Fiona's one-month doctor visit was yesterday. It was supposed to be the day before, but somehow I managed to put the wrong time on my calendar so when I showed up at 10:15 for it, the receptionist said the appointment was long past since it was scheduled for 9:15. Yeah, as if I'd ever make an appointment for that early in the morning.
All's well in Fiona-world as far as her health goes, though. Here's a quick rundown of her stats:
Weight: 10 pounds, 12.2 ounces. Our little piggie has gained nearly two pounds from her birth weight; nearly three if you account for the pound she lost after being born. This puts her in the 90th percentile for weight. SWEET!
Length: 22 inches. Two and a quarter inches since birth. Not exactly basketball player height, but she's average, landing in the 55th percentile. Hmm... 90th percentile for weight, 55th for height. Already she's taking after her parents' body shapes. Poor thing.
In spite of a lot of congestion - totally normal for a little bean such as herself - Fiona checks out as totally healthy. Her lungs sound clear and strong (especially if you gauge by the ear-splitting screams she was emitting during much of the appointment), her heart sounds great, and everything else is on target. She's growing like a weed, which makes me so happy. After the anxiety of that first week when she lost so much weight and was so unhappy due to hunger, I couldn't be more relieved that she's doing so well now. Plus, I feel a certain sense of pride knowing that her awesome growth is due to the milk I'm making and giving to her. Sure, it's a natural process and I don't have a lot of control over it. But there's something very satisfying about the fact that my boobs have the awesome power to feed and nourish my daughter. This along with the awesome powers I already knew they possessed. Hot damn, the sisters have skills!
Fiona's next appointment next month will likely be less fun as she'll be getting her first round of vaccinations. I'm already dreading it, hating to see her in pain of any kind. Especially legitimate pain. She squawks plenty from silly stuff like being changed when she's really hungry, or being put down when she's feeling needy. But this appointment will produce serious owies, and I am already steeling myself for the trauma my poor daughter will be experiencing. I get upset when my cats and dog get shots. I think seeing my own flesh and blood get pricked will probably drive me a little batty. Sorry, battier.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
The First Month: A Review
Amazingly, four weeks have already passed. Four weeks. Not four days, which is what it feels like. Everyone says it, and I knew to expect the phenomenon from watching my little sister go from adorable baby to antagonizing pre-teen in about 20 minutes flat: it is so true that time flies when you have a new baby. Fiona is already a completely different child than the one who emerged from me just over four weeks ago. And I suppose it stands to reason that my husband and I are also pretty different at this point, too.
I realize that I dedicated my last several posts have been about labor and sleepless nights instead of chronicling what our daily lives have been like since Fiona's birth. This is, of course, because time has been limited and I opted to tell the story of her birth (as well as provide a detailed rant about her occasional late night feeding issues) before telling the story of her life. So I'm a little behind I guess. Here is a brief recap of each of the last four weeks of our new life with Fiona.
Week One
The first few days were, obviously, pretty chaotic. She was born midday on Friday the 17th. The next few days are a haze of visitors, being poked and prodded by a variety of medical personnel, hanging out in bed all day, and feeling utterly exhausted and overwhelmed. And when it's not visiting hours, hospital life can get pretty lonely. Especially in the wee hours of the morning when there's nothing but crappy informercials on the mere 13 channels the hospital TV offers. Being awakened every 2 hours to breastfeed a tiny, squalling person about which you know virtually nothing other than that she came out of you (at great cost to your figure and your lady bits) didn't help much either. I was happy to see her every time she was brought to me, but the need for sleep was overwhelming.
On Sunday we brought our new family member home. Our first night was no picnic. Fiona had already lost weight in the hospital since my milk hadn't come in yet. This was no surprise and nothing to be concerned about, but I should have expected that Fiona would be hungry beyond what my body was making for her to eat. So I had my first new mother meltdown at about 2:00 in the morning when my daughter, starving to death, could not be calmed. And I, more exhausted than I had ever been in my entire life, did not know what to do and was pretty much in the same boat. Thankfully, my husband and mother both woke up and talked me off my ledge. But it wasn't pretty, and it's not a fond memory.
I don't even remember Monday at all, but I know it must have been tough because we got on the phone with the pediatrician we were so concerned about Fiona. So, Tuesday found us at the pediatrician. With Fiona not seeming to get any food into her (and thus neither peeing nor pooping like we wanted her to), we were just beside ourselves. The pediatrician assured us that Fiona, in spite of having lost 20% (a full pound) of her weight, was fine. Unfortunately, she did have a bit of jaundice, so we had to go to the hospital to have blood taken and tested to see just how bad it was and what treatment was warranted. So, a day after leaving the hospital, we were back. While there, we also visited the lactation consultant who managed to restore some of the sanity I had lost two nights before when she helped me feed my poor starving kid.
Wednesday was the first time I left Fiona. The carpal tunnel that had been getting progressively worse in the final weeks of my pregnancy had worsened to the point that it was getting difficult to care for her. Everything I did with my right arm sent me through the roof with pain. I had no doubt that the amount of fluid still stuck in me had everything to do with it, but I couldn't wait anymore and went to my hand and wrist doctor for a cortisone shot. Fiona stayed with my mom while my mother-in-law drove me (since I wasn't supposed to drive for two weeks and M had returned to work as of Wednesday). Even though I fed the little piggy right before I left, Fiona demanded to be fed during the two hours I was gone, so my mom gave her the bottle I had left behind (thank you, pump!). It was not as hard to leave her as I thought it would be, which made me feel a little guilty. But I think it wasn't so difficult because 1) I left her with my mom, who had been around since Fiona had been born and knew how to calm her, and 2) it was absolutely necessary for me to get the problem of my wrist handled sooner rather than later.
Other parts of that first week are a bit hazy at this point. I know there was a lot of exhaustion and probably some more tears as Fiona and I adjusted to each other. But looking back, it's quite a blur. We did manage to leave the house a few times before the first week was over, taking our first shopping trips on Thursday the 23rd (to Target) and Friday the 24th (to Babies R Us). The BRU trip also marked our first semi-public feeding. I say "semi-public" because BRU has this awesome room called the Mothers Room that is outfitted with a few chairs and couches so mothers can breastfeed and change their children. Totally separate from the bathroom. While I'm not a huge fan of box stores such as BRU, I have to say this particular offering is pretty darn cool and I really appreciate that they have it.
Week Two
Not much more to say about this week. More exhaustion, more getting to know each other. Early in the week, Fiona lost her umbilical stump that Saturday, and got her first kisses from Ollie - who had previously been terrified of her - on Sunday. Really, it was like a switch flipped with the dog. He wanted nothing to do with her for the first week, and would run away from someone holding her. But then on Sunday, he suddenly wanted to lick her endlessly. Either he decided he loved her, or he realized she could be a tasty treat. We're still trying to determine exactly which one it is. I'm opting for love.
As for myself, the early part of the second week finally revealed the ankles that had disappeared over a month before. At last! No more cankles! Seriously, this was an extremely joyous day for me. Also, I was able to wear shoes other than flip-flops again, which I had been confined to for at least six weeks prior to giving birth. I was one swollen puppy, but finally I was returning to normal. By the 26th, only 9 days after having Fiona, I'd dropped 30 pounds of the 38 I gained overall. Pushing out a kid and feeding it from the boob? Best. Weightloss. Plan. EVER!
Week Three
My mother went home exactly 3 weeks after she had arrived. For the week leading up to her departure, I was in an utter panic, fearing I would fail utterly as a mother. Not to mention I would never again be able to find the time to pee, wash my hair, dust my living room, change my clothes, or anything else that would require putting the baby down. But I wasn't so worried about the emotional impact of her leaving until I drove her to the airport. As I watched her say goodbye to Fiona and realized she wouldn't see her again for an untold number of months, I was overcome.
Having my own daughter made the importance of my own mother much more poignant. I realized I didn't need my mother as a pair of helping hands. I wanted her around to see her granddaughter grow and change, as well as to see me grow into motherhood. So far, Fiona and I have managed to get along without her NaiNai (her grandmotherly designation), and I do find the time to pee and complete other tasks. At least to some degree. But I do miss having my mom around to help take care of me. Nobody ever takes care of you the way your mother does.
Week Four
Week four, for as recently as it happened, is the most blurry to me. I think that's because things are evening out. Fiona is starting to sleep for longer stretches, and developing more of a personality. And having her is less of a novelty and more of a reality. I'm adjusting to motherhood, M is adjusting to fatherhood, and we're all adjusting to being a family. Every day, I am more and more amazed at how beautiful this little creature is. Honestly, I think she is likely the most adorable baby ever created. I may be biased. But she's certainly the cutest member of this particular family, I assure you.
I realize that I dedicated my last several posts have been about labor and sleepless nights instead of chronicling what our daily lives have been like since Fiona's birth. This is, of course, because time has been limited and I opted to tell the story of her birth (as well as provide a detailed rant about her occasional late night feeding issues) before telling the story of her life. So I'm a little behind I guess. Here is a brief recap of each of the last four weeks of our new life with Fiona.
Week One
The first few days were, obviously, pretty chaotic. She was born midday on Friday the 17th. The next few days are a haze of visitors, being poked and prodded by a variety of medical personnel, hanging out in bed all day, and feeling utterly exhausted and overwhelmed. And when it's not visiting hours, hospital life can get pretty lonely. Especially in the wee hours of the morning when there's nothing but crappy informercials on the mere 13 channels the hospital TV offers. Being awakened every 2 hours to breastfeed a tiny, squalling person about which you know virtually nothing other than that she came out of you (at great cost to your figure and your lady bits) didn't help much either. I was happy to see her every time she was brought to me, but the need for sleep was overwhelming.
On Sunday we brought our new family member home. Our first night was no picnic. Fiona had already lost weight in the hospital since my milk hadn't come in yet. This was no surprise and nothing to be concerned about, but I should have expected that Fiona would be hungry beyond what my body was making for her to eat. So I had my first new mother meltdown at about 2:00 in the morning when my daughter, starving to death, could not be calmed. And I, more exhausted than I had ever been in my entire life, did not know what to do and was pretty much in the same boat. Thankfully, my husband and mother both woke up and talked me off my ledge. But it wasn't pretty, and it's not a fond memory.
I don't even remember Monday at all, but I know it must have been tough because we got on the phone with the pediatrician we were so concerned about Fiona. So, Tuesday found us at the pediatrician. With Fiona not seeming to get any food into her (and thus neither peeing nor pooping like we wanted her to), we were just beside ourselves. The pediatrician assured us that Fiona, in spite of having lost 20% (a full pound) of her weight, was fine. Unfortunately, she did have a bit of jaundice, so we had to go to the hospital to have blood taken and tested to see just how bad it was and what treatment was warranted. So, a day after leaving the hospital, we were back. While there, we also visited the lactation consultant who managed to restore some of the sanity I had lost two nights before when she helped me feed my poor starving kid.
Wednesday was the first time I left Fiona. The carpal tunnel that had been getting progressively worse in the final weeks of my pregnancy had worsened to the point that it was getting difficult to care for her. Everything I did with my right arm sent me through the roof with pain. I had no doubt that the amount of fluid still stuck in me had everything to do with it, but I couldn't wait anymore and went to my hand and wrist doctor for a cortisone shot. Fiona stayed with my mom while my mother-in-law drove me (since I wasn't supposed to drive for two weeks and M had returned to work as of Wednesday). Even though I fed the little piggy right before I left, Fiona demanded to be fed during the two hours I was gone, so my mom gave her the bottle I had left behind (thank you, pump!). It was not as hard to leave her as I thought it would be, which made me feel a little guilty. But I think it wasn't so difficult because 1) I left her with my mom, who had been around since Fiona had been born and knew how to calm her, and 2) it was absolutely necessary for me to get the problem of my wrist handled sooner rather than later.
Other parts of that first week are a bit hazy at this point. I know there was a lot of exhaustion and probably some more tears as Fiona and I adjusted to each other. But looking back, it's quite a blur. We did manage to leave the house a few times before the first week was over, taking our first shopping trips on Thursday the 23rd (to Target) and Friday the 24th (to Babies R Us). The BRU trip also marked our first semi-public feeding. I say "semi-public" because BRU has this awesome room called the Mothers Room that is outfitted with a few chairs and couches so mothers can breastfeed and change their children. Totally separate from the bathroom. While I'm not a huge fan of box stores such as BRU, I have to say this particular offering is pretty darn cool and I really appreciate that they have it.
Week Two
Not much more to say about this week. More exhaustion, more getting to know each other. Early in the week, Fiona lost her umbilical stump that Saturday, and got her first kisses from Ollie - who had previously been terrified of her - on Sunday. Really, it was like a switch flipped with the dog. He wanted nothing to do with her for the first week, and would run away from someone holding her. But then on Sunday, he suddenly wanted to lick her endlessly. Either he decided he loved her, or he realized she could be a tasty treat. We're still trying to determine exactly which one it is. I'm opting for love.
As for myself, the early part of the second week finally revealed the ankles that had disappeared over a month before. At last! No more cankles! Seriously, this was an extremely joyous day for me. Also, I was able to wear shoes other than flip-flops again, which I had been confined to for at least six weeks prior to giving birth. I was one swollen puppy, but finally I was returning to normal. By the 26th, only 9 days after having Fiona, I'd dropped 30 pounds of the 38 I gained overall. Pushing out a kid and feeding it from the boob? Best. Weightloss. Plan. EVER!
Week Three
My mother went home exactly 3 weeks after she had arrived. For the week leading up to her departure, I was in an utter panic, fearing I would fail utterly as a mother. Not to mention I would never again be able to find the time to pee, wash my hair, dust my living room, change my clothes, or anything else that would require putting the baby down. But I wasn't so worried about the emotional impact of her leaving until I drove her to the airport. As I watched her say goodbye to Fiona and realized she wouldn't see her again for an untold number of months, I was overcome.
Having my own daughter made the importance of my own mother much more poignant. I realized I didn't need my mother as a pair of helping hands. I wanted her around to see her granddaughter grow and change, as well as to see me grow into motherhood. So far, Fiona and I have managed to get along without her NaiNai (her grandmotherly designation), and I do find the time to pee and complete other tasks. At least to some degree. But I do miss having my mom around to help take care of me. Nobody ever takes care of you the way your mother does.
Week Four
Week four, for as recently as it happened, is the most blurry to me. I think that's because things are evening out. Fiona is starting to sleep for longer stretches, and developing more of a personality. And having her is less of a novelty and more of a reality. I'm adjusting to motherhood, M is adjusting to fatherhood, and we're all adjusting to being a family. Every day, I am more and more amazed at how beautiful this little creature is. Honestly, I think she is likely the most adorable baby ever created. I may be biased. But she's certainly the cutest member of this particular family, I assure you.
Fiona, meet the bottle. Bottle, meet Fiona
We officially introduced Fiona to a bottle this weekend. She had eaten from a bottle once before when I had to leave her for more than two hours when she was only five days old and I had a doctor appointment. But it was a last resort kind of thing - we'd hoped she'd hold out and not need to eat while I was gone since it was very early in the breastfeeding process.
But once she hit four weeks last Friday, and breastfeeding has been well established (along with my milk supply), it seemed like the right time to let M participate in feeding our daughter. Not to mention give my poor nipples a break from time to time. I had pumped a good 3.5 ounces earlier in the day, so as we settled in for the evening and hoped for a peaceful night, M prepared a bottle and sat down to feed Fiona for the first time. Little piggie took right to it, caring nothing for the different nipple.
I expected to feel a kind of relief as I got a much needed break from the frequent feedings Fiona demands. I was surprised when I felt overwhelming jealousy. Not so much of my husband, since I'm eager for him to experience every part of caring for our kid. It was the bottle I resented. The bottle that was holding milk I had made. And the lowlife, incompetent nipple delivering that milk to my daughter just pissed me off. I kept wanting to snatch Fiona from her father and that horrible bottle and put her to my breast where she belonged. As it turned out, I got my chance anyway when the 3.5 ounces wasn't enough for her. Hooray!
This was clearly a reaction brought on by some hormonal imbalance due to childbirth. Either that or I'm just a major freak. I'm leaning toward the latter. I've been complaining about sore nipples and excessive responsibility for several days now. You'd think I'd be over the moon to share the task of feeding her. But when it comes down to it, feeding her is really the only thing that, up to this point, has belonged to just her and me. And for the most part it still does. After all, I'm the one home with her all day, every day. And we don't give her formula, so I'm still the one making all her food. No doubt, this too shall pass. In the meantime, however, I'll be shooting evil looks at the bottle and fake nipple. Clearly, they're trying to come between me and my daughter.
But once she hit four weeks last Friday, and breastfeeding has been well established (along with my milk supply), it seemed like the right time to let M participate in feeding our daughter. Not to mention give my poor nipples a break from time to time. I had pumped a good 3.5 ounces earlier in the day, so as we settled in for the evening and hoped for a peaceful night, M prepared a bottle and sat down to feed Fiona for the first time. Little piggie took right to it, caring nothing for the different nipple.
I expected to feel a kind of relief as I got a much needed break from the frequent feedings Fiona demands. I was surprised when I felt overwhelming jealousy. Not so much of my husband, since I'm eager for him to experience every part of caring for our kid. It was the bottle I resented. The bottle that was holding milk I had made. And the lowlife, incompetent nipple delivering that milk to my daughter just pissed me off. I kept wanting to snatch Fiona from her father and that horrible bottle and put her to my breast where she belonged. As it turned out, I got my chance anyway when the 3.5 ounces wasn't enough for her. Hooray!
This was clearly a reaction brought on by some hormonal imbalance due to childbirth. Either that or I'm just a major freak. I'm leaning toward the latter. I've been complaining about sore nipples and excessive responsibility for several days now. You'd think I'd be over the moon to share the task of feeding her. But when it comes down to it, feeding her is really the only thing that, up to this point, has belonged to just her and me. And for the most part it still does. After all, I'm the one home with her all day, every day. And we don't give her formula, so I'm still the one making all her food. No doubt, this too shall pass. In the meantime, however, I'll be shooting evil looks at the bottle and fake nipple. Clearly, they're trying to come between me and my daughter.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
4:40 am - Marathon night sessions
This is the time of night I cherish. Oh, wait, no, that's not right. This is the time of night I want to scream bloody hell, throw in the towel, and jump off a bridge. This isn't every night, but it's probably half of them. The nights when Fiona decides that only her first 30 or 40 minutes of her late night feeding session will be peaceful, and then the rest of it is going to suck righteously. And so is she. So as I hold my breath for her to stay asleep now that I've put her down after two hours of feeding, burping, attempting unsuccessfully to burp, cajoling, calming, attempting unsuccessfully to calm, and growing exceedingly frustrated with this whole breastfeeding my daughter baloney, I'm going to use this time to decompress and further scare the ever living pants off of all my readers who occasionally wonder whether having a baby is for them.
Typically these marathon sessions go like this: after a surprising 3- or 4-hour stretch of sleep (very unusual for our 2-hour-maximum sleeper), I'll go into the nursery to find Little Miss Hungry clicking for a nipple (I say "clicking" because she makes a cute vocal smacking noise when she's trying to wake herself up to eat). At this point, I am always more than happy to oblige. Some night feeding sessions are really lovely and rewarding, when she's peaceful and sleepy and looks right at me as she eats. So we settle into the glider rocker for some late night chow. Now, Fiona has been known to be a spitter - occasionally of the projectile variety - so pulling her off every five or so minutes to be burped usually figures into the equation. Sometimes this irritates her. When it does, it is a sign of pending doom as far as the amount of sleep I'm going to get for the rest of the night.
After the first 10 minutes and two good burps, if she's still hungry, we go back to it. But by now, burping will be nearly impossible. This is why when we get beyond the first 10 minutes in a nighttime feeding session, I know I'm screwed. Because if she can't burp, that means she's got gas. And like any obsessive eater, a full and gassy tummy will not stand in the way of her eating herself silly. In fact, this feeling will probably make her want to shove that much more food into her tiny little gullet. But now her eating will take on an urgency that veers toward panic. Pulling her off for a good burp results in about 15 minutes of fruitless back smacking paired with intermittent high-pitched screeching wails of protest. Right into my ear canal, usually.
After the 15 minutes of attempted burping, if she's still wailing, I'll give in and put her back to the breast, hoping she didn't already suck it dry. But because her tummy hurts, Fiona won't just nurse peacefully. Heavens no. She tosses her head about like a drunkard and flails her arms like she's in a Tool video (watch right around the 4:00 mark and you'll see what I mean). I can stick the nipple directly in her mouth, but she'll still holler like I've been denying her food for weeks, apparently not noticing that what she wants is in her mouth.
This will continue for an untold period of time. There will be countless more ineffective attempts to burp her, but there is a 98% chance I will get barfed on multiple times. Even as I write this, I am watching a particularly large patch of spit up breast milk on my pajamas dry. More screaming will ensue, as will more desperate attempts to shove the nipple in her mouth so she is quiet for at least one precious moment or two (knowing full well it will lead to me getting spit up on). There will be begging and pleading for mercy on my part. I will stick the pacifier in her mouth multiple times as well in an effort to calm her down and get her to stop using my poor beleaguered nipples as binkies with benefits. And until that random, surprising moment when she simply drops off to sleep for no apparent reason, this pattern will continue.
So far the longest marathon session lasted 3 hours. Tonight's was only 2, so perhaps I should count my blessings. The problem is that afterwards, because I'm awake for so long and don't have the luxury of being a newborn who can fall asleep anytime, anywhere at all hours of the day (that phenomenon occurs only when I really don't want it to), I'm left wide awake and not a little resentful of Fiona, my darling husband, and the dog, all of whom are getting to sleep through the night just as much as they want. In Fiona's case, of course, what she misses out on in sleep during the night hours will be made up during the following day - if I'm lucky. And if I'm extra lucky, she'll allow me to take a nap of more than 20 minutes at some point.
From the silence coming through the baby monitor, it seems as though sleepytime for Fiona has taken hold, and I can safely crawl back into bed. Having spent this time chilling out, I may even be able to fall asleep in short order - only to have to get up again in a couple hours. Let's hope the light of day brings a little more peace. And for those of you who think this kind of business is reason enough to swear of having children forever, I'd rethink it. Once I've gotten a little more sleep and the ringing in my ears from Fiona screaming directly into them has faded, I'll have a whole new perspective and I'll want nothing more than to kiss and hug her all day long because I love her so much. It's just these damn wee hours that get to me.
Typically these marathon sessions go like this: after a surprising 3- or 4-hour stretch of sleep (very unusual for our 2-hour-maximum sleeper), I'll go into the nursery to find Little Miss Hungry clicking for a nipple (I say "clicking" because she makes a cute vocal smacking noise when she's trying to wake herself up to eat). At this point, I am always more than happy to oblige. Some night feeding sessions are really lovely and rewarding, when she's peaceful and sleepy and looks right at me as she eats. So we settle into the glider rocker for some late night chow. Now, Fiona has been known to be a spitter - occasionally of the projectile variety - so pulling her off every five or so minutes to be burped usually figures into the equation. Sometimes this irritates her. When it does, it is a sign of pending doom as far as the amount of sleep I'm going to get for the rest of the night.
After the first 10 minutes and two good burps, if she's still hungry, we go back to it. But by now, burping will be nearly impossible. This is why when we get beyond the first 10 minutes in a nighttime feeding session, I know I'm screwed. Because if she can't burp, that means she's got gas. And like any obsessive eater, a full and gassy tummy will not stand in the way of her eating herself silly. In fact, this feeling will probably make her want to shove that much more food into her tiny little gullet. But now her eating will take on an urgency that veers toward panic. Pulling her off for a good burp results in about 15 minutes of fruitless back smacking paired with intermittent high-pitched screeching wails of protest. Right into my ear canal, usually.
After the 15 minutes of attempted burping, if she's still wailing, I'll give in and put her back to the breast, hoping she didn't already suck it dry. But because her tummy hurts, Fiona won't just nurse peacefully. Heavens no. She tosses her head about like a drunkard and flails her arms like she's in a Tool video (watch right around the 4:00 mark and you'll see what I mean). I can stick the nipple directly in her mouth, but she'll still holler like I've been denying her food for weeks, apparently not noticing that what she wants is in her mouth.
This will continue for an untold period of time. There will be countless more ineffective attempts to burp her, but there is a 98% chance I will get barfed on multiple times. Even as I write this, I am watching a particularly large patch of spit up breast milk on my pajamas dry. More screaming will ensue, as will more desperate attempts to shove the nipple in her mouth so she is quiet for at least one precious moment or two (knowing full well it will lead to me getting spit up on). There will be begging and pleading for mercy on my part. I will stick the pacifier in her mouth multiple times as well in an effort to calm her down and get her to stop using my poor beleaguered nipples as binkies with benefits. And until that random, surprising moment when she simply drops off to sleep for no apparent reason, this pattern will continue.
So far the longest marathon session lasted 3 hours. Tonight's was only 2, so perhaps I should count my blessings. The problem is that afterwards, because I'm awake for so long and don't have the luxury of being a newborn who can fall asleep anytime, anywhere at all hours of the day (that phenomenon occurs only when I really don't want it to), I'm left wide awake and not a little resentful of Fiona, my darling husband, and the dog, all of whom are getting to sleep through the night just as much as they want. In Fiona's case, of course, what she misses out on in sleep during the night hours will be made up during the following day - if I'm lucky. And if I'm extra lucky, she'll allow me to take a nap of more than 20 minutes at some point.
From the silence coming through the baby monitor, it seems as though sleepytime for Fiona has taken hold, and I can safely crawl back into bed. Having spent this time chilling out, I may even be able to fall asleep in short order - only to have to get up again in a couple hours. Let's hope the light of day brings a little more peace. And for those of you who think this kind of business is reason enough to swear of having children forever, I'd rethink it. Once I've gotten a little more sleep and the ringing in my ears from Fiona screaming directly into them has faded, I'll have a whole new perspective and I'll want nothing more than to kiss and hug her all day long because I love her so much. It's just these damn wee hours that get to me.
Friday, September 7, 2007
The Labor Story - Part Three
Now that it's been three weeks since I went through all this, I suppose it's time to finish up the story. When I left off, I had taken Nubain and was getting to relax a little bit. That lasted for about an hour and-a-half, when the Nubain wore off. That was really unfortunate, I must say. More contractions, back to full force. It was getting worse before it would get better.
Things are a little fuzzy now that I look back. But then, they were a little fuzzy the morning after it happened. So I'm sure the next several events I'm going to relay are out of order, not quite right, or otherwise compromised. Whatever, you'll get the picture. But the way I remember it is like this: After the Nubain wore off, I was back in a lot of pain (naturally), but I had continued to progress. As to how much progression there had been, I can't remember. But there was talk of "bulging waters" whenever I'd have a contraction. Since my water hadn't broken yet, I thought this might be a sign that I'd break my own water rather than having it done manually by the doctor with the scary water-breaking hook thingy. Sure enough, in the midst of a particularly hard contraction sometime later, I felt an enormous gush of water. Like peeing my pants, only 1) out of an unusual area, and 2) accompanied with a LOT of pain.
Once my water had broken, the pain shifted. Up to that point, the pain had been caused by a bag of water against bone. With the bag gone, the pain was now caused by the Weeble's bony skull against my pelvic bones. I don't think it was too terribly long after that I gave in completely and asked for the epidural. This was a big step for me.
Let me back up a bit. I don't like things to do with the spine. It's just a thing with me. When it comes to the very sensitive business taking place on my back, I want everyone's hands off. Granted, epidurals are done so commonly, I had no real need to be worried about damage. And of course, I still didn't want to slow things down. But at that point, labor could have gone on for six more days and I wouldn't have cared so long as I didn't feel like my insides were being ripped out with meat hooks. So the epidural doctor or whoever came in and sent M away (apparently husbands don't get to watch this kind of thing being done - guess I'm not the only one with spinal issues). It wasn't painful at all having the catheter inserted. The only difficult part was being curled into myself while having contractions. Thankfully, the doctor was highly practiced and it took fewer than five minutes (I think) and only two contractions. When the drugs started into my system, it was cold, tingly, and uncomfortable. And then it was pure joy as my lower half disappeared. Well, not completely. I could still feel the pressure of contractions, but it was no longer painful. When M returned to the room, he found me relaxed and happy. We took advantage by both taking an hour-long nap.
After the nap, things really get fuzzy. Someone must have checked me at some point and decided it was getting time for me to push or something. Next thing I know, the nurse has got one of my legs and M has the other, and I'm being told to grab the backs of my thighs and start pushing. Now, for those of you who haven't gotten to participate in the delights of pushing out a baby, allow me to elaborate on the pushing process. In short, pushing out a baby should (and does) feel much like pushing out a monster turd. Yes, that is correct. If it feels like you're going to poop your pants, you're doing it right.
I'd read all about this and heard it from friends who had labored with their babies. So it wasn't a complete surprise. What was a surprise was that this first stage of pushing took place with only the nurse and M in the room - not the 54 odd people I'd been led to believe were in the delivery room at any given moment. I had been semi-OK with the idea that I might drop a load on the table to a large audience while pushing the kid out. I was decidedly less OK with my audience being just my husband. That's the height of vulnerability, not to mention seriously "ew".
Overall, I think I pushed for about 90 minutes or so. The nurse, god bless her, was kind and generous and didn't make me push with every contraction, allowing me to take a break. The epidural had worn off completely by this point, so every push just enhanced that earlier feeling of my insides being ripped out by meat hooks. When the doctor came in, however, it was all work and no rest. No breaks with that guy (my doctor had long since ended her shift). It was "Push, push, push! Keep going! Harder! HARDER!" GAH!
The rest of it is quite a blur. I remember one particularly nasty contraction that went on for something like five minutes (and that left me in tears). I remember telling M I wanted to stop and go home. And I remember a lot of pain and pressure. I'd describe it, but there are people with sensitive stomaches that read this blog and I like to retain as many readers as possible. Besides, nobody can really know what it felt like except for me. I assure you, this portion of labor is what warranted the comment, "Labor sucks".
Halfway through the pushing, I had to have an episiotomy; or, as the doctor referred to it, "a small nick". I didn't feel it, what with all the other stuff going on down there. But I did see it since the nurses had set up a mirror for my viewing enjoyment. I can't say I'd recommend the mirror to everyone, but I did appreciate it - particularly when the Weeble made her appearance. Before that moment, though, it was quite the experience just to watch my lady business be utterly and completely altered by the efforts of pushing out the kid. Again, I won't provide details. Besides, I'd just as soon forget what I saw anyway.
The last few moments of pushing were the most excruciating. I'd been having contractions on top of one another, no breaks to speak of. The baby's head was finally out, and on the next push, her shoulders were, too. And then the doctor made me stop pushing. He needed to position her properly, I guess. So no pushing. WORST PAIN EVER. I can't really explain the pushing urge, but it's something your body feels compelled to do. And by "compelled" I mean you'd rather poke a large stick in your eye than NOT push when the urge arises. So when the doctor said to stop pushing, that was bad enough. Add the fact that I had to stop while her shoulders were halfway out... oh, god, I get faint just thinking about it. Then I just had to wait for the next contraction. Only, suddenly, it wouldn't come. And wouldn't come. And wouldn't come. I don't know how long we waited for it, but at one point I yelled, "Where is the goddamn contraction!?!?"
In the end, the contraction finally came, and so did Fiona. She had an amazingly round head for a baby that came through the birth canal. It was so round that for the rest of our hospital stay people kept assuming she'd arrived by c-section. I got to take one good look at her before they whisked her off to the opposite side of the room to weigh her and evaluate her. Meanwhile, the doctor set about fixing up my nether regions while Fiona aced her Apgars (9 and 10). I didn't get to hold her again for about 40 minutes, which was no fun. But I guess holding her while being stitched up down there wouldn't have been so great either, since I was yelling "Ow ow ow ow!" at the doctor.
But then they put her in my arms and I was overcome. Sure, it was the flood of emotion and love that you feel when you hold your new child. But mostly I was overwhelmed by the final reward for all the work of labor. Here she was at last. I had worked so hard for her, and it hurt so badly. But she was there. And she was perfect.
Things are a little fuzzy now that I look back. But then, they were a little fuzzy the morning after it happened. So I'm sure the next several events I'm going to relay are out of order, not quite right, or otherwise compromised. Whatever, you'll get the picture. But the way I remember it is like this: After the Nubain wore off, I was back in a lot of pain (naturally), but I had continued to progress. As to how much progression there had been, I can't remember. But there was talk of "bulging waters" whenever I'd have a contraction. Since my water hadn't broken yet, I thought this might be a sign that I'd break my own water rather than having it done manually by the doctor with the scary water-breaking hook thingy. Sure enough, in the midst of a particularly hard contraction sometime later, I felt an enormous gush of water. Like peeing my pants, only 1) out of an unusual area, and 2) accompanied with a LOT of pain.
Once my water had broken, the pain shifted. Up to that point, the pain had been caused by a bag of water against bone. With the bag gone, the pain was now caused by the Weeble's bony skull against my pelvic bones. I don't think it was too terribly long after that I gave in completely and asked for the epidural. This was a big step for me.
Let me back up a bit. I don't like things to do with the spine. It's just a thing with me. When it comes to the very sensitive business taking place on my back, I want everyone's hands off. Granted, epidurals are done so commonly, I had no real need to be worried about damage. And of course, I still didn't want to slow things down. But at that point, labor could have gone on for six more days and I wouldn't have cared so long as I didn't feel like my insides were being ripped out with meat hooks. So the epidural doctor or whoever came in and sent M away (apparently husbands don't get to watch this kind of thing being done - guess I'm not the only one with spinal issues). It wasn't painful at all having the catheter inserted. The only difficult part was being curled into myself while having contractions. Thankfully, the doctor was highly practiced and it took fewer than five minutes (I think) and only two contractions. When the drugs started into my system, it was cold, tingly, and uncomfortable. And then it was pure joy as my lower half disappeared. Well, not completely. I could still feel the pressure of contractions, but it was no longer painful. When M returned to the room, he found me relaxed and happy. We took advantage by both taking an hour-long nap.
After the nap, things really get fuzzy. Someone must have checked me at some point and decided it was getting time for me to push or something. Next thing I know, the nurse has got one of my legs and M has the other, and I'm being told to grab the backs of my thighs and start pushing. Now, for those of you who haven't gotten to participate in the delights of pushing out a baby, allow me to elaborate on the pushing process. In short, pushing out a baby should (and does) feel much like pushing out a monster turd. Yes, that is correct. If it feels like you're going to poop your pants, you're doing it right.
I'd read all about this and heard it from friends who had labored with their babies. So it wasn't a complete surprise. What was a surprise was that this first stage of pushing took place with only the nurse and M in the room - not the 54 odd people I'd been led to believe were in the delivery room at any given moment. I had been semi-OK with the idea that I might drop a load on the table to a large audience while pushing the kid out. I was decidedly less OK with my audience being just my husband. That's the height of vulnerability, not to mention seriously "ew".
Overall, I think I pushed for about 90 minutes or so. The nurse, god bless her, was kind and generous and didn't make me push with every contraction, allowing me to take a break. The epidural had worn off completely by this point, so every push just enhanced that earlier feeling of my insides being ripped out by meat hooks. When the doctor came in, however, it was all work and no rest. No breaks with that guy (my doctor had long since ended her shift). It was "Push, push, push! Keep going! Harder! HARDER!" GAH!
The rest of it is quite a blur. I remember one particularly nasty contraction that went on for something like five minutes (and that left me in tears). I remember telling M I wanted to stop and go home. And I remember a lot of pain and pressure. I'd describe it, but there are people with sensitive stomaches that read this blog and I like to retain as many readers as possible. Besides, nobody can really know what it felt like except for me. I assure you, this portion of labor is what warranted the comment, "Labor sucks".
Halfway through the pushing, I had to have an episiotomy; or, as the doctor referred to it, "a small nick". I didn't feel it, what with all the other stuff going on down there. But I did see it since the nurses had set up a mirror for my viewing enjoyment. I can't say I'd recommend the mirror to everyone, but I did appreciate it - particularly when the Weeble made her appearance. Before that moment, though, it was quite the experience just to watch my lady business be utterly and completely altered by the efforts of pushing out the kid. Again, I won't provide details. Besides, I'd just as soon forget what I saw anyway.
The last few moments of pushing were the most excruciating. I'd been having contractions on top of one another, no breaks to speak of. The baby's head was finally out, and on the next push, her shoulders were, too. And then the doctor made me stop pushing. He needed to position her properly, I guess. So no pushing. WORST PAIN EVER. I can't really explain the pushing urge, but it's something your body feels compelled to do. And by "compelled" I mean you'd rather poke a large stick in your eye than NOT push when the urge arises. So when the doctor said to stop pushing, that was bad enough. Add the fact that I had to stop while her shoulders were halfway out... oh, god, I get faint just thinking about it. Then I just had to wait for the next contraction. Only, suddenly, it wouldn't come. And wouldn't come. And wouldn't come. I don't know how long we waited for it, but at one point I yelled, "Where is the goddamn contraction!?!?"
In the end, the contraction finally came, and so did Fiona. She had an amazingly round head for a baby that came through the birth canal. It was so round that for the rest of our hospital stay people kept assuming she'd arrived by c-section. I got to take one good look at her before they whisked her off to the opposite side of the room to weigh her and evaluate her. Meanwhile, the doctor set about fixing up my nether regions while Fiona aced her Apgars (9 and 10). I didn't get to hold her again for about 40 minutes, which was no fun. But I guess holding her while being stitched up down there wouldn't have been so great either, since I was yelling "Ow ow ow ow!" at the doctor.
But then they put her in my arms and I was overcome. Sure, it was the flood of emotion and love that you feel when you hold your new child. But mostly I was overwhelmed by the final reward for all the work of labor. Here she was at last. I had worked so hard for her, and it hurt so badly. But she was there. And she was perfect.
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