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It’s been quiet around the blawg lately, but that’s because in the past week our household has undergone some major transitions. And why not get back on the WordPress horse and spend my Sunday evening telling the world about them?
It started with Avalon sleeping in her crib during her nap times. She seemed to be adjusting well to being in her crib, so since she had been sleeping decently at night (in our room), I declared Friday night THE NIGHT, the first night she would sleep in her crib, upstairs, in her own room. So how did it go, right? Well, to be honest, it went okay. Just okay. Or maybe more than okay, something like Pretty Well, But Mama Was Nervous And Spent Most Of The Night Praying And Listening And Praying And Then Listening Some More. What I mean is, thank goodness for baby monitors because my ears were perked up all night long, waiting to hear any and all the squeaks and snores and screams that Avalon would make. Seriously, what did people do before baby monitors?
Moving Avalon upstairs to her own room, then, meant putting away her Pack n’ Play from our bedroom. Suddenly I have space! So much space! And no more diapers and wipes and burp clothes all over my nightstand! I feel like I am really moving up in the world.
Speaking of moving up (that segue was awesome! And a real indicator that I NEED TO GO TO BED.), Avalon moved up a diaper size this week, AREN’T YOU LOVING THESE DETAILS I’M SHARING WITH YOU? I think she’s getting close to fitting in the cloth diapers I bought, so I’ve been doing all the pre-washing and getting ready for her to start wearing those instead of disposables.
Also major this week: weaning off of breastfeeding. For various reasons, I decided to introduce formula and have subsequently spent this weekend drying out my boobs. Along with some serious pain, I’m also experiencing a bit of a lopsidedness, seriously, I’ve got a DD and B going on right now. It’s really the weirdest look ever, and part of me wants to take a picture so that someday I can look back and laugh at what a freakshow I was, but then I realize how weird it would be to have a photo of these…things. For now I’ll just keep thinking dry thoughts and enjoy the oblique workout that is resulting from all the lopsidedness.
Bottom line, we’re already hitting milestones around here. It’s amazing to me how fast time flies and how instantly babies grow up.
And now I’m going to do us all a favor and quit typing and go to bed.
Last week, at nine weeks postpartum, I squeezed myself back into my spandex yoga pants, stuffed my sports bra with cotton breast pads, and made my way back to the gym. After over two months of absolutely zero physical activity and eating nothing but casserole after casserole, I was more than ready to get my butt kicked back into shape.
I trepidatiously started out with a kickboxing class, assuming I would keel over at least ten times in the middle of the jabs and hooks and HI-YA’s!, but to my surprise I only wanted to collapse once or twice, a fraction of what I had originally expected.
A couple days later I attempted a 45 minute spinning class, however when I looked down at my watch and saw that 43 minutes had already passed and we were still out of the saddle and climbing what I could only imagine to be a Mt. Everest-sized hill instead of cooling down, I quickly figured out that I was actually in the middle of a 60 minute class. Do you know how disappointing it is to realize that instead of only having two more minutes left to sweat, you actually have seventeen more minutes? I instantly decided I deserved an extra Kit Kat for all of my unexpected hard work.
Today I’m going to tackle a kettlebell class, and I am quite certain that I might just die. Whoever decided that throwing around heavy iron balls was a good idea must really enjoy The Torture, and probably also does things like eat live frogs for breakfast and pluck out leg hairs one by one for Friday night entertainment.
But hey, if throwing around kettlebells gets me back into my David Kahn jeans, then I’ll do what I have to do.
Goodbye forever.
Not that I really know much, as I’ve only been a mother for two months so far, but I’ve realized that there are a handful of things that I don’t think I could live without when it comes to this whole parenting thing. Or maybe I’m exaggerating – I guess I could LIVE without them – but would I want to? No. Because this is 2009, People, and we like to take the easy way out of things!
So I’ve put together just a couple of items that have, I think, helped to make life with a newborn a little easier.
1. Breast shield. Yeah, this one is a biggie. I’ve been using a shield since the absolute first time I nursed Avalon; the nurse gave one to me because Avalon was having a hard time latching on, and I’ve been using it this whole time. I’m sure there are some purists out there who think it’s a bad idea, but the nurse said it was fine to use and it has really worked well for us. I have had no pain, no soreness, no bleeding, no grossness. I am a fan, and so is Avalon.
2. Swaddle. Again, we’ve been swaddling Avalon since Day 1. She tends to startle herself really easily, so swaddling helps keep her arms from flailing around and waking her up. I don’t typically swaddle her during the day, however, since I usually put her on her tummy to nap (IN HER CRIB! WITH LOTS OF BLANKETS AND TOYS! AND I DON’T EVER BOTHER TO CHECK ON HER, SOMETIMES I EVEN GO OUT FOR A NICE LONG DRIVE!). Anyway, I think Avalon has even gotten a little Pavlovian thing going on with the swaddle, because when I swaddle her right before her last feeding of the night she eats then falls asleep for six or so hours. I appreciate this.
Also, sidenote: I tried the Miracle Blanket, but I wouldn’t really suggest it to anyone. While it definitely kept her tightly swaddled, it was a major beeyotch to get her in and out of. And in the middle of the night I just didn’t want to deal with that and the risk of waking her too much.
3. Baby Brain App. It was really important to me in the beginning to keep track of Avalon’s eating, sleeping, and pooping schedule. Instead of writing everything down, I spent the last night in the hospital searching the iPhone App Store for something that I could use on my iPhone, thus, the Baby Brain App. It’s really user-friendly and works great for me since I have my iPhone next to me at all times anyway. So while I’m nursing I can read status updates on Facebook AND analyze all of Avalon’s poopy diapers!
4. Miracle Sounds – Maternal Whispers. The same people who make the Miracle Blanket make this CD, an entire hour-long track of nothing but white noise, specifically a heartbeat sound. I don’t use this so much anymore, but for a couple weeks I would play this CD all the time and it would calm Avalon down almost instantly. Before I got it I would shush-shush-shush so much that my lips got really chapped. So this was kind of a godsend, at least for my dry lips.
Another white noise option that also worked: running water. Thank goodness we don’t pay for city water, because for the first three weeks I ran the water all the live-long day and spent most of my days in the bathroom sitting on the floor next to the shower. New moms lead such glamorous lives.
5. KY Jelly. Yes. KY Jelly. And not for the purpose that you’re probably thinking of. I use it almost every day to put bows in Avalon’s hair! See?
I know, I’m sorry, but it’s what the nurses at the hospital told me to use. It’s the weirdest thing – you wouldn’t really think that stuff would get THAT sticky would you? AND MOVING ON…
6. Crock pot. Obviously not directly baby-related, but I’ve gotten more use out of my crock pot in the past month than I have my entire two years of being married. After the steady flow of dinner being brought over by friends and family ended I either had to start cooking dinner or Rob and I were going to eat nothing but instant oatmeal or milkshakes forever. So I pulled out one of my crock pot recipe books and went to town. What’s so great about crock potting is that I only needed to take ten minutes out of my day to chop up some vegetables and by the time evening rolled around we had a great dinner waiting for us. Plus, it made the house smell really good, which made me feel like a really good wife. Even though I barely did anything. Shhh.
So I think that’s about it. What else am I missing? What could you not live without?
So here’s the thing: Avalon and I are in Florida! And here’s the other thing: I had a few anxiety attacks prior to make the trek down here. See, I always get a little anxious when I fly, not because of the FLYING part, but because of the security. I HATE GOING THROUGH SECURITY. Those people are so mean, and so demanding, and do I really need to practically strip down naked to assure those people I’m not hiding a bomb in my bra? So obviously my anxiety was multiplied knowing I was taking my seven week-old through security and on a plane with me. Would she scream the entire way? Would her schedule that I have worked so hard to establish get totally thrown off? How was I going to change her diaper on a plane?
Needless to say, I prayed for safe and seamless travel for the past two weeks. And as always, Jesus provided. Avalon did awesome! She slept the entire car ride to Chicago and all through the airport, security was a breeze, and we even had time to grab a bite to eat at a restaurant before boarding our plane.
Then after we boarded the plane she nursed through take-off and believe it or not, WAS AWAKE THE ENTIRE PLANE RIDE. And didn’t even cry! She just relaxed, sat back, and enjoyed the ride, just as every commercial pilot has instructed his passengers to do. There was one time when she had a bit of an explosion in her diaper, which was bound to happen…so we changed her diaper right there in our row, across the legs of my mom and sister. We instantly became one of those families.
Avalon’s had a lot of fun since we’ve been on vacation and is getting loads of attention from her Mamie and Aunt Courtney. She’s been such a good girl, and we’re going to have so much fun Girl Time with her. We’re starting by having a pillow fight in our panties tonight!
(Part 1 of my labor story here.)
Finally we were at the hospital where they quickly whisked me into triage. Ah, triage, how I despise you. You are like Labor Purgatory, a place where no woman enduring contractions wants to be for too long. It is the unknown- will I stay here and have this baby or have to go back home? – where the only thing running through my head was, Dear God, I hope they take me to a birthing suite soon… God must have heard my desperate, silent plea because in less than 45 minutes they told me I was 3-4 cm dilated, 100% effaced, and I was in the birthing suite hooked up to an IV going about my pacing-and-rocking-and-whooo-whooo-whoooing business.
Shortly thereafter our families arrived at the hospital and came straight into my room, again looking horrified. Can I just state for the record, Mom, that seeing that alarmed look on your face and then witnessing YOU CRY WHEN YOU SAW ME, well, it didn’t exactly help my overall situation. I know you didn’t mean it, but what I took away from your reaction was THAT YOU THOUGHT I MIGHT DIE, WHICH MADE ME THINK, HMM, I MIGHT DIE! THANKS FOR THE HEADS UP! Maybe next time when, God-willing, Baby #2 rolls around you can stroll into my room WITHOUT crying and instead prance into the room with a big smile on your face, perhaps with a little jazz hand action for some added flair, and why not even a throw a party hat on your head? It is a birthday, after all. Hell, bring me cake while you’re at it. Then if someone dares to cry or grimace or shudder in fear after looking at me I CAN DO SOMETHING WITH THAT CAKE.
So amidst this family reunion in my birthing suite, I was – oh yeah! – still in labor. At this point I found that I was getting into a constant rhythm, a pattern of rocking side to side in between contractions then when I felt another contraction coming on I would turn around, head straight for the side of the bed, bend over, and grip the shit out of that handle, all the while whooo-whooo-whoooing until it was over.
I think I went through this cycle approximately a billion or eleventy times. Meanwhile, I also started feeling some back labor which almost felt worse than the contractions themselves. Rob, still feeling helpless, attempted to make himself useful by massaging my lower back while I crouched over the bed (which didn’t help) and sometimes would put a cold washcloth on my bare neck (which also didn’t help. But thanks for the effort, honey). Oh, and I forgot to mention, the reason that my neck was bare? That was because I quickly realized how moronic I was in thinking that I needed to have my hair all beautifully blown out for labor, and shortly into the whole labor process I got to the point where if it took any longer than two seconds to pull my hair up into a pony tail I was going to threaten whoever was in closest proximity to me to pull a Britney Spears and assist me in shaving it all off. Luckily it didn’t come to that.
So there I was in the throes of labor, when my nurse, Susi (who was awesome, just for the record. Hi Susi!), suggested that I “relax” (quotation marks totally necessary) through my contractions. Do you know how impossible it is to “relax” during a contraction? It’s like asking someone to sleep through their REM cycle with their eyes open or asking Oliver to walk to the kitchen on his hind legs to fetch Mama a peanut butter milkshake, and while he’s at it to recite the Declaration of Independence in pig latin. In other words, SORT OF ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE, KIND OF. But I tried to “relax” anyway as much as I could, knowing that if I worked with my body I would progress much quicker than if I fought against it.
Seems that the ol’ “relaxing” thing helped, because when Susi checked me the next time I had already progressed to 6 cm dilated. It was at that point that she asked me if I wanted an epidural. All I remember saying was how tempting that offer sounded, to know that in only a few short minutes I could have total relief from all the pain. It didn’t take me too long to accept the offer and get that infamous needle stuck into my back. Since I knew I wanted to keep my options open to pain management, having not committed myself to a natural birth, I didn’t feel guilty to be getting the drugs. Instead I felt pretty proud of myself for making it that far, to 6 cm, and looked forward to enjoying the rest of the process instead of spending it hunched over the bed handle. The only caveat to the whole thing was that I had to endure about three contractions while actually receiving the epidural, and not being able to move or flinch or bat an eyelash when a gigantic needle is deep within one’s spine is horribly difficult and made the contractions feel even worse.
Only a couple of minutes later when the epidural took effect I was able to chill. Ahhhh. I was a new woman. What was especially awesome at that point was when Rob would stand next to my bed, look up at the computer screen and see those gigantic peaks moving across the monitor, and ask me in total disbelief, “You don’t feel those?!” And no, I didn’t. I DIDN’T! AND IT WAS SO AWESOME! I spent the next two hours just hanging out, waiting for all of my antibiotics to get into my system (I was Strep B positive) before the doctor could come in and break my water. And with all that relaxing and hanging out I progressed to 8 cm dilated.
Finally, with only an hour to go before they would break my water, Rob and I were left alone to get some rest before I started pushing and our lives instantly changed from the moment that we heard that first precious little cry. I remember saying to him how incredible it was that this was finally IT, that by the end of this we were actually going to have a baby. A little, tiny, innocent human being who we would call our daughter. Daughter. Funny, that still seems like such a foreign term to me. By that point we were both exhausted from being up all night, so Rob reclined in the chair to sleep a little and I tried to do the same, although I think I only slept for just a couple of minutes. I found it much more calming to pray; to pray for a smooth and quick delivery, and that Avalon would be a beautiful, healthy baby. It was such a strange feeling I had during that time – my heart was pounding and I felt physically anxious about what was about to happen, yet at the same time I felt a curious sense of peace in that quiet, dim hospital room. At six o’clock the doctor was coming in to break my water, so as I prayed I watched the hands of the clock slowly make their way to the six and the twelve. And right on the dot, my doctor was at my side, telling me that I was 10 cm dilated and that it was time to push.
After breaking my water my nurse gave us quick instructions on what to do: she and Rob were going to hold my legs back, and I was going to grab underneath my thighs, pull myself forward, and push like hell. Before I knew it, there I was, PUSHING LIKE HELL. Apparently my pushes were pretty good, because my doctor encouraged me and told me that she would be out in no time if I kept pushing as hard as I was. But the thing about pushing is that it is seriously, for real, the hardest workout in this entire world. Kettlebells, SUCK IT, you don’t even compare to the effort and sweat that it takes to push a baby out of a vagina. I worked so hard and pushed with everything I had that I thought my head was going to pop right off of my neck. And I’m positive that I blacked out a couple of times in the middle of a push, only to come back to life and wonder, what the heck am I doing and why are people counting and holding my legs up over my head? It was totally bizarre, man.
I think I eventually got a little tired and quit pushing so hard, because half an hour into the pushing process my doctor piped up and asked, “Do you want to use the mirror?” Did I want to use the mirror? DID I WANT TO USE THE INFAMOUS MIRROR, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND, WHY WOULD I WANT TO SEE THAT? When I pulled myself together and calmly replied that, nah, I didn’t really think I wanted that, the doctor asked, “Are you sure? I really think it would help.” And dingdingding! Those were the key words: that it would help. And after pushing for half an hour and having my epidural turned off so that I could feel my pushing a little bit more, I was all for a little bit of help. So I obliged and the nurse wheeled over the full-length mirror, placed it right at the foot of the bed, and people, I don’t know how else to put it, but I TOTALLY USED THE MIRROR TO WATCH MY BABY COMING OUT OF MY CROTCH AND I LOVED IT. I did. I loved it. After the millisecond of wigging out over what I was seeing in the mirror’s reflection, I got over it and used that mirror to my advantage. To watch and see the progress I made with each push was incentive to keep pushing, and to push with every single ounce of effort that I had in me. As her head was making its way out, I could see that she had hair! Lots of dark brown hair! I could tell already that she was beautiful.
It was still hard, though, and a little bit discouraging when after each push I would relax and her head would sneak right back inside again. Finally, just after seven o’clock, I was in the middle of a push when I saw the scissors come out and with a little episiotomy her head was out, thank God. Beyond the blood and the snip! and the knowledge of WHAT JUST HAPPENED DOWN THERE, I didn’t care, all I cared about was that it meant she was almost here and I was just seconds away from meeting my baby. I was instructed to stop pushing right then as the nurse sucked out the gunk from Avalon’s nose and mouth, and then the doctor looked up at Rob and me and told us to reach down and pull her out ourselves. Obviously we were sort of caught off guard by his request to grab her – isn’t that what THE DOCTOR WAS THERE FOR? – but at 7:08 am we did what we were told and reached down, grabbed on to her slimy little body, and pulled her up onto my stomach. I tried to look down and catch a glance at her but had a hard time seeing what she looked like. All I knew was that she felt tiny, much smaller than I expected her to be. And then she wailed. And wailed and wailed and wailed for the entire hour of bonding time she spent lying on my bare chest. But she was beautiful; she had a gorgeous, tan complexion and lots of pretty dark hair; beautiful facial features, and the cutest button nose I had ever seen. At only six pounds, four ounces she was just a little peanut.
An hour after she was born, and after I nursed her for the first time, our families were finally able to come into the room and meet Avalon. While she was being passed around from person to person I sat there in a deep haze, feeling like I had gotten run over by a truck and punched in the face, my face swollen up like a water balloon from all of the IV fluids that were pumped into my body all night long. But the happiness and the pride I felt during those moments was something I had never experienced before.
She was my baby, our baby, and I already loved her more than I ever knew was possible.
Even though Avalon is only a six week-old little shrimp, I was determined to take her to the pumpkin patch this weekend for some fall fun. Gotta start traditions early, I say. We took my parents with us, not only because I like them but also because we needed some official photographers. Heh.
My little punkin needed her own little punkin. Just her size.
She’s there, under all those blankets, I swear.
I took this picture so that down the road when Avalon asks me for a pony (it’s bound to happen. She’s a girl.), I can tell her that Mamie and Grandpa already got her a pony, she was just really, really little at the time and doesn’t remember it. Motherhood has already taught me a valuable lesson, that is ALWAYS THINK AHEAD.
Me and my favorite little person.
My labor story. FINALLY. I’m sure no one in this large and expansive universe was waiting on pins and needles to hear this story, but as for me, I managed to drive myself clinically insane from all the not-being-able-to-find-the-time-with-a-newborn-to-write-this labor story. It’s funny – freaking hilarious, actually – how ignorant I was prior to giving birth. Not only was I completely oblivious as to how frequently Avalon would fuss and cry, how challenging nursing would be, and how there would be times where I thought I just couldn’t take it anymore, I also had this ridiculous delusion in my mind that I’d get around to peacefully sitting down and writing this post within days, YES, DAYS, HOW DELUSIONAL COULD I BE? of actually giving birth. Now here I am, six weeks postpartum, just starting to finally string together a few words to get this thing going. At least now I’m fully aware that this could take at least another three weeks to finish because, THE NEWBORNS, THEY REQUIRE A BIT OF ATTENTION.
Also, a bit of an amber alert, if you will: I’m going to be telling it like it is. Labor and delivery, although miraculous, is not a very pretty event. So for all you delicate flowers out there who do not want to hear me keeping it real, and by that I mean VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA, please do head on back to Facebook where you can stalk your friends in peace without any ugly mental pictures obstructing your view.
Well then.
My due date was August 25th, a Tuesday. I, like most pregnant women I’m sure, had been hoping ever since that safe 36 week mark that I would go into labor early and that my baby girl would make her way into the world. As the days and weeks kept passing – 37, 38, 39, and HELLO 40 WEEKS PREGNANT, NEVER HOPED I WOULD SEE YOU! – still no sign of her. At my 39 week OB appointment my doctor announced that I was 2-3 centimeters dilated, and although those words sound hopeful and exciting to an expectant mother, it really means a whole lot of of nothing as the baby could still sit tight within the cozy womb for another sweet forever week or two. Before I left the doctor’s office I made my 40 week appointment and cleverly scheduled it for the morning of my actual due date, sure that I would have already given birth by then and wouldn’t need that appointment anyway.
The weekend passed, and still no baby. Finally Monday evening rolled around, and I parked my round body in the bathtub with my lavender bath salts (“labor-inducing!” they say, to which I say YOU LIE), as I had every night for the past couple of weeks. As I sat in the warm water reading my book, I noticed my stomach kept hardening. However, I didn’t pay much attention to it as I assumed it was just the way the baby was positioned within my womb, thinking that her back or head was pressing up against me. But later that night I started paying more attention and realized that the hardening and loosening of my stomach was becoming a consistent pattern. Apparently it takes a rocket scientist to figure out that the hardening and loosening of one’s uterus is generally called A CONTRACTION, YOU IDIOT, regardless of whether they are painful or not (they weren’t). Rob and I went to bed that night extremely hopeful and pretty sure that the contractions would continue to increase through the night and that we would surely be at the hospital by the time the sun came up the next morning.
I barely slept at all that night. I concentrated so hard on the contractions, wanting to feel them and know that they were still happening, but finally they ceased. There I was, the morning of my due date, without a baby in sight. So I did what any expectant mother would do on her due date, and thoroughly shaved my legs in anticipation of going into labor. I was positive that hairy legs would RUIN, JUST RUIN my entire labor experience, and I surely wasn’t going to let that happen.
After my 40 week OB appointment that morning, where they gave me a non-stress test, thought Avalon’s heart rate was dropping a little bit, and sent me over to the hospital for more testing, Courtney wrote an update here. Then, after I had to hang around the hospital to be monitored for a couple of hours only for them to say you’re fine, go home, I wrote an update here.
So there I was, on the evening of my due date, with no baby yet and mild contractions happening about every six to seven minutes. Since I was technically working from home already at that point, my dad came over to bring some work to me. While he and Rob sat with me in the office making light conversation, I desperately attempted to get the last-minute work done for Dad, but all the while my mind was spinning. The contractions were getting a little bit stronger, and trying to concentrate on numbers and clients and blahblahblah was nearly impossible.
Later on, I think not only in an effort to do something nice for us but to also keep me entertained for a little while, Rob’s mom invited us over for dinner. I’m afraid I have never been a more horrible dinner guest in my life, as I sat there slouched down in my chair like a neanderthal from the pain of the recurring contractions and only paying half attention to whatever conversation was going on around the table. Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly the life of the party.
When we returned home I was determined to progress my labor along, and in full disclosure I absolutely do not mean by having sex because I was definitely not in the mood to deal with those logistics. Instead I was going to walk, and I’d walk all night long if that’s what it took to get the baby out. So Rob and I set out on our trek, and as we walked he started timing my contractions. After a few had passed we determined they were a solid five minutes apart and at that point were painful enough that I had to start the whooo whooo whooo intense breathing to get through them. We ended up walking for an hour and half, circling our neighborhood over and over and over, looking like a couple of lost puppy dogs. Of course all of our neighbors knew what was going on and were aware that it was my due date, so whenever anyone would want to stop and talk to us all I saw was the word PITY written across their foreheads. However, I was in no mood for pity or conversation, I was on a mission, man, so we just kept walking.
When we finally returned home, I sat my sweaty, fat body down in the living room to try and cool off. Just then my mom called to check in and see if I had progressed at all. When I explained to her that I had contractions every five minutes, and that yes, they were getting stronger, and hang on a minute GAHHHHH, she suggested we get ready to go to the hospital. And although that was probably a really good idea, this is where those hospital people really piss me off: they discourage you from actually GOING to the hospital! Everyone hears different suggestions of when the right time is to go to the hospital during labor; some people say when contractions are five minutes apart, some say when they are three minutes apart, some say not until your water breaks. My hospital people said not to come until I couldn’t handle the pain anymore and wanted drugs. So although I had contractions five minutes apart, was I ready for drugs? Could I not handle the pain anymore? No, I wasn’t there yet. I could HANDLE the pain!
So instead I got in the bathtub to take another bath with my lavender, labor-inducing (WHATEVER, VOODOO AROMATHERAPY WEIRDOS) bath salts so that if I did go to the hospital I’d smell more like fresh flowers than skanky sweat, although looking back I realize that SKANKY SWEAT, YOU ARE INEVITABLE. Now mind you, I had no concept of time at this point, only that my contractions were every five minutes, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t stay in that bathtub for more than fifteen minutes. The contractions were coming on stronger and I was realizing that I did, in fact, need to get ready to go to the hospital. But I couldn’t go to the hospital with wet hair and no makeup, because like the hairy legs, that would RUIN, JUST RUIN my entire labor experience.
I spent the next twenty or so minutes in the bathroom drying my hair and applying makeup, while taking breaks every five minutes to whooo whooo whooo and pace around the bathroom. Meanwhile, Rob was in the bedroom (finally) packing his hospital bag. When I was finally done with my stupid beauty regimen, I went into the bedroom to consult with Rob and see if the contractions had gotten any closer together and decide whether or not it was time to leave for the hospital. At this point, all I could do was pace around the room in anticipation of another one of those damned contractions. Then when a contraction would finally hit, BAM!, I’d be whooo whooo whooo-ing and crouching over the dressing, gripping it with tight, white knuckles until it would pass. This is when Rob knew it was it was time to go to the hospital, for fear of me clutching the dresser too long and ending up birthing our baby right there in our bedroom.
I called my dad to let him know that we’d be on our way over to drop Oliver off at their house and loaded everything and ourselves up into the car. Prior to this point I had spent almost all of my labor standing upright, so to be restricted to a seated position made the contractions feel even worse. Rob took advantage of my situation and drove like a bat out of hell, blowing through as many red lights as possible and probably feeling like he was in a movie scene where the wife has a baby head peeping out of her crotch. Luckily, I did not. When we got to my parents’, I jumped out of the car just as fast as Oliver did so that I could resume my pacing before enduring another fifteen minute drive to the hospital. For only the few minutes that we stood in the driveway whenever I would feel a contraction coming on I’d excuse myself from the group, turn my back, and walk away so that I could sway back and forth while whooo whooo whooo-ing until it was over. I caught a few glances of their faces while this was going on, and again, PITY. Also, HORROR, probably due to the fact that they knew they could do nothing to help me or relieve my pain. Finally we said our goodbyes, assured them that we would call them when we got into the birthing suite, and set off to the hospital.
(Labor story, part 2 found here.)
This is what happens on Friday nights after a long week of Messing With Mama. It’ll tucker a girl right out. Also, take a look at those hands – if she were a Golden Retriever puppy, those huge paws would indicate that she’d grow into a 200 pound dog. Oh, and her feet? She doesn’t have those. She has flippers. It’s almost like she isn’t human at all!
Wow, yesterday. It was a toughie, to say the least. In a nutshell, Avalon was possessed by Those Who Don’t Sleep and decided that she only needed a few ten minute naps scattered throughout the day. For those of you familiar with newborns, THIS IS NOT THE CASE. She fought sleep as if her life depended on it, and when I would finally get her settled down from crying and she would yawn or close her eyes she’d get totally pissed off about it then start screaming again.
I found myself ready to lose it yesterday. I cried. She cried. A LOT. However, in her defense, I was trying to make her sleep in her crib. I know she can sleep in her swing and in her car seat after a car ride, but in an effort to avoid starting bad habits I dedicated yesterday to getting her to sleep in her crib. You can obviously tell how well that went over.
During those two-second naps she did take, and in between scouring the Internet for other mommy-blogs looking for reassurance that they had these ugly moments too and parenting message boards for answers to, “newborn fighting sleep, help me before I jump out a window,” I ended up on Facebook for a minute. Here’s what I posted:
Obviously this was written out of exhaustion and hormones, not from my heart, I love my daughter more than my own life. And I don’t know why I felt the need to post that thought publicly, it just happened. Following that, I got a few responses, most of them just encouraging me and letting me know I’m not alone and that I’m perfectly normal. And that is the best thing that anyone could have said to me. I didn’t want advice, I didn’t want to be judged, all I needed to know was (and is) that I’m not the only one in this boat that sometimes feels like it’s sinking.
Let’s just be honest, as a mom, THERE ARE DAYS THAT SUCK. It’s not always rainbows and sunshine and filet mignon. And you know what? I’m not going to pretend on here, on Facebook, or in my everyday life like it is. Because I want other people – new moms, moms-to-be, whoever – to know that they’re not alone. So for any moms who are reading my blog looking for encouragement like I was yesterday, I totally know how you feel. You’re not alone. I am with you on this crazy, amazing, challenging journey.
The good news in all of this is that with the bad comes good. Last night when I laid Avalon down and got into my bed I prayed and told Jesus that I will praise Him even through the trials and thanked him for my baby. I also asked if he would give us some rest and relief, and would you believe that last night when she went down for bed she slept for an entire 7.5 hours straight? I know that Jesus heard my pleas and purposefully blessed us all with a good night’s sleep. And today she is a new baby, already taking her second substantial nap of the day. I’ve never trusted or leaned on Him more than since having a baby. I couldn’t do this without Him.
Now I need to go and wake up (WAKE UP! I HAVE TO WAKE HER UP!) Avalon so she can eat. I told you, it’s a TOTALLY new day. And yes, I know there are some of you thinking, “Wake up your baby? You’re going to WAKE HER UP?” Yes. Yes I am. I know some people don’t do that, but I do, so let’s just put all the judging aside. But as a kicker, dare I admit that I put her on her stomach for her naps? Whoo boy. That will really rile up a crowd, won’t it?
I decided before Avalon was born that I wanted to breastfeed. I know there are lots of schools of thought on this issue and that people stand firmly on both sides, some rooting for breast milk and others for formula. I’m not here to debate one way or another, and I’m sure there are benefits to both, about which people are always SO EAGER to share their opinions, aren’t they? If you have an opinion, please, keep it to yourself, my other-people’s-opinion quota was filled long ago. I will go ahead and share, however, that the best comment Rob received was that, “breastfeeding is SO selfish.” I think it goes without saying that this individual does not have children, and probably never will. God bless her unscathed nipples.
Anyway. BREASTFEEDING, HOW SELFISH OF ME.
Breastfeeding is difficult. I definitely had a challenging time in the first couple of weeks, resulting in me crying a lot, calling people to cry to them on the phone, and also: crying. The unfortunate thing about breastfeeding is that boobs don’t come with little tick marks on them to indicate how many ounces are in there, which obviously leaves it unknown as to how many ounces a baby actually gets to eat at each feeding. The only way to know a baby is fulfilled is by counting how many poopy diapers they have in a day and watching their growth.
When Avalon was born she weighed in at a bite-size 6 pounds 4 oz, and when we left the hospital she dropped down to 5 pounds 15 oz, which the doctors assured me was normal. Ten days later, at her first doctor’s appointment, she was back up to 6 pounds 8 oz, a significant and happy weight gain. Unfortunately, a week later she had only gained four more ounces, to which the doctor said was only “okay” weight gain. Not “good” or “healthy”, just “OKAY”, which the hormonal new mother in me interpreted as “you’re depriving your child and doing a horrible job at feeding her and SELFISH, HOW SELFISH!” Really, I think I was more concerned about this than the doctor was, but to make me feel better she suggested that I return back in another week to weigh Avalon again and see what she was gaining.
I left that appointment petrified that I wasn’t able to fulfill my breastfeeding duties and was leaving Avalon hungry. As her sole source of nutrition, I felt guilty that she only gained four ounces that week. Needless to say, I made it my mission that week to pump her up as much as I could and prayed that I could fill her little tummy as much as she needed.
At her appointment this week we received the happy news that she gained another seven ounces! Finally my little shrimp was out of the 6’s and into the 7’s, weighing 7 pounds 3 oz. I left feeling relieved and grateful that breastfeeding was still successful for us.
Also related, she is getting so strong! She holds her head up better every day, and also rolled over already! ROLLED OVER! FROM HER TUMMY TO HER BACK! I was so proud of her and her athletic abilities, but really I think she was just so pissed to be on her tummy that she decided to turn the hell over. After rolling over three times in a row I finally got up to the get the video camera so that we could capture it and show Daddy later on, but of course in typical baby fashion, as soon as I hit the Record button, she was over it and gave up.
And finally, because I can’t possible write a post with only words, here is the pretty girl with her mama:
