctor came to see me. Dr. King! He did my first C-section. “Um, doc? Not to knock your work, but my previous scar is somewhat asymmetrical. Dr. Miller said we could fix that?” No problem. One more thing checked off my list. (My list of neuroses, that is!)
They wheeled me in, alone, to administer the spinal block and get me ready. I concentrated on trying not to move my immovable legs and asked repeatedly, “When can Chip come in?” I found myself more frightened of the surgery than I had been the first time, when it all happened much faster. I narrowly averted a panic attack after giving in to my instincts and trying to move my leg- the nurse talked me down from it and reminded me that it would all be worth it in just a few minutes. In came Chip, and it was on. No, I don’t want to watch. Yes, I know I’ll feel pressure. Just do it! In that moment all you want is to hear that baby cry, no matter how she’s getting out of you. And minutes later, she did. I exhaled and begged them to get her to me. “Hi Chloe! I love you!” I said through my tears. Although I wish I could have nursed her right then, I knew I would be able to soon enough. So, I relaxed a bit and watched them go about the business of welcoming a newborn. Nine pounds four ounces? At 39 weeks? Suddenly I was really glad I hadn’t tried that on my own. It wasn’t long before the three of us were in a room together, watching Chloe gleefully suck the skin right off my nipples. I hadn’t done it in my own living room, but I had done it and I was proud. And it was nothing to be ashamed of.
Saturday, September 9, 2006
On the Contrary
On the Contrary
Stephanie Chockley
6:30 am:
Me: Here's some chocolate milk.
C: I don't LIKE chocolate milk!
7:45 am:
Me: Thanks for getting right in the car! You're such a good boy!
C: No I'm NOT a good boy!
8:00 am:
Me: Who should we take first, Connor or Chloe?
C: Connor!
8:05 am: (As we drive past Chloe's school)
C:Why aren't we taking Chloe to school??!!!
8:10 am:
Me: Let's look both ways before we cross the street.
C: There's a car!
Me: It's moving away from us.
C: NO! It's coming for us!
5: 15 pm:
Me: Did anyone bring anything cool for show and tell?
C: Max brought an airplane!
Me: That sounds really cool!
C: It's NOT COOL!
5:35 pm: (At Chloe's school)
Me: There's my sweet girl!
C: She's not a sweet girl! She's a GOOD girl!
5:45 pm:
Me: There's a Honda Civic, just like Grammy's!
C: That's not a Honda Civic! That's a HONDA!
Me: (For the 847th time) Right, a Civic is a kind of Honda, like an apple is a kind of fruit.
C: An apple is not fruit!
6:15 pm:
C: What's that on Chloe's leg?
Me: Those are just sock marks.
C: They're not sock marks! They're sockie morks!
Me: (Sigh)
6:20 pm:
C: What are you fixing?
Me: A salad for me and Daddy.
C: I don't want a salad! (side note-Duh) I want chicken nuggets and applesauce and cheese.
6:25 pm: (presented with chicken nuggets, applesause, and cheese)
C: I don't want APPLESAUCE!
Me: (exasperated) You are just disagreeing with me for the sport of it! You're driving me CRAZY!
C: NO I'M NOT!
Stephanie Chockley
6:30 am:
Me: Here's some chocolate milk.
C: I don't LIKE chocolate milk!
7:45 am:
Me: Thanks for getting right in the car! You're such a good boy!
C: No I'm NOT a good boy!
8:00 am:
Me: Who should we take first, Connor or Chloe?
C: Connor!
8:05 am: (As we drive past Chloe's school)
C:Why aren't we taking Chloe to school??!!!
8:10 am:
Me: Let's look both ways before we cross the street.
C: There's a car!
Me: It's moving away from us.
C: NO! It's coming for us!
5: 15 pm:
Me: Did anyone bring anything cool for show and tell?
C: Max brought an airplane!
Me: That sounds really cool!
C: It's NOT COOL!
5:35 pm: (At Chloe's school)
Me: There's my sweet girl!
C: She's not a sweet girl! She's a GOOD girl!
5:45 pm:
Me: There's a Honda Civic, just like Grammy's!
C: That's not a Honda Civic! That's a HONDA!
Me: (For the 847th time) Right, a Civic is a kind of Honda, like an apple is a kind of fruit.
C: An apple is not fruit!
6:15 pm:
C: What's that on Chloe's leg?
Me: Those are just sock marks.
C: They're not sock marks! They're sockie morks!
Me: (Sigh)
6:20 pm:
C: What are you fixing?
Me: A salad for me and Daddy.
C: I don't want a salad! (side note-Duh) I want chicken nuggets and applesauce and cheese.
6:25 pm: (presented with chicken nuggets, applesause, and cheese)
C: I don't want APPLESAUCE!
Me: (exasperated) You are just disagreeing with me for the sport of it! You're driving me CRAZY!
C: NO I'M NOT!
Thursday, December 15, 2005
On Hating My Second Pregnancy
On Hating My Second Pregnancy
Stephanie Chockley
For many reasons, I felt it was important to have a second child. I don’t have any quarrels with those who choose to have only one, but the idea of raising an only child isn’t very appealing to me personally. (Watching my only-child best friend deal with her chronically ill mother is but one of the reasons.) I haven’t come across many articles talking about the second pregnancy (a term I’m using to represent the second child—actually my fourth pregnancy) so I figured it would be a lot like the first. I know, every pregnancy is different, but I mean the general idea of it. I think I was wrong. And I think more women should write about it! So for your reading pleasure, here’s my list of what sucks about my second pregnancy.
That one was the kicker. I had never before considered that he wouldn’t fit on my lap. How could I not have? Do other women not have these feelings? Why didn’t any of them tell me about this?
I know that not all women feel this way during their second pregnancy. I’m sure there are many who enjoyed it more than the first, many who hated or loved them both. Hell, I only have one trimester under my belt. Sure I’ve spent the first three months bitterly replying “Horrible!” to anyone who dared ask me how I feel, but who knows what my mindset will be a few months down the road! The point is that no one even alerted me to the possibility of these wild feelings. I’ve read hundreds of different takes on pregnancy from first-time moms, but not many from veteran moms. I’ve read stories from moms with two kids who share the joys of their second births, or discuss how their children get along, but not how being pregnant might be different the second time. So here is one mom’s take on it. Wish me luck. . .
Stephanie Chockley
For many reasons, I felt it was important to have a second child. I don’t have any quarrels with those who choose to have only one, but the idea of raising an only child isn’t very appealing to me personally. (Watching my only-child best friend deal with her chronically ill mother is but one of the reasons.) I haven’t come across many articles talking about the second pregnancy (a term I’m using to represent the second child—actually my fourth pregnancy) so I figured it would be a lot like the first. I know, every pregnancy is different, but I mean the general idea of it. I think I was wrong. And I think more women should write about it! So for your reading pleasure, here’s my list of what sucks about my second pregnancy.
1. I have always compared the first trimester to a hangover—you’ve got a headache and you feel vaguely nauseous. Sometimes you puke, sometimes you don’t. But you’re sure a big plate of carbs and a nap would make everything better. If that’s the case, my first pregnancy was like the morning after opening an extra bottle of wine during dinner with my husband, when I still had the glow of drunken sex on me and didn’t really regret it. This second pregnancy has been more like the morning after my bachelorette party, only with indigestion and constipation. And hemorrhoids.
2. For some reason I can’t stand the weight gain this time. To be fair, I’ve gained too much weight in the first trimester. That’s my own fault. But I guess losing the weight from the first baby was a bigger accomplishment than I realized, and I didn’t predict how personally I would take it when I started gaining again. The first time I couldn’t wait to show and get into maternity clothes—this time I am embarrassed that I look pregnant so early (as you may know, the stomach pops right out the second time) and can’t figure out how to dress. Plus I am the fifth woman in my office of twenty people to be pregnant this year, so all the maternity fashion surrounding me makes me feel extra pressure in this area. I just feel frumpy.
3. It seems like this second baby is much more expensive. I guess we had room for one baby in our budget, but our jobs and bills haven’t changed since then so two really seems like a stretch. More than half of my take-home pay will go to childcare, but I’m the spouse with insurance so it would be too expensive for me to quit. And with the second one, the cost of raising a child is no longer an abstract notion. I’ve lived with the reality of it for two years, so it seems a little more imposing this time around.
4. The first time, I loved being pregnant. It was a magical experience, and every change and discomfort was greeted with awe. “I feel a little sick today!” I’d happily exclaim to my husband, thrilled by each new symptom. This time the magic is gone. I’m just as excited to be having another baby—I can’t wait to meet this miracle growing inside of me, and to spend the rest of my life loving him—I just don’t have a lot of patience for the journey this time. Now when I feel sick, I think ahead to the pressure the growing baby will put on my stomach and bladder, and when I burp I remember how much worse the indigestion will get. No one warned me that I might feel this way—I had no idea! I thought that looking forward to the baby was what made the pregnancy fun, but apparently for me it was the novelty of it.
5. The one I was most unprepared for is the fact that I feel horribly guilty. I mean, I know plenty of people who have siblings, plenty of people with two children—it seems perfectly normal to me. So I was caught off guard the day I looked at my son and thought, What am I doing to him? How can I deprive him of any of my time or attention? How can I tell him I’m too tired to play with him? And (cue the tears) what am I going to do when my belly is too big for him to sit in my lap!?
That one was the kicker. I had never before considered that he wouldn’t fit on my lap. How could I not have? Do other women not have these feelings? Why didn’t any of them tell me about this?
I know that not all women feel this way during their second pregnancy. I’m sure there are many who enjoyed it more than the first, many who hated or loved them both. Hell, I only have one trimester under my belt. Sure I’ve spent the first three months bitterly replying “Horrible!” to anyone who dared ask me how I feel, but who knows what my mindset will be a few months down the road! The point is that no one even alerted me to the possibility of these wild feelings. I’ve read hundreds of different takes on pregnancy from first-time moms, but not many from veteran moms. I’ve read stories from moms with two kids who share the joys of their second births, or discuss how their children get along, but not how being pregnant might be different the second time. So here is one mom’s take on it. Wish me luck. . .
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Pregnancy After Miscarriage
Pregnancy After Miscarriage
Stephanie Chockley
The week after September 11, I told everyone I was pregnant. I was 11 weeks along, and it just seemed like the right time to let everyone know. We all needed some good news. The week after that I started spotting. I went to the doctor for an ultrasound. “I’m so sorry—there’s no baby.” I sobbed hysterically while the doctor explained that I had a blighted ovum. This meant the egg and sperm had come together and told my body I was pregnant, but hadn’t grown. I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe my body would betray me like this. I had reveled in my nausea, gained five pounds snacking to stave off heartburn, indulged my exhaustion with naps and early bedtimes, and I had never really been pregnant. How could this be? How could I tell everyone that I had been mistaken when I announced I was pregnant? I felt so stupid; I let myself feel all of it, even though it wasn’t really happening. I got everyone all excited, and now I had to let them all down. I had admitted to myself just how important it was to me, had let myself be vulnerable to it, only to be let down by it. When I confided these feelings to those closest to me, they made me feel stupid for feeling stupid. But I did. I believed my body, and it had lied to me. I wanted to be pregnant, but I had failed.
My body healed from the D&C, I waited a few months, and then tried again. As it turns out, we’re a pretty fertile couple and it happened on the first try. I tried not to get excited, tried to be nonchalant, but within hours of seeing two pink lines I already had my due date worked out and my hopes up. I was surprised by how intense my excitement was, even though I wanted to have my guard up. A few days later, Wednesday, was my husband Chip’s 30th birthday—I used the designated driver excuse to explain why I wasn’t drinking. The next day at work the bleeding started during lunch. Different than the last time—heavy like a period, with the same type of cramping. I don’t know how I drove home—it started to really hurt, and I couldn’t stop crying. Somehow I made it and got Chip to come home too. I couldn’t believe how upset I was. I just missed my period last week! If I hadn’t been trying, I might have just thought I was having a late period. But no, I was looking for this, and I knew exactly what was happening. I thought to myself that at least no one knew, so I was spared the humiliation of explaining this again. I went to the doctor on Friday and that night I made up for the birthday sobriety. I didn’t tell anyone until Sunday, when I called my mom. I called my best friend, Tiffany, on Monday and asked her to tell the rest of our friends. For some reason I was too ashamed to explain it all again. Like last time, no one could understand why I was embarrassed by this. I couldn’t explain it either. I just felt like I had failed. Knowing it happened to lots of other women didn’t help me any. Why didn’t anyone ever talk about it if it wasn’t something to be ashamed of?
The feeling of failure subsided, but it took longer this time. I waited a few months, and started trying again. In September I started a new job, and decided we should back off until I got settled in there. Too late! Two weeks after my job started, I missed my period. I scheduled my first doctor’s appointment at what we thought was six weeks. She did an ultrasound, and it wasn’t big enough for six weeks or to see the heart beating. Great. I was already pessimistic, so this didn’t shock me, but I was again amazed by how upset I was. Don’t panic, the doctor said. Come back in a week and we’ll see— the dates could just be off. That was a pretty long week. The day of the next appointment I was so nervous that I made myself sick. I cried all day (my new coworkers thought I was nuts), anticipating the worst. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the screen during the ultrasound. But they insisted I look, so I could see the heartbeat for myself. I didn’t know if I felt relief or more anxiety. Every month I cried and threw up all day on doctor appointment day. Every time I held my breath waiting for them to find the heartbeat. I really let my past experiences influence this pregnancy. For the first 20 weeks I didn’t enjoy being pregnant as much as I wanted to, mainly because I didn’t feel I could trust it. My body had let me down before. But the ultrasound at 21 weeks finally gave me some relief. I know plenty of people who don’t want to know the sex of the baby, but for me it was really important. It somehow made it all real to know that it was a boy, to call him “Connor” rather than “it.” I left the doctor’s office and called everyone I knew to announce the good news. For me it was like finally admitting I was pregnant—I didn’t get excited for the first announcement, but I let spreading the news that it was a squirming, healthy boy make up for it. After that I let my guard down and embraced pregnancy. Connor Stephen Chockley was born on June 24 at 9:06 p.m.
Stephanie Chockley
The week after September 11, I told everyone I was pregnant. I was 11 weeks along, and it just seemed like the right time to let everyone know. We all needed some good news. The week after that I started spotting. I went to the doctor for an ultrasound. “I’m so sorry—there’s no baby.” I sobbed hysterically while the doctor explained that I had a blighted ovum. This meant the egg and sperm had come together and told my body I was pregnant, but hadn’t grown. I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe my body would betray me like this. I had reveled in my nausea, gained five pounds snacking to stave off heartburn, indulged my exhaustion with naps and early bedtimes, and I had never really been pregnant. How could this be? How could I tell everyone that I had been mistaken when I announced I was pregnant? I felt so stupid; I let myself feel all of it, even though it wasn’t really happening. I got everyone all excited, and now I had to let them all down. I had admitted to myself just how important it was to me, had let myself be vulnerable to it, only to be let down by it. When I confided these feelings to those closest to me, they made me feel stupid for feeling stupid. But I did. I believed my body, and it had lied to me. I wanted to be pregnant, but I had failed.
My body healed from the D&C, I waited a few months, and then tried again. As it turns out, we’re a pretty fertile couple and it happened on the first try. I tried not to get excited, tried to be nonchalant, but within hours of seeing two pink lines I already had my due date worked out and my hopes up. I was surprised by how intense my excitement was, even though I wanted to have my guard up. A few days later, Wednesday, was my husband Chip’s 30th birthday—I used the designated driver excuse to explain why I wasn’t drinking. The next day at work the bleeding started during lunch. Different than the last time—heavy like a period, with the same type of cramping. I don’t know how I drove home—it started to really hurt, and I couldn’t stop crying. Somehow I made it and got Chip to come home too. I couldn’t believe how upset I was. I just missed my period last week! If I hadn’t been trying, I might have just thought I was having a late period. But no, I was looking for this, and I knew exactly what was happening. I thought to myself that at least no one knew, so I was spared the humiliation of explaining this again. I went to the doctor on Friday and that night I made up for the birthday sobriety. I didn’t tell anyone until Sunday, when I called my mom. I called my best friend, Tiffany, on Monday and asked her to tell the rest of our friends. For some reason I was too ashamed to explain it all again. Like last time, no one could understand why I was embarrassed by this. I couldn’t explain it either. I just felt like I had failed. Knowing it happened to lots of other women didn’t help me any. Why didn’t anyone ever talk about it if it wasn’t something to be ashamed of?
The feeling of failure subsided, but it took longer this time. I waited a few months, and started trying again. In September I started a new job, and decided we should back off until I got settled in there. Too late! Two weeks after my job started, I missed my period. I scheduled my first doctor’s appointment at what we thought was six weeks. She did an ultrasound, and it wasn’t big enough for six weeks or to see the heart beating. Great. I was already pessimistic, so this didn’t shock me, but I was again amazed by how upset I was. Don’t panic, the doctor said. Come back in a week and we’ll see— the dates could just be off. That was a pretty long week. The day of the next appointment I was so nervous that I made myself sick. I cried all day (my new coworkers thought I was nuts), anticipating the worst. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the screen during the ultrasound. But they insisted I look, so I could see the heartbeat for myself. I didn’t know if I felt relief or more anxiety. Every month I cried and threw up all day on doctor appointment day. Every time I held my breath waiting for them to find the heartbeat. I really let my past experiences influence this pregnancy. For the first 20 weeks I didn’t enjoy being pregnant as much as I wanted to, mainly because I didn’t feel I could trust it. My body had let me down before. But the ultrasound at 21 weeks finally gave me some relief. I know plenty of people who don’t want to know the sex of the baby, but for me it was really important. It somehow made it all real to know that it was a boy, to call him “Connor” rather than “it.” I left the doctor’s office and called everyone I knew to announce the good news. For me it was like finally admitting I was pregnant—I didn’t get excited for the first announcement, but I let spreading the news that it was a squirming, healthy boy make up for it. After that I let my guard down and embraced pregnancy. Connor Stephen Chockley was born on June 24 at 9:06 p.m.
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