This is a post about pumping. Feel free to hit your browser's back arrow now if you don't want to hear it.
Oh, and pumping? I refer to breasts. To collect breastmilk.
:::waving to those I know just left:::
Three times a day while at work, my Outlook pops a reminder up on my screen. It reads: "Now." Perhaps that is a bit uninspired of me. Perhaps something more clever should appear to mark the time I set aside each day to collect milk for my sweet child. But pumping? Pumping is not inspirational. At ALL. In fact, I can think of few things I enjoy less than suctioning my boob inside a plastic cone for 10-20 minutes at a time. I can think of few sounds as grating as the 'woosh-thump-woooosh-thump' of a pump. And yet, day after day, I hook myself up to a machine like some sort of dairy cow subjectimg myself to slight discomfort, awkwardness (I just KNOW anyone walking by my office door hears the woosh-thump), and frustration as I bemoan the slow dwindling of my supply over: a) the course of a workday, and b) time elapsed since the end of maternity leave.
So, as my husband delicately prodded the other day, WHY do I keep going? The nursling in question has his first tooth playing peek-a-boo at the gumline and he has been toying with my emotions for weeks now in a game of Today I Want To Nurse No Wait Maybe I Only Want The Bottle (aka nursing strikes). My supply is maybe 75% of what he needs daily so he's getting supplemented as it is. And, did I mention I HATE PUMPING????
And yet, here I sit, staring at the Outlook reminder on my screen, listening to the woosh-thump, and willing my body to make more milk.
Listen, I am just going to lay the truth out on the line. I do it because I think I should. Because I think it's important to provide my baby with my milk. Because I can. Because it connects me to him even while physically we are apart. Because I hate everything about formula (cost, smell, weird chemicals).
But if I'm going to be honest, there are deeper reasons. Reasons I don't really know how to express when my husband gently prods; when he reassures me I can quit pumping whenever and wouldn't it make life easier and LOTS of babies get formula and they are just fine aren't they? They are. I know they are.
The truth of it is, I don't want to give up because in some narcissistic and sado-masochistic way, breastfeeding my babies is part of how I identify myself as a mom, and come hell (and it did come, when I was nursing Luca) or high water (more like low supply...) I NEED to nurse my babies. I need to be able to say I did everything I could. I NEED to be able to look at their sweet peachy cheeks and bright eyes and think, "Yeah. I did that."
I know. It's stupid. It makes no sense. It's stubborn and foolhardy of me. And, yes, to the friends I have who didn't breastfeed, it may even seem insulting. As though I am inferring that I think less of moms who formula feed. As though I don't understand the myriad reasons why one would either choose to or have no other choice than to formula feed.
To which I say: I am not (inferring) and I do (understand). Breastfeeding vs formula feeding is an age-old debate, and quite simply not one I care to engage in. I really do NOT care whether other parents choose to breastfeed or formula feed, or both. I don't judge. I've been on both sides of this argument. I am adamantly pro-breastfeeding as long as it WORKS for mom and baby (and, sure, dad or partner counts too, but really it's mom and baby who are central to this equation). And it doesn't always work. I know firsthand. I've struggled with a LOT of issues related to nursing my kids (if you're interested, I posted about my issues when Luca was a baby here). And both of my kids have been supplemented to varying degrees at different stages of infancy. I don't think that makes me or any other mom who chooses (or has her hand forced by circumstances outside of her control) to formula feed a BAD mom. I think it's life, and it's one of the first big lessons in parenthood. Having trouble breastfeeding was my first wake up call when Luca was born. It was like the universe was saying, "Remember all those fantasies you had about what having a baby would be like and what kind of a mom you would be? HA HA HA HA! SUCKER!". And did I mention, saying it at 3 a.m. the first night home from the hospital while I cried my tired post-partum-hormonal eyes out and my baby screamed and my husband looked bewildered and a little like a deer in headlights. The Universe is a real asshole sometimes.
And yet, here I am. Two kids and two years later, and I find myself attached to a plastic cone three times a day (and usually at least once more after Romo is in bed for the night), engaging in what some might consider an exercise in futility. I don't make enough milk for my babies. My boobs are always sore to the point where my husband is forbidden from even talking about them (I refer to them as being on 'maternity leave'). I spend a minimum of an hour a day setting up my pump, pumping, and cleaning my pump parts. And that's not even including the other hour I spend putting off pumping, grousing about how much I HATE pumping, and wishing I was home with my kids and could nurse Rohan so I didn't have to pump.
But I do it, day in and day out. I hook up that machine and try not to count down the minutes until I'm done and when I stash that milk in the fridge at the end of the day, I feel proud. The crowning glory is when I am able, on a Friday, to open up a Lanisnoh freezer bag and stash a few ounces away to the freezer. It doesn't happen every week, and sometimes it's only an ounce or two. But I know how hard I worked to get that ounce into that freezer bag, and I'm not ashamed to admit my pride.
Will it all matter? When all is said and done, and my kids are sitting in kidergarten next to other kids (some formula fed, some breastfed, some a combo of both) will it really make a difference? Will anyone know that I spent hours of discomfort pumping and struggling to keep my supply alive? No. My kids will be no different from their peers who were fed formula. No different from their peers who never had a drop of anything but the liquid gold their moms produced.
But I am different for it. Someday, I will have made it through the gauntlet of newborn nursing hell, over the hurdles of nursing strikes and teething and pumping, and through to the other side. I will have passed the first of many tests I set up for myself, and that won't matter to ANYONE else I know. But it will matter to me. We parents all have our own gauntlets to run. We all have THAT THING that matters to us perhaps more than it should, which tests our limits and frustrates us, and with which we wrestle because it MATTERS TO US.
Showing posts with label Breastfeeding. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Breastfeeding. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Smile That's Just for Me
The moment I've been waiting for with Romo finally happened a few days ago. THE smile.
You moms know. Especially if you breastfed. (and that's not to knock non-breastfeeders, but I've only ever experience this while nursing a baby, not while giving a bottle, so I can't speak to that experience)
It was early morning, Darrick and Luca still sleeping upstairs and Romo and me snuggled into the big recliner watching some baby-related show on TLC or DHC (I can never remember). My sleepy little boy had a clean diaper, a warm blankie tucked around him, and he was lazily nursing in a half-sleep, his eyes barely visible under a curtain of sweet baby lashes. Suddenly, he stopped nursing and rolled almost onto his back, and as he looked at me his face burst into a thousand tiny shooting stars, showering me in a smile so brilliant and filled with joy that I couldn't help but grin back like a fool in love. And fool in love I am...but now I now he is too. These are the moments I remember with Luca where everything sort of clicked into place and I thought, "That smile right there is JUST for me." No one else in the world will have those moments with him, where his belly is warm and humming with milk, and the morning light is blue-gray, and his little hand is grasping my finger and then he rolls back and smiles like, "Dude. This is AWESOME, mom!"
And then he spent the next 20 minutes doing the latch then detach routine, each time rolling back to look at me and smile, repitition not even dimming the power of his sparkle one tiny bit. And every time, my heart would swell up with such love for this little love, who finally seemed to realize, "Hey! There's a you and there's a me, and I love the you and you love the me and this milk is nice and you're warm and my belly is too."
Oh my god. Magic. Pure, unadulterated baby magic. Rolling in fresh cut grass, feet dipped into an ocean clear as glass, puppy breath and warm fresh baked cookies bliss!
Someone better sign me up for that IUD fast, before I claim baby insanity and start plotting to convince Darrick of a #3.....
You moms know. Especially if you breastfed. (and that's not to knock non-breastfeeders, but I've only ever experience this while nursing a baby, not while giving a bottle, so I can't speak to that experience)
It was early morning, Darrick and Luca still sleeping upstairs and Romo and me snuggled into the big recliner watching some baby-related show on TLC or DHC (I can never remember). My sleepy little boy had a clean diaper, a warm blankie tucked around him, and he was lazily nursing in a half-sleep, his eyes barely visible under a curtain of sweet baby lashes. Suddenly, he stopped nursing and rolled almost onto his back, and as he looked at me his face burst into a thousand tiny shooting stars, showering me in a smile so brilliant and filled with joy that I couldn't help but grin back like a fool in love. And fool in love I am...but now I now he is too. These are the moments I remember with Luca where everything sort of clicked into place and I thought, "That smile right there is JUST for me." No one else in the world will have those moments with him, where his belly is warm and humming with milk, and the morning light is blue-gray, and his little hand is grasping my finger and then he rolls back and smiles like, "Dude. This is AWESOME, mom!"
And then he spent the next 20 minutes doing the latch then detach routine, each time rolling back to look at me and smile, repitition not even dimming the power of his sparkle one tiny bit. And every time, my heart would swell up with such love for this little love, who finally seemed to realize, "Hey! There's a you and there's a me, and I love the you and you love the me and this milk is nice and you're warm and my belly is too."
Oh my god. Magic. Pure, unadulterated baby magic. Rolling in fresh cut grass, feet dipped into an ocean clear as glass, puppy breath and warm fresh baked cookies bliss!
Someone better sign me up for that IUD fast, before I claim baby insanity and start plotting to convince Darrick of a #3.....
Monday, July 6, 2009
Trying to find the Zen in Exhaustion.
A new baby will tire you out. I probably don't need to say that, but some people have never HAD a new baby...or have but it's been awhile and mom/dadnesia has set in. So you may not know just HOW tiring it can be. And the answer to that question is...it can be VERY tiring.
Before Luca was born, people were all, "Get sleep NOW because when you have a baby you won't sleep at ALL!" and I was all, "Dude. Shut up. I get it." But I didn't get it, not really. And I also didn't benefit at all from 'getting sleep now' because, as it turns out, sleep cannot be saved up. The extra ice cream I ate while pregnant? In reserves. The extra sleep I got? No such luck.
Here's the thing. The newborn phase is a maddening cycle of baby waking every 2-3 hours to eat and be changed and need rocking or bouncing, followed by more eating and then some sleeping. And if you're lucky and can shut your mind and body down on a moment's notice, you too can nap throughout the day when baby does. If you are EXTRA lucky, you can do so with a sweet, snuggly, half-nekkid baby curled up in your arms all gooey and warm with a full, happy belly (co-sleeping being a hotbed of debate, let me say I realize there is data out there that would tell you not to do this for safety reasons, and obviously safety matters, but there is also data about the safety of co-sleeping and when you have a newborn and sleep it at a premium, you do what you have to do).
But if you're either not a napping kind of person (though I have a hard time imagining ANY new parent not suddenly becoming 'the napping type' when faced with the lack of sleep) OR you wish to have a life beyond baby (as in, you need to do dishes before they crust together into one large Super Dish in the sink, and you want to return some phone calls, and you need to shower before you start to REALLY smell, and maybe you have some Tivo to catch up on...) you may find yourself getting by on something close to 0-4 hours of sleep in a 24 hour period. I'd say in a day, but the term 'day' becomes sort of moot when you have a new baby, as the little time-stealers have no real sense of silly things like 'days' and 'schedules'.
What eventually happens is that you adjust. You get used to not getting much sleep, to the point where your 5 a.m. wake up call from a hungry baby is commonplace and you find yourself starting stories with, "So on Saturday I got to sleep in until 6:15...". But what's even better - what happens in the midst of the maddness and crying (baby's, your's, etc.) and sleep deprivation - is that you find little moments to treasure. I call it trying to find the zen in exhaustion, because I do, indeed, still have to TRY. Please don't mistake me for someone who is upbeat and rosy at 3 a.m., on wake-up call #2 for the evening, with a baby crying while my dog and my husband compete for the title of World's Most Obnoxious Snorer. I've been known to throw down a silent temper tantrum (silent ONLY because I don't want to risk rousing the baby who I've been trying to bounce back to sleep for 23 minutes, not because of any sort of fatigued self-control). More than once I've whispered "Come OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON, buddy! PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE go back to sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep?!?!" only to get a blank, wide eyed stare in return.
And then there was last night when I used the old standby, "I thought you CHANGED his diaper! FUCK! I'll DO IT. mumble mumble couldafuckintoldme mumble mumble jesus mumble 2inthefuckinmorning mumblemumble." while storming out of the room. (For the record, when I apologized this morning my husband had no memory of this outburst, having either fallen back asleep before I even got to 'diaper' OR having blocked it out for his own sanity). This, of course, was followed by me feeding, changing, and bouncing the baby, then gingerly setting him in his crib asleep, collapsing back into my SO comfortable bed, and then manically kicking my blanket off in a fit and whisper-shouting "You have GOT to be KIDDING ME! %&#^%&!!!!" as I heard him start to cry again on the monitor. Ah, the beauty of parenthood.
But...then again...there IS some beauty in all of this madness. I remember what happened once Luca was no longer waking at night to eat (which wasn't until she was 6 months old). On one hand, I kind of sort of totally relished in the solid chunk of sleep I was getting every night. I almost dared to call myself well-rested (Nevermind that Luca has always been an early riser and still demanded my full attention at 5:15 sharp each morning. Who the hell installed the internal alarm on that kid??). On the other hand, there was this kind of sadness to that chapter in her life closing. As insane as it sounds, those middle-of-the-night-or-is-this-early-morning wakings make up some of the sweetest memories of Luca's infancy, and I have no doubt I will someday feel the same about the time I spend awake and alone with Rohan.
There's something about a totally silent house, lit by just the dim yellow bulb of the stove vent and so enveloped in sleep not even the crickets are awake to sing. There is a sweetness to those moments spent in complete silence, with nothing to focus on except the hungry baby in your arms, drinking happily with eyes closed and a small hand wrapped around your finger as if he's silently reminding you to be in that moment and focus just on him. I've spent many nights in the past 2 years fading seamlessly in and out of sleep sitting up on a couch or a recliner, with a baby in my arms, ocassionally looking at the clock and being surprised that an hour passed since last I looked at it. I've also spent many nights trying to keep myself awake while nursing, the TV on some baby show I've seen 13 times before (spoiler: she ends up with a c-section) or an old episode of Cheaters (spoiler: he's cheating, and beating him/the other woman over the head with a shoe will just make you look stupid when the host does his voice-over update and says you took him back).
They're moments I sometimes bitch and moan through, and moments in which I wish for nothing more than my down pillow on my cheeks. And they are also moments I wouldn't trade for another 10 or 20 or even 100 minutes of sleep a night, because they are so fleeting.
Since returning to work a few weeks ago, Romo and I are struggling with breastfeeding. He's taken to the bottle like a champ...a bit too much so, to the point where he prefers it to nursing. I can't entirely blame him, as my supply has always been this side of abundant, and the bottle is instant gratification on an empty tummy. Add to the fact that I'm not there for him to nurse on demand from during the day and you get a baby who sometimes cries when I try to feed him. When it's 3 a.m. and the whole house is sleeping save for you and the hungry baby, you don't let him get to wailing. Instead, you pop a bottle of expressed milk in his greedy little mouth and wish you weren't so tired since now you know you have to pump after he's back in bed. It's been hard to deal with, emotionally, because of course I keep thinking "If only I was at home, this wouldn't be happening." But it's something we're working through.
And on the flip side of it, it has meant that my husband (who happens to be a STELLAR example of a Dad) has been helping out at night by running in to grab Romo and give him a bottle instead of me waking to attempt to nurse him or give him the bottle myself. He actually offered to do all the night feedings, since he's home with the kids for the summer (I wasn't being sarcastic before when I called him stellar), and I have to get up for work in the morning. And one would think this would THRILL me beyond belief because while he does that I get to slide deeper into the pillows and get back to dreaming.
Instead, I've found myself having an odd and unexpected reaction: I miss the 2 a.m. feedings. I miss sitting down with my nursing pillow and my hungry baby and watching him go from crying and grunting in hunger to drowsy and content as he fills his belly. I miss sitting on the yoga ball bouncing him, kissing his sweet cheeks and feeling his body relax as he drifts into baby dreamland. ::sigh::
You may be asking yourself, "What the hell is wrong with that girl?!?!" And, if Rohan wakes 3 times tonight like he's been doing lately, I may ask myself that very same question and come post a retraction to this sentimental hogwash. But for now I am focusing on the Zen in Exhaustion...because I know from experience that this phase in life will be over long before I want it to be, and that I'll be remembering it fondly in a few months' time. And rather than just remembering how sweet and magical those moments alone with baby were, I want to experience how sweet and magical they are, right here and now.
Before Luca was born, people were all, "Get sleep NOW because when you have a baby you won't sleep at ALL!" and I was all, "Dude. Shut up. I get it." But I didn't get it, not really. And I also didn't benefit at all from 'getting sleep now' because, as it turns out, sleep cannot be saved up. The extra ice cream I ate while pregnant? In reserves. The extra sleep I got? No such luck.
Here's the thing. The newborn phase is a maddening cycle of baby waking every 2-3 hours to eat and be changed and need rocking or bouncing, followed by more eating and then some sleeping. And if you're lucky and can shut your mind and body down on a moment's notice, you too can nap throughout the day when baby does. If you are EXTRA lucky, you can do so with a sweet, snuggly, half-nekkid baby curled up in your arms all gooey and warm with a full, happy belly (co-sleeping being a hotbed of debate, let me say I realize there is data out there that would tell you not to do this for safety reasons, and obviously safety matters, but there is also data about the safety of co-sleeping and when you have a newborn and sleep it at a premium, you do what you have to do).
But if you're either not a napping kind of person (though I have a hard time imagining ANY new parent not suddenly becoming 'the napping type' when faced with the lack of sleep) OR you wish to have a life beyond baby (as in, you need to do dishes before they crust together into one large Super Dish in the sink, and you want to return some phone calls, and you need to shower before you start to REALLY smell, and maybe you have some Tivo to catch up on...) you may find yourself getting by on something close to 0-4 hours of sleep in a 24 hour period. I'd say in a day, but the term 'day' becomes sort of moot when you have a new baby, as the little time-stealers have no real sense of silly things like 'days' and 'schedules'.
What eventually happens is that you adjust. You get used to not getting much sleep, to the point where your 5 a.m. wake up call from a hungry baby is commonplace and you find yourself starting stories with, "So on Saturday I got to sleep in until 6:15...". But what's even better - what happens in the midst of the maddness and crying (baby's, your's, etc.) and sleep deprivation - is that you find little moments to treasure. I call it trying to find the zen in exhaustion, because I do, indeed, still have to TRY. Please don't mistake me for someone who is upbeat and rosy at 3 a.m., on wake-up call #2 for the evening, with a baby crying while my dog and my husband compete for the title of World's Most Obnoxious Snorer. I've been known to throw down a silent temper tantrum (silent ONLY because I don't want to risk rousing the baby who I've been trying to bounce back to sleep for 23 minutes, not because of any sort of fatigued self-control). More than once I've whispered "Come OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON, buddy! PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE go back to sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep?!?!" only to get a blank, wide eyed stare in return.
And then there was last night when I used the old standby, "I thought you CHANGED his diaper! FUCK! I'll DO IT. mumble mumble couldafuckintoldme mumble mumble jesus mumble 2inthefuckinmorning mumblemumble." while storming out of the room. (For the record, when I apologized this morning my husband had no memory of this outburst, having either fallen back asleep before I even got to 'diaper' OR having blocked it out for his own sanity). This, of course, was followed by me feeding, changing, and bouncing the baby, then gingerly setting him in his crib asleep, collapsing back into my SO comfortable bed, and then manically kicking my blanket off in a fit and whisper-shouting "You have GOT to be KIDDING ME! %&#^%&!!!!" as I heard him start to cry again on the monitor. Ah, the beauty of parenthood.
But...then again...there IS some beauty in all of this madness. I remember what happened once Luca was no longer waking at night to eat (which wasn't until she was 6 months old). On one hand, I kind of sort of totally relished in the solid chunk of sleep I was getting every night. I almost dared to call myself well-rested (Nevermind that Luca has always been an early riser and still demanded my full attention at 5:15 sharp each morning. Who the hell installed the internal alarm on that kid??). On the other hand, there was this kind of sadness to that chapter in her life closing. As insane as it sounds, those middle-of-the-night-or-is-this-early-morning wakings make up some of the sweetest memories of Luca's infancy, and I have no doubt I will someday feel the same about the time I spend awake and alone with Rohan.
There's something about a totally silent house, lit by just the dim yellow bulb of the stove vent and so enveloped in sleep not even the crickets are awake to sing. There is a sweetness to those moments spent in complete silence, with nothing to focus on except the hungry baby in your arms, drinking happily with eyes closed and a small hand wrapped around your finger as if he's silently reminding you to be in that moment and focus just on him. I've spent many nights in the past 2 years fading seamlessly in and out of sleep sitting up on a couch or a recliner, with a baby in my arms, ocassionally looking at the clock and being surprised that an hour passed since last I looked at it. I've also spent many nights trying to keep myself awake while nursing, the TV on some baby show I've seen 13 times before (spoiler: she ends up with a c-section) or an old episode of Cheaters (spoiler: he's cheating, and beating him/the other woman over the head with a shoe will just make you look stupid when the host does his voice-over update and says you took him back).
They're moments I sometimes bitch and moan through, and moments in which I wish for nothing more than my down pillow on my cheeks. And they are also moments I wouldn't trade for another 10 or 20 or even 100 minutes of sleep a night, because they are so fleeting.
Since returning to work a few weeks ago, Romo and I are struggling with breastfeeding. He's taken to the bottle like a champ...a bit too much so, to the point where he prefers it to nursing. I can't entirely blame him, as my supply has always been this side of abundant, and the bottle is instant gratification on an empty tummy. Add to the fact that I'm not there for him to nurse on demand from during the day and you get a baby who sometimes cries when I try to feed him. When it's 3 a.m. and the whole house is sleeping save for you and the hungry baby, you don't let him get to wailing. Instead, you pop a bottle of expressed milk in his greedy little mouth and wish you weren't so tired since now you know you have to pump after he's back in bed. It's been hard to deal with, emotionally, because of course I keep thinking "If only I was at home, this wouldn't be happening." But it's something we're working through.
And on the flip side of it, it has meant that my husband (who happens to be a STELLAR example of a Dad) has been helping out at night by running in to grab Romo and give him a bottle instead of me waking to attempt to nurse him or give him the bottle myself. He actually offered to do all the night feedings, since he's home with the kids for the summer (I wasn't being sarcastic before when I called him stellar), and I have to get up for work in the morning. And one would think this would THRILL me beyond belief because while he does that I get to slide deeper into the pillows and get back to dreaming.
Instead, I've found myself having an odd and unexpected reaction: I miss the 2 a.m. feedings. I miss sitting down with my nursing pillow and my hungry baby and watching him go from crying and grunting in hunger to drowsy and content as he fills his belly. I miss sitting on the yoga ball bouncing him, kissing his sweet cheeks and feeling his body relax as he drifts into baby dreamland. ::sigh::
You may be asking yourself, "What the hell is wrong with that girl?!?!" And, if Rohan wakes 3 times tonight like he's been doing lately, I may ask myself that very same question and come post a retraction to this sentimental hogwash. But for now I am focusing on the Zen in Exhaustion...because I know from experience that this phase in life will be over long before I want it to be, and that I'll be remembering it fondly in a few months' time. And rather than just remembering how sweet and magical those moments alone with baby were, I want to experience how sweet and magical they are, right here and now.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
"I need to feed my baby."
Luca: "I need to feed my baby."
Me: "You do?"
L: "I do. I need a pillow." :::grabbing Mommy's BrestFriend pillow and sitting on her beanbag chair:::
M: "Do you need some help, Luca?"
L: "Help you please?"
M: "Sure thing, honey." :::snapping pillow for her:::
L: "I need a blankie."
M: "Here you go." :::handing her nursing cover:::
L: "I need lift my shirt."
M: "What is your baby's name, Luca?"
L: "Rohan!" :::pointing proudly at her baby and smiling:::
M: "You're a good mommy, Luca."
L: "I am."
Me: "You do?"
L: "I do. I need a pillow." :::grabbing Mommy's BrestFriend pillow and sitting on her beanbag chair:::
M: "Do you need some help, Luca?"
L: "Help you please?"
M: "Sure thing, honey." :::snapping pillow for her:::
L: "I need a blankie."
M: "Here you go." :::handing her nursing cover:::
L: "I need lift my shirt."
M: "What is your baby's name, Luca?"
L: "Rohan!" :::pointing proudly at her baby and smiling:::
M: "You're a good mommy, Luca."
L: "I am."
Friday, April 17, 2009
Trusting the Mom in Me.
It's taken some time, and one beautiful, healthy, sparkling and brilliant toddler to teach me this lesson: how to trust the Mom in Me. Motherhood is a great challenge in many ways, but in so many more it's the greatest joy. It teaches you the depths of your love and appreciation for others (your child, your spouse, the people your kids call 'uncle' and 'aunt' or 'grandma' and 'grandpa'), and if you pay enough attention it can teach you to love and appreciate yourself even more.
When Luca was born, she was 6 lb, 7 oz. I remember when they told us what she weighed, Darrick and I both responded with shock, and asked if they were sure. The whole time I was pregnant, I heard over and over "That is going to be a BIG baby!", and I believed it. Neither my husband nor I are petite and delicate, and we come from families chock full of tall people, curvy people, strong and able people. So when Luca came out well under 7 pounds, we were genuinely surprised. And that was just the beginning of a long couple of weeks of constant worry, stress, crying, fear, doubt, and guilt. Because no matter how hard I tried...how many times I nursed her in 24 hours (and believe me, it was A LOT of times!)...how many pumping sessions I fit in when I should have been napping...how many friends and lactation consultants and kind ears I talked to, she did not gain weight easily. It took her more than 3 weeks to return to her puny birthweight, and in that 3 weeks she went to the Pediatrician about every 3 days to have her weight checked. Those appointments were great stressors for me and for Darrick, and I can only imagine Luca's little newborn self was stressed by them as well. She would cry, I would cry, and I'd leave frustrated and feeling inadequate because despite my best intentions I could not seem to get my baby to gain weight by breastfeeding. I was at a loss to why I was 'broken' and disappointed in myself. Surely, I must be doing SOMETHING wrong or, worse, there must be something wrong with ME, if I couldn't get this to work.
By the time she was a month old, Luca was slowly gaining, but it took until she was 9 months old for her to get over the 5th percentile in weight. I got comments all the time from people who fussed over how small she was or couldn't believe she wasn't a preemie. It killed me inside. I tried pumping to increase supply. Supplements (fenugreek, blessed thistle, mother's milk tea) to increase supply. Food (oatmeal and 2 eggs every morning without fail) to increase supply. I was resigned to supplementing with pumped milk and (reluctant small doses of)formula. And I felt like I was broken the entire time.
Luca weaned herself right around 11 months. A huge part of me felt immense pride that I'd faced all those obstacles and managed to nurse her for so long. But a bigger part felt like I'd been robbed of what I had hoped would be a beautiful and natural experience. Breastfeeding was something I wanted to do for my baby's health, for myself, and for the ease and convenience. Instead, it took over my life in many ways. I feel pride now when I hear Luca say a new word or see her smile and I think "MY body made her, my body grew her, and my body fed her for 11 months.", but I worry that pride will forever be overshadowed with memories of the difficulty, tears, and self-doubt.
I went into this pregnancy, in spite of all of that, knowing I would breastfeed again. I know it seems like an odd choice, like I am some kind of lactating masochist, but I just thought this baby deserved as much of an effort on my part as Luca did. I know many, many women who formula feed their beautiful and brilliant babies and it works for them, and I fully support the right of a parent to decide what works for them and what they are comfortable with. But for me, breast IS best, and I think a baby deserves my time and effort to give them the best. If not now, when they are tiny and I am their world, when? And I'm so happy I decided that, because my experience this time has renewed my belief in myself. I could attribute this success to a lot of things.
First, I know what I am doing. This makes a WORLD of difference for me. I knew what my challenges would be, and how to move past them. I didn't stress when we had latch issues, because I knew how to work with them. I wasn't worried when he got lazy and fell asleep while nursing because I could wake him and keep him going. I didn't mind the endless marathon hours of sitting on the couch with a baby attached to me, because I knew this was what I needed to let him do so he could help my milk come in and so he could learn what HE was doing. It's just much easier to have perspective when you have...well...perspective, if that makes sense.
Second, he knew (somewhat) what he was doing. Luca was not a natural nursing. It took a lot for her to 'get' it, and with me not knowing what *I* was doing, it was the uphill battle to trump all other uphill battles. I had to help her a lot, and nursing was tiring and something I sort of dreaded until she was almost 4 months old. Rohan 'got' it more quickly. In fact, the first time I tried to nurse him, he latched right on.
Third, I had people around me at the birth who supported nursing and helped make it happen. My MW has 7 kids, all of whom she breastfed. Her apprentices, between them, have at least 7 more (one apprentice I never asked, but the other two have 5 kids and 2 kids), all breastfed. They supported me and advised me. In fact, one of the women there helped me get Rohan latched for the first time by giving me the simplest of directions. Does that ever happen to you? You're trying and trying to do something, and suddenly someone says, "Do X and it'll work." and you think "Yeah, like it's THAT easy?" and...lo and behold...it IS that easy? Anyhow, in addition to them, Darrick was there and supporting me. In contrast, at the hospital with Luca I had minimal help and no consistency to it.
Fourth, I was able to nurse right away, basically. I gave birth, got out of the tub and got warm, and went straight to feeding my baby. With Luca, more than 3 hours passed between her birth and my first attempt at nursing her. Those three hours were critical and I am sad I can never get them back.
Which brings us back to the central issue in this post. Breastfeeding was going well and I was feeling confident, and then I had to take Rohan to the Pediatrician. On my MW's scale, he was 8 lb 12 oz at birth. At his 2 day check up with the Pedi, he was 8 lb 3 oz. She wasn't worried, as it's normal for newborns to lose up to 10% of their birthweight, so long as they regain it by about 2 weeks, or put on 0.5 - 1 oz per day. Well, we returned to the Pedi (to have his cephalohematoma checked) at 4 days, and he was up to 8 lb 5oz. Smashing, no? Fast forward to a week later (11 days), and he was...8 lb 5 oz. Seven days with no gain and suddenly I was having flashbacks. This Pedi (same practice, different Dr from Luca's) wasn't overly concerned, but asked us to come in a week later to recheck his weight. All I could imagine was twice a week visits where I stressed, they pushed formula at me, I cried in my car on the way home, and I was ashamed to tell people I was supplementing.
We left the appointment, and I was surprised because though I was stressed over the scale not moving, I was not feeling lost and in despair like I had with Luca. For some reason, I just KNEW everything was ok. He was eating well and had all the signs of a healthy baby. I said to Darrick (and anyone else who would listen) that I thought maybe this was just how my kids were...perhaps I didn't MAKE chubsters? Perhaps my kids don't GET fat and happy? Perhaps there was nothing to worry about at all, and just like Luca is healthy and brilliant and beautiful despite her skinny start, maybe Rohan will be too?
And so I thought a lot about it that weekend, and on Monday I called my MW to talk. I explained to her what was going on and how Rohan was doing, and I asked for her expert input. She assured me that I could be right...that perhaps I didn't make chubsters and my kids don't get fat and just like Luca is healthy and brilliant and beautiful despite her skinny start, so might Rohan be. She cited studies on breastfed vs formula fed babies, mentioned how breastfed babies tend to be thinner b/c they process mom's milk more efficiently than formula, etc. And then she offered to have us come by and have him weighed on her scale...the same one he'd been weighed on shortly after birth...to see how he was doing. I agreed.
I took him to see her when he was 16 days old. We chatted, I nursed him while she and her two apprentices peeked in to be sure his latch was good, she snuggled him and cooed over him, and then he was weighed. Eight pounds, twelve ounces. He weighed exactly what he had at birth...and exactly what he SHOULD at 2 weeks. Victory!!! I called and cancelled his follow-up appointment for that Friday. Darrick was a bit worried. He fully supported me cancelling the appointment (primarily because we have a $25 copay and that man will stop short at almost nothing to save some cash!) but he started making comments here and there about how there is nothing WRONG with supplementing and how we have 2 free cans of formula in the kitchen (thanks for your faith in women, Similac) and he didn't mind making bottles, etc etc etc. I told him thanks but no thanks. I told him if he thought my supply was low, I'd pump and we could feed Rohan what I pumped. I told him, "You know what I think? I think I never even HAD a problem when Luca was born. I don't think I was broken at all, but that I let my spirit be broken by worry and fear. I won't let that happen this time. I just KNOW Rohan is ok."
So we pumped and fed bottles after I nursed. Only once a day most days, but enough to appease the hubby and assure us both I AM indeed making plenty of milk. And I refused to stress out over how much he was or was not gaining. I just had faith he would be ok. The Mom in Me knew it to be true.
Rohan had a 1 month appointment this morning. He is 32 days old. When we put him on the scale, I almost squeeled with joy to see that he weighed 9 lbs, 12 oz. In 21 days, he gained 1 lb, 7 oz. His Pedi wanted to see him gain at least 25 grams per day, and he gained 33! The Mom in Me knew he was ok...knew I was doing right by him...knew there was nothing to be gained from stressing and worrying and doubting myself and my body and my baby.
This is an art I am learning. I am discovering ways to shut out the noise of other people, as well-meaning as they may be. I am figuring out ways to be true to me and do what I know to be best for my kids. I won't win all the battles (let's not even talk about circumcision) and I won't always be right, but I am learning that I can trust myself. I'm learning that, as far as moms go, I happen to be a pretty kick-ass one! And I think I'm giving a real gift to my kids in trusting myself and listening to my own voice. Not only will they grow up with a mom who's true to herself, but they will also grow up with a mom who trusted THEM to fulfill their part of the equation. I am really learning to embrace the challenges of motherhood and not compare my experience and those of my kids to the experiences of others. It's freeing.
When Luca was born, she was 6 lb, 7 oz. I remember when they told us what she weighed, Darrick and I both responded with shock, and asked if they were sure. The whole time I was pregnant, I heard over and over "That is going to be a BIG baby!", and I believed it. Neither my husband nor I are petite and delicate, and we come from families chock full of tall people, curvy people, strong and able people. So when Luca came out well under 7 pounds, we were genuinely surprised. And that was just the beginning of a long couple of weeks of constant worry, stress, crying, fear, doubt, and guilt. Because no matter how hard I tried...how many times I nursed her in 24 hours (and believe me, it was A LOT of times!)...how many pumping sessions I fit in when I should have been napping...how many friends and lactation consultants and kind ears I talked to, she did not gain weight easily. It took her more than 3 weeks to return to her puny birthweight, and in that 3 weeks she went to the Pediatrician about every 3 days to have her weight checked. Those appointments were great stressors for me and for Darrick, and I can only imagine Luca's little newborn self was stressed by them as well. She would cry, I would cry, and I'd leave frustrated and feeling inadequate because despite my best intentions I could not seem to get my baby to gain weight by breastfeeding. I was at a loss to why I was 'broken' and disappointed in myself. Surely, I must be doing SOMETHING wrong or, worse, there must be something wrong with ME, if I couldn't get this to work.
By the time she was a month old, Luca was slowly gaining, but it took until she was 9 months old for her to get over the 5th percentile in weight. I got comments all the time from people who fussed over how small she was or couldn't believe she wasn't a preemie. It killed me inside. I tried pumping to increase supply. Supplements (fenugreek, blessed thistle, mother's milk tea) to increase supply. Food (oatmeal and 2 eggs every morning without fail) to increase supply. I was resigned to supplementing with pumped milk and (reluctant small doses of)formula. And I felt like I was broken the entire time.
Luca weaned herself right around 11 months. A huge part of me felt immense pride that I'd faced all those obstacles and managed to nurse her for so long. But a bigger part felt like I'd been robbed of what I had hoped would be a beautiful and natural experience. Breastfeeding was something I wanted to do for my baby's health, for myself, and for the ease and convenience. Instead, it took over my life in many ways. I feel pride now when I hear Luca say a new word or see her smile and I think "MY body made her, my body grew her, and my body fed her for 11 months.", but I worry that pride will forever be overshadowed with memories of the difficulty, tears, and self-doubt.
I went into this pregnancy, in spite of all of that, knowing I would breastfeed again. I know it seems like an odd choice, like I am some kind of lactating masochist, but I just thought this baby deserved as much of an effort on my part as Luca did. I know many, many women who formula feed their beautiful and brilliant babies and it works for them, and I fully support the right of a parent to decide what works for them and what they are comfortable with. But for me, breast IS best, and I think a baby deserves my time and effort to give them the best. If not now, when they are tiny and I am their world, when? And I'm so happy I decided that, because my experience this time has renewed my belief in myself. I could attribute this success to a lot of things.
First, I know what I am doing. This makes a WORLD of difference for me. I knew what my challenges would be, and how to move past them. I didn't stress when we had latch issues, because I knew how to work with them. I wasn't worried when he got lazy and fell asleep while nursing because I could wake him and keep him going. I didn't mind the endless marathon hours of sitting on the couch with a baby attached to me, because I knew this was what I needed to let him do so he could help my milk come in and so he could learn what HE was doing. It's just much easier to have perspective when you have...well...perspective, if that makes sense.
Second, he knew (somewhat) what he was doing. Luca was not a natural nursing. It took a lot for her to 'get' it, and with me not knowing what *I* was doing, it was the uphill battle to trump all other uphill battles. I had to help her a lot, and nursing was tiring and something I sort of dreaded until she was almost 4 months old. Rohan 'got' it more quickly. In fact, the first time I tried to nurse him, he latched right on.
Third, I had people around me at the birth who supported nursing and helped make it happen. My MW has 7 kids, all of whom she breastfed. Her apprentices, between them, have at least 7 more (one apprentice I never asked, but the other two have 5 kids and 2 kids), all breastfed. They supported me and advised me. In fact, one of the women there helped me get Rohan latched for the first time by giving me the simplest of directions. Does that ever happen to you? You're trying and trying to do something, and suddenly someone says, "Do X and it'll work." and you think "Yeah, like it's THAT easy?" and...lo and behold...it IS that easy? Anyhow, in addition to them, Darrick was there and supporting me. In contrast, at the hospital with Luca I had minimal help and no consistency to it.
Fourth, I was able to nurse right away, basically. I gave birth, got out of the tub and got warm, and went straight to feeding my baby. With Luca, more than 3 hours passed between her birth and my first attempt at nursing her. Those three hours were critical and I am sad I can never get them back.
Which brings us back to the central issue in this post. Breastfeeding was going well and I was feeling confident, and then I had to take Rohan to the Pediatrician. On my MW's scale, he was 8 lb 12 oz at birth. At his 2 day check up with the Pedi, he was 8 lb 3 oz. She wasn't worried, as it's normal for newborns to lose up to 10% of their birthweight, so long as they regain it by about 2 weeks, or put on 0.5 - 1 oz per day. Well, we returned to the Pedi (to have his cephalohematoma checked) at 4 days, and he was up to 8 lb 5oz. Smashing, no? Fast forward to a week later (11 days), and he was...8 lb 5 oz. Seven days with no gain and suddenly I was having flashbacks. This Pedi (same practice, different Dr from Luca's) wasn't overly concerned, but asked us to come in a week later to recheck his weight. All I could imagine was twice a week visits where I stressed, they pushed formula at me, I cried in my car on the way home, and I was ashamed to tell people I was supplementing.
We left the appointment, and I was surprised because though I was stressed over the scale not moving, I was not feeling lost and in despair like I had with Luca. For some reason, I just KNEW everything was ok. He was eating well and had all the signs of a healthy baby. I said to Darrick (and anyone else who would listen) that I thought maybe this was just how my kids were...perhaps I didn't MAKE chubsters? Perhaps my kids don't GET fat and happy? Perhaps there was nothing to worry about at all, and just like Luca is healthy and brilliant and beautiful despite her skinny start, maybe Rohan will be too?
And so I thought a lot about it that weekend, and on Monday I called my MW to talk. I explained to her what was going on and how Rohan was doing, and I asked for her expert input. She assured me that I could be right...that perhaps I didn't make chubsters and my kids don't get fat and just like Luca is healthy and brilliant and beautiful despite her skinny start, so might Rohan be. She cited studies on breastfed vs formula fed babies, mentioned how breastfed babies tend to be thinner b/c they process mom's milk more efficiently than formula, etc. And then she offered to have us come by and have him weighed on her scale...the same one he'd been weighed on shortly after birth...to see how he was doing. I agreed.
I took him to see her when he was 16 days old. We chatted, I nursed him while she and her two apprentices peeked in to be sure his latch was good, she snuggled him and cooed over him, and then he was weighed. Eight pounds, twelve ounces. He weighed exactly what he had at birth...and exactly what he SHOULD at 2 weeks. Victory!!! I called and cancelled his follow-up appointment for that Friday. Darrick was a bit worried. He fully supported me cancelling the appointment (primarily because we have a $25 copay and that man will stop short at almost nothing to save some cash!) but he started making comments here and there about how there is nothing WRONG with supplementing and how we have 2 free cans of formula in the kitchen (thanks for your faith in women, Similac) and he didn't mind making bottles, etc etc etc. I told him thanks but no thanks. I told him if he thought my supply was low, I'd pump and we could feed Rohan what I pumped. I told him, "You know what I think? I think I never even HAD a problem when Luca was born. I don't think I was broken at all, but that I let my spirit be broken by worry and fear. I won't let that happen this time. I just KNOW Rohan is ok."
So we pumped and fed bottles after I nursed. Only once a day most days, but enough to appease the hubby and assure us both I AM indeed making plenty of milk. And I refused to stress out over how much he was or was not gaining. I just had faith he would be ok. The Mom in Me knew it to be true.
Rohan had a 1 month appointment this morning. He is 32 days old. When we put him on the scale, I almost squeeled with joy to see that he weighed 9 lbs, 12 oz. In 21 days, he gained 1 lb, 7 oz. His Pedi wanted to see him gain at least 25 grams per day, and he gained 33! The Mom in Me knew he was ok...knew I was doing right by him...knew there was nothing to be gained from stressing and worrying and doubting myself and my body and my baby.
This is an art I am learning. I am discovering ways to shut out the noise of other people, as well-meaning as they may be. I am figuring out ways to be true to me and do what I know to be best for my kids. I won't win all the battles (let's not even talk about circumcision) and I won't always be right, but I am learning that I can trust myself. I'm learning that, as far as moms go, I happen to be a pretty kick-ass one! And I think I'm giving a real gift to my kids in trusting myself and listening to my own voice. Not only will they grow up with a mom who's true to herself, but they will also grow up with a mom who trusted THEM to fulfill their part of the equation. I am really learning to embrace the challenges of motherhood and not compare my experience and those of my kids to the experiences of others. It's freeing.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Expecting A Second Kid? Things You REALLY Need.
I was in the shower this evening (otherwise known as partaking in the only 15 minutes I get without someone attached to me/talking to me/wanting to eat/wanting to play/needing me) and it occured to me that I was woefully unprepared to be a mom of 2 under 2. Not mentally, nor emotionally, but in terms of gear. So I thought I would put together MY list of things moms expecting #2 should be sure to have on hand, in the hope that someone reading this blog will benefit from my steep learning curve.
1. A sling and/or wrap. Better yet, three. This way, you can keep one in your car, one in your diaper bag, and one in the dirty laundry pile (because if your newborn doesn't vomit or poop on it, your toddler will find some way to funk it up). The sling has made it possible for me to do a lot of things:
- Shopping with both kids by myself. Because Luca HATED her stroller until 2 weeks before Rohan was born, and now FREAKS if he's in it and she's not...
- Taking the kids to the park. Luca can run free and I can hold Rohan without needing to lug around a stroller, and my hands are free to grab Luca if I need to.
- Eating. No. Really. I can't tell you how many meals I've eaten in the past 4 weeks with Rohan strapped to me in a sling. Babies have a sixth sense, and they always seem to need to be held right about the time you're sitting down to eat. Prop him in the sling, and he gets held while I get fed.
- Playing in the backyard with Luca. I don't have to find a safe and shady spot to park Rohan because the safe and shady spot is attached to my body...and happens to be his favorite place to hang out anyhow.
- Housework. This is mostly hypothetical, as I've never been one for doing a lot of housework even without 2 kids to care for, but when I need to run out to throw some laundry in or I need to vacuum the rug before someone comes over and is appalled at the layer of dog hair covering it, the sling comes in handy. It would be even MORE useful if the sling came with a maid, but beggars can't be choosers....
2. A BrestFriend pillow (breastfeeding moms only). If this pillow and the Boppy got into a wrestling match, the BrestFriend would make the Boppy its bitch. It's firmer and larger, and the fucker STRAPS to you. Yes, people, you can tether a pillow around your (now cushy and non-existent) waist, plop the baby on, and carry on with life. This means you CAN sit on the floor and feed the little one while 'playing blocks' with the toddler. It means you CAN sneak in a meal while baby sneaks in a meal, because you can basically nurse hands-free. It also means that when you go back to work and don't want to wake 20 minutes earlier than your already obscenely early wake-up time, you can plop baby on for a meal, set up a mirror on the pillow, and apply your make-up. Multi-tasking at its finest!
3. Hand-held snacks. Because you can dream of heating up that frozen meal your super-nice friend delivered to you, but the truth is you'll be lucky to get a piece of cheese and a Diet Coke in your system some days when home alone with a toddler and an infant. So stock up with one-handed foods (yogurt drinks, granola bars, chips, fruit, etc) that you can eat while multi-tasking.
4. A good digital camera. We got our DSLR for Christmas, and part of the reason was that our old digital was barely keeping up with Luca. We wanted something that would capture all those magical moments and take good pictures even when the photographer (usually me) is too tired to worry about composition or lighting. SO worth it. As a bonus, invest in a big memory card that will store a shitton of pictures. You won't be sorry.
5. A yoga/birth ball. It was helpful while I was pregnant, but its true worth is found when you have a fussy newbon who just wants to bounce. That thing has saved our sanity more times than I could count, between Luca and Rohan, and we couldn't manage without it. Get one. You will NOT be sorry.
6. Patience, a fabulous partner who lets you take a 2 hour nap while he takes both kids to the park, and a sense of humor. And coffee. LOTS of coffee on those days when you didn't get much sleep the night before and have to function for your toddler while your newborn sleeps all day.
1. A sling and/or wrap. Better yet, three. This way, you can keep one in your car, one in your diaper bag, and one in the dirty laundry pile (because if your newborn doesn't vomit or poop on it, your toddler will find some way to funk it up). The sling has made it possible for me to do a lot of things:
- Shopping with both kids by myself. Because Luca HATED her stroller until 2 weeks before Rohan was born, and now FREAKS if he's in it and she's not...
- Taking the kids to the park. Luca can run free and I can hold Rohan without needing to lug around a stroller, and my hands are free to grab Luca if I need to.
- Eating. No. Really. I can't tell you how many meals I've eaten in the past 4 weeks with Rohan strapped to me in a sling. Babies have a sixth sense, and they always seem to need to be held right about the time you're sitting down to eat. Prop him in the sling, and he gets held while I get fed.
- Playing in the backyard with Luca. I don't have to find a safe and shady spot to park Rohan because the safe and shady spot is attached to my body...and happens to be his favorite place to hang out anyhow.
- Housework. This is mostly hypothetical, as I've never been one for doing a lot of housework even without 2 kids to care for, but when I need to run out to throw some laundry in or I need to vacuum the rug before someone comes over and is appalled at the layer of dog hair covering it, the sling comes in handy. It would be even MORE useful if the sling came with a maid, but beggars can't be choosers....
2. A BrestFriend pillow (breastfeeding moms only). If this pillow and the Boppy got into a wrestling match, the BrestFriend would make the Boppy its bitch. It's firmer and larger, and the fucker STRAPS to you. Yes, people, you can tether a pillow around your (now cushy and non-existent) waist, plop the baby on, and carry on with life. This means you CAN sit on the floor and feed the little one while 'playing blocks' with the toddler. It means you CAN sneak in a meal while baby sneaks in a meal, because you can basically nurse hands-free. It also means that when you go back to work and don't want to wake 20 minutes earlier than your already obscenely early wake-up time, you can plop baby on for a meal, set up a mirror on the pillow, and apply your make-up. Multi-tasking at its finest!
3. Hand-held snacks. Because you can dream of heating up that frozen meal your super-nice friend delivered to you, but the truth is you'll be lucky to get a piece of cheese and a Diet Coke in your system some days when home alone with a toddler and an infant. So stock up with one-handed foods (yogurt drinks, granola bars, chips, fruit, etc) that you can eat while multi-tasking.
4. A good digital camera. We got our DSLR for Christmas, and part of the reason was that our old digital was barely keeping up with Luca. We wanted something that would capture all those magical moments and take good pictures even when the photographer (usually me) is too tired to worry about composition or lighting. SO worth it. As a bonus, invest in a big memory card that will store a shitton of pictures. You won't be sorry.
5. A yoga/birth ball. It was helpful while I was pregnant, but its true worth is found when you have a fussy newbon who just wants to bounce. That thing has saved our sanity more times than I could count, between Luca and Rohan, and we couldn't manage without it. Get one. You will NOT be sorry.
6. Patience, a fabulous partner who lets you take a 2 hour nap while he takes both kids to the park, and a sense of humor. And coffee. LOTS of coffee on those days when you didn't get much sleep the night before and have to function for your toddler while your newborn sleeps all day.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Rohan's Story.
This is the story of Rohan's birth. It's long, so get comfy and grab a cup of coffee before you settle in to read. I've included some pictures too. I will say, they aren't perfect and beautiful, but this is what natural birth looks like, mascara smudges and all.
I am going to attempt to write this birth story and include all the relevant details. It was so amazing, overpowering, shocking...just so much MORE than I expected.
Sunday evening we went to my in-laws' house for dinner to celebrate my brother in law's birthday. I noticed some cramping throughout dinner, but intentionally ignored it since I didn't want to get my hopes up. I'd been having cramps here and there for a week or so. They would come in the evenings after Luca was in bed, but if I tried to time them or concentrate on them (or heaven forbid get excited about them!) they would disappear. So I had decided that until something really noticeable was happening, I would carry on as though they weren't there. I didn't even mention them to my husband, mainly because I was worried he would tell his whole family - - - my husband not being much of a secret-keeper - - - and I didn't want everyone excited in case they fizzled as usual.
After dinner with the in laws, we met my family for dinner to celebrate my mom's birthday. Cramping continued, and I noticed my appetite was almost non-existent. I started to time it when we got home about 9, but by 10:30 it was fading, so I went to bed.
Monday morning (3 days past my EDD) I woke up and decided I was not in the mood to work at home as I usually do on Mondays, so I emailed my boss and told her I planned to take the day off. I called my Midwife Sue at 9 and said "Nothing is happening.", so she suggested we make an appointment for Tuesday at noon, and I agreed. About 10, I talked to my mom, who said she'd come over so we could go shopping and to lunch. I didn't tell her this, but by the time she got over at about 10:45, I was having some cramping like early labor. While shopping, they started to get stronger and spread into my back. I found myself rocking my hips side to side while holding onto the cart and walking. At one point, I tried to sit down to look at a pattern book at the fabric store, and couldn't bear sitting still.
We went to lunch at Chick Fil A after shopping, and at this point sitting to eat was starting to get really uncomfortable. I hardly ate anything, since my appetite was still pretty non-existent. We got home about 12:30. Our friend Natalie and her baby girl Elle came over for a bit. We sat on the floor playing with Elle, and I started to notice that I was REALLY uncomfortable sitting on the floor. I was having to shift positions and move my hips a lot, but I didn't really want to let on to Natalie that I was so uncomfortable so I tried to play it cool while she was there. She left at 1:30, and my mom took Luca up for her nap.
I decided to get on my knees and lean my chest over my yoga ball while my mom was upstairs, to see if the back pain would ease. I was rocking my pelvis back and forward and having to concentrate through the contractions. I also started to time my pains (which I was just now starting to accept WERE contractions and were not going away) on contractionmaster.com. To my GREAT surprise, they were about 3-3.5 minutes apart, but only lasting about 25-45 seconds, and still manageable enough I could talk through them.
After 15 minutes, I decided I should call my MW. I left her a voice mail to the effect of, "Just FYI, contrax are 3-4 minutes apart but manageable. No rush, but if you can stop by later please do."
At 1:50, I called Darrick's work. He had just gone in to teach the last class of the day, so I told the front office I was in labor, but no rush for him to come home, as I was sure we had HOURS still (my labor with Luca was 27 hours!). He has wrestling club after school on Mondays, and I wanted him to come home after class instead of going to that. Thank goodness he got the message at 2:30 and came straight home...
My MW called back from her tax man's office in the West Valley (40 or so minutes away), and I kept trying to reassure her that I was sure I'd be in labor forever and there was no rush to come over. She said to me, "Katie, this is your second baby and your contractions are less than 5 minutes apart. I don't want to miss your birth." She asked if it was ok for her to send her former apprentice, Alison, who's now licensed, to check me so she could tell Sue how progressed I was. I said of course, and she said Alison would call me. When Alison did call, I realized I was having trouble concentrating and couldn't manage to give her directions, so I passed the phone to my mom and went upstairs to go to the bathroom.
At some point, Darrick got home and came upstairs and into the bathroom (I think this was shortly before 3) and asked me how sure I was this was 'IT'. I remember looking at my face in the mirror, and it was white, and telling him, "Please go set up the pool." His eyes got HUGE and he asked if I was ok. I remember telling him that I was starting to get scared by the intensity and speed of things, and was kind of worried with how fast it seemed to be going. He looked me in the eyes and said, "Sue will make it. And if she doesn't, we can do this. All we need is each other." It was in that moment that I relaxed a little. I felt safe, like together we could do anything.
In the time it took me to get downstairs I had 3 contractions. I told Darrick he needed to call Sue back and tell her to head over because I was worried she wouldn't make it in time otherwise.
I laid on the couch on my side, and between contractions I heard my MW's current apprentice, Selena, talking to me, though I don't know when she got there. I was coping with the contractions by shaking my foot vigorously and counting to 10 as I breathed in and out, but their intensity was really shocking me. It seemed like they were one on top of the other, and I still was in denial it was getting so intense so quickly. Alison showed up at 3:15 (I know the time only because she told me later) and asked to check me between contractions. Every time she would get ready to check, I'd have a contraction...that's how close they were together.
A funny aside here: my mom had been hanging out with me until Darrick got home, and had run out to Home Depot for something before Alison showed up. Alison asked Darrick if we had olive oil to use (instead of KY like OBs use) to check my progress. He heard only 'oil', so he came out of the kitchen with the BIGGEST bottle of vegetable oil you could imagine. Between contractions I noticed it and cracked up, telling him she wanted to check my cervix, not stir-fry my placenta.
So Alison checks me and says I'm 5cm and 'paper thin'. She suggests I get upright so baby's head will put pressure on my cervix. Right after she checked me, I thought I felt some fluid leaking, so I told her I thought my water broke, and she confirmed it had. Apparently just her quick check of the cervix was all my body needed to fly into overdrive. I asked if I could get into the pool and she said of course, so in I went. Right away, I had 2 or 3 strong contractions. I'm not sure how she knew, but Alison told Darrick that he needed to help me get my swimsuit bottoms off (yes, while in labor I'd gone upstairs and changed into a bikini with a shirt on top) between my contractions in case I needed to push. I fought them a bit over removing the bottoms because I was starting to freak a little about how fast it was going. With their help I got them off and sunk into the pool. I remember wishing the water was deeper, because during a contraction my back and belly couldn't all be submerged at the same time. But the water felt so nice and welcoming.
At some point during this, my mom returned and I told Darrick to have her get Luca and get out ASAP. I was vocalizing through my contractions at this point and didn't want to scare Luca (who was napping still). My mom ran up to get her, but every time she tried to come down the stairs, I would yell, "NO! Not yet!" because another contraction was coming. She finally escaped between contractions, and not a moment too soon, because I started telling Alison and Selena I thought I was going to push. It really was involuntary...the urge was so strong I could not stop myself. At this point I was on my knees, leaning my upper body onto Darrick's arms and the side of the pool.
They gave me the ok to push, and I was thinking, "No way. There is NO WAY I am ready to push yet! It han't been long enough!". But with the next contraction, I couldn't stop my body from bearing down, so I let it happen on its own. "I'm pushing!! Oh! I'm pushing!" I cried out. I'm not sure if I was proud or shocked or a little of both, but I think I really needed to verbalize what I was doing so someone could assure me it was the right thing. I was still in denial that it was time to push already. They cheered me on and said, "Great! Keep going as long as you feel the urge!"
Somewhere in here, Sue arrived. I heard her and Alison talking, but I was in my zone. It's true what you hear about labor-land. I knew things were happening outside my birth pool, but I couldn't be bothered with focusing on what those things were. They let me just push during contractions for awhile. I was kind of scared of the pain because everyone told me pushing is a relief and not painful, but that was not true for me...while I couldn't feel the contractions anymore, I could feel the baby moving down and it was surprisingly intense. But they were talking to me, telling me I could do it and that my baby was almost here. That, and Darrick telling me over and over how well I was doing and how proud he was got me through and kept me going. He would hold a cool cloth to my forehead and neck while I was pushing, then give me sips of Gatorade or water between contractions.
Throughout the time in the pool, the Midwives were periodically checking my pulse and listening for baby. I was fine as was baby, but they were having trouble hearing baby's heartbeat because it was behind my pubic bone. To be on the safe side, they put a tube with oxygen in front of me during pushing, which was when I realized my MW's other apprentice, Greeta, was also there, as she was holding the tube.
Between contractions, I was laughing and apologizing for making so much noise (really I was just grunting and ocassionally throwing in a profanity or a chant to myself like, "Open for baby, open for baby." or "Come out baby. We're ready. Come out." or "I can I can I can I can I am.") and they were laughing about that. They promised I wasn't even CLOSE to yelling and they had heard WAY louder births. I remember being surprised at how present and clear I felt in the space between contractions. In contrast as soon as I felt the beginnings of the next contraction sneaking up on me ,or, sometimes, barreling over me, I would retreat into my self, focusing only on Darrick's hand holding mine and the feel of the side of the birth pool on my cheek.
After about 30 minutes of pushing, I could feel baby really low. They told me I could feel the head when I pushed, so I reached and felt it and started to cry. Right after that, they suggested I flip over to sitting so I'd have more control and could open my hips more. Because of the pressure, I was fighting opening my legs wide enough, and I needed to be on my butt to do so. They helped me over, and with the next few contractions I pushed from there. I put my hand down and could feel the head, but I kept my eyes closed the whole time.
Usually when you push, baby moves down, and when you stop they go back up a bit. I could feel the movement down and then up through most of the pushing phase, but at this point I would push and could feel that baby was just sitting there in the same spot. Sue suggested I might have better luck out of the water on the birth stool, and I said I didn't want to get out. Mostly, I couldn't imagine hauling myself out of the pool in the midst of all this. I heard her send one of the apprentices out to get the birth stool, and that was all I needed to hear. I had spent months imagining my baby being born into water, and I was determined to make it happen.
I pushed with all my might through the next contraction, and could feel him crowning. It did burn, but only for a second. I thought I felt his head come out, so I was asking, "Is baby out? Is that my baby?" and they said, "No, but you're right there. Keep going!" I couldn't understand why I thought I felt baby come out and they were saying no, but I pushed through the next contraction and felt his head, then his body slide out. That felt like a HUGE relief. Turns out, what I felt earlier that I thought was his head coming out was Sue pulling his right hand up and over his head. He was coming out with his hand by his face, which meant his head was torqued to the side. The odd angle of his head and the hand by the face (nuchal hand) explained why he was just sitting there and not moving while pushing. They told me later that if his hand hadn't been there, he would have been out before Sue had even gotten to my house. He also had his cord very loosely around his neck one time, but as is the case with most nuchal cords, it was never a dangerous situation.
Rohan Morrison Kahle was born at 4:25 p.m.
The amazing Sue continues to support me, even after Rohan is born.
As soon as he was out, I reached down for him and they handed him to me to put him on my chest, and I started to laugh and cry. I kept thanking everyone and saying, "I can't believe we did this!". They corrected me and reminded me *I* did it, which of course made me cry some more. Darrick got the camera and took some pictures (the plan to photograph and video it all went by the wayside when it went so fast), and I just held him for a few minutes. Finally, Darrick lifted baby's leg and we both said, "BOY!".
They cut the cord after it stopped pulsing, and I ended up delivering the placenta in the pool and getting out right after. I got onto the couch and they covered me with blankets because I was shaking (post-birth hormones). By this point I was already feeling fine and not in pain at all. I was laughing about the vegetable oil and talking to everyone as though it were a normal day and I hadn't just given birth in a plastic pool in my living room on a Monday afternoon.
My MW and her apprentices hung out until about 6. In that time, I breastfed Rohan, we went upstairs and they did a newborn check on him, and they checked me for tears. Because of his size, the hand by the face, and the speed of my labor, we expected I may need stitches. My tear ended up being minor enough we opted not to stitch it at all. And I'll tell you....I am having NO pain at all, despite a big baby and a hand by the face. I really think being able to feel what was happening made for a better delivery and recovery. And to answer the question everyone seems to want to know the answer to...NO...I did NOT have to use the skimmer!
Weighing my beautiful son.
Newborn exam.
This was a novel, but I want to remember all the details before they get lost on me. This story is just the facts and details I know I'll want written for posterity. What I'm not sure it captures fully is the intense joy and surrender I felt giving birth to my first son at home, surrounded only by people I asked to attend and supported fully. Throughout my pregnancy, I grew to know and love my birth team, and they were supportive of every decision my family made and provided us a safe space in which we were able to create the birth we desired. It was an amazing experience. There was not a single moment in the whole pregnancy, labor, and birth when I was worried about my safety or Rohan's, and I never even thought about drugs while at home. I felt very safe and very comfortable, and though it was fast and for sure it was painful, it was amazing and I felt SO strong and so loved and supported.
I know homebirth isn't for a lot of people, but it was so amazing, and I'm glad I trusted my body and my baby and my husband and I got to have this beautiful experience.
I am going to attempt to write this birth story and include all the relevant details. It was so amazing, overpowering, shocking...just so much MORE than I expected.
Sunday evening we went to my in-laws' house for dinner to celebrate my brother in law's birthday. I noticed some cramping throughout dinner, but intentionally ignored it since I didn't want to get my hopes up. I'd been having cramps here and there for a week or so. They would come in the evenings after Luca was in bed, but if I tried to time them or concentrate on them (or heaven forbid get excited about them!) they would disappear. So I had decided that until something really noticeable was happening, I would carry on as though they weren't there. I didn't even mention them to my husband, mainly because I was worried he would tell his whole family - - - my husband not being much of a secret-keeper - - - and I didn't want everyone excited in case they fizzled as usual.
After dinner with the in laws, we met my family for dinner to celebrate my mom's birthday. Cramping continued, and I noticed my appetite was almost non-existent. I started to time it when we got home about 9, but by 10:30 it was fading, so I went to bed.
Monday morning (3 days past my EDD) I woke up and decided I was not in the mood to work at home as I usually do on Mondays, so I emailed my boss and told her I planned to take the day off. I called my Midwife Sue at 9 and said "Nothing is happening.", so she suggested we make an appointment for Tuesday at noon, and I agreed. About 10, I talked to my mom, who said she'd come over so we could go shopping and to lunch. I didn't tell her this, but by the time she got over at about 10:45, I was having some cramping like early labor. While shopping, they started to get stronger and spread into my back. I found myself rocking my hips side to side while holding onto the cart and walking. At one point, I tried to sit down to look at a pattern book at the fabric store, and couldn't bear sitting still.
We went to lunch at Chick Fil A after shopping, and at this point sitting to eat was starting to get really uncomfortable. I hardly ate anything, since my appetite was still pretty non-existent. We got home about 12:30. Our friend Natalie and her baby girl Elle came over for a bit. We sat on the floor playing with Elle, and I started to notice that I was REALLY uncomfortable sitting on the floor. I was having to shift positions and move my hips a lot, but I didn't really want to let on to Natalie that I was so uncomfortable so I tried to play it cool while she was there. She left at 1:30, and my mom took Luca up for her nap.
I decided to get on my knees and lean my chest over my yoga ball while my mom was upstairs, to see if the back pain would ease. I was rocking my pelvis back and forward and having to concentrate through the contractions. I also started to time my pains (which I was just now starting to accept WERE contractions and were not going away) on contractionmaster.com. To my GREAT surprise, they were about 3-3.5 minutes apart, but only lasting about 25-45 seconds, and still manageable enough I could talk through them.
After 15 minutes, I decided I should call my MW. I left her a voice mail to the effect of, "Just FYI, contrax are 3-4 minutes apart but manageable. No rush, but if you can stop by later please do."
At 1:50, I called Darrick's work. He had just gone in to teach the last class of the day, so I told the front office I was in labor, but no rush for him to come home, as I was sure we had HOURS still (my labor with Luca was 27 hours!). He has wrestling club after school on Mondays, and I wanted him to come home after class instead of going to that. Thank goodness he got the message at 2:30 and came straight home...
My MW called back from her tax man's office in the West Valley (40 or so minutes away), and I kept trying to reassure her that I was sure I'd be in labor forever and there was no rush to come over. She said to me, "Katie, this is your second baby and your contractions are less than 5 minutes apart. I don't want to miss your birth." She asked if it was ok for her to send her former apprentice, Alison, who's now licensed, to check me so she could tell Sue how progressed I was. I said of course, and she said Alison would call me. When Alison did call, I realized I was having trouble concentrating and couldn't manage to give her directions, so I passed the phone to my mom and went upstairs to go to the bathroom.
At some point, Darrick got home and came upstairs and into the bathroom (I think this was shortly before 3) and asked me how sure I was this was 'IT'. I remember looking at my face in the mirror, and it was white, and telling him, "Please go set up the pool." His eyes got HUGE and he asked if I was ok. I remember telling him that I was starting to get scared by the intensity and speed of things, and was kind of worried with how fast it seemed to be going. He looked me in the eyes and said, "Sue will make it. And if she doesn't, we can do this. All we need is each other." It was in that moment that I relaxed a little. I felt safe, like together we could do anything.
In the time it took me to get downstairs I had 3 contractions. I told Darrick he needed to call Sue back and tell her to head over because I was worried she wouldn't make it in time otherwise.
I laid on the couch on my side, and between contractions I heard my MW's current apprentice, Selena, talking to me, though I don't know when she got there. I was coping with the contractions by shaking my foot vigorously and counting to 10 as I breathed in and out, but their intensity was really shocking me. It seemed like they were one on top of the other, and I still was in denial it was getting so intense so quickly. Alison showed up at 3:15 (I know the time only because she told me later) and asked to check me between contractions. Every time she would get ready to check, I'd have a contraction...that's how close they were together.
A funny aside here: my mom had been hanging out with me until Darrick got home, and had run out to Home Depot for something before Alison showed up. Alison asked Darrick if we had olive oil to use (instead of KY like OBs use) to check my progress. He heard only 'oil', so he came out of the kitchen with the BIGGEST bottle of vegetable oil you could imagine. Between contractions I noticed it and cracked up, telling him she wanted to check my cervix, not stir-fry my placenta.
So Alison checks me and says I'm 5cm and 'paper thin'. She suggests I get upright so baby's head will put pressure on my cervix. Right after she checked me, I thought I felt some fluid leaking, so I told her I thought my water broke, and she confirmed it had. Apparently just her quick check of the cervix was all my body needed to fly into overdrive. I asked if I could get into the pool and she said of course, so in I went. Right away, I had 2 or 3 strong contractions. I'm not sure how she knew, but Alison told Darrick that he needed to help me get my swimsuit bottoms off (yes, while in labor I'd gone upstairs and changed into a bikini with a shirt on top) between my contractions in case I needed to push. I fought them a bit over removing the bottoms because I was starting to freak a little about how fast it was going. With their help I got them off and sunk into the pool. I remember wishing the water was deeper, because during a contraction my back and belly couldn't all be submerged at the same time. But the water felt so nice and welcoming.
At some point during this, my mom returned and I told Darrick to have her get Luca and get out ASAP. I was vocalizing through my contractions at this point and didn't want to scare Luca (who was napping still). My mom ran up to get her, but every time she tried to come down the stairs, I would yell, "NO! Not yet!" because another contraction was coming. She finally escaped between contractions, and not a moment too soon, because I started telling Alison and Selena I thought I was going to push. It really was involuntary...the urge was so strong I could not stop myself. At this point I was on my knees, leaning my upper body onto Darrick's arms and the side of the pool.
They gave me the ok to push, and I was thinking, "No way. There is NO WAY I am ready to push yet! It han't been long enough!". But with the next contraction, I couldn't stop my body from bearing down, so I let it happen on its own. "I'm pushing!! Oh! I'm pushing!" I cried out. I'm not sure if I was proud or shocked or a little of both, but I think I really needed to verbalize what I was doing so someone could assure me it was the right thing. I was still in denial that it was time to push already. They cheered me on and said, "Great! Keep going as long as you feel the urge!"
Somewhere in here, Sue arrived. I heard her and Alison talking, but I was in my zone. It's true what you hear about labor-land. I knew things were happening outside my birth pool, but I couldn't be bothered with focusing on what those things were. They let me just push during contractions for awhile. I was kind of scared of the pain because everyone told me pushing is a relief and not painful, but that was not true for me...while I couldn't feel the contractions anymore, I could feel the baby moving down and it was surprisingly intense. But they were talking to me, telling me I could do it and that my baby was almost here. That, and Darrick telling me over and over how well I was doing and how proud he was got me through and kept me going. He would hold a cool cloth to my forehead and neck while I was pushing, then give me sips of Gatorade or water between contractions.
Throughout the time in the pool, the Midwives were periodically checking my pulse and listening for baby. I was fine as was baby, but they were having trouble hearing baby's heartbeat because it was behind my pubic bone. To be on the safe side, they put a tube with oxygen in front of me during pushing, which was when I realized my MW's other apprentice, Greeta, was also there, as she was holding the tube.
Between contractions, I was laughing and apologizing for making so much noise (really I was just grunting and ocassionally throwing in a profanity or a chant to myself like, "Open for baby, open for baby." or "Come out baby. We're ready. Come out." or "I can I can I can I can I am.") and they were laughing about that. They promised I wasn't even CLOSE to yelling and they had heard WAY louder births. I remember being surprised at how present and clear I felt in the space between contractions. In contrast as soon as I felt the beginnings of the next contraction sneaking up on me ,or, sometimes, barreling over me, I would retreat into my self, focusing only on Darrick's hand holding mine and the feel of the side of the birth pool on my cheek.
After about 30 minutes of pushing, I could feel baby really low. They told me I could feel the head when I pushed, so I reached and felt it and started to cry. Right after that, they suggested I flip over to sitting so I'd have more control and could open my hips more. Because of the pressure, I was fighting opening my legs wide enough, and I needed to be on my butt to do so. They helped me over, and with the next few contractions I pushed from there. I put my hand down and could feel the head, but I kept my eyes closed the whole time.
Usually when you push, baby moves down, and when you stop they go back up a bit. I could feel the movement down and then up through most of the pushing phase, but at this point I would push and could feel that baby was just sitting there in the same spot. Sue suggested I might have better luck out of the water on the birth stool, and I said I didn't want to get out. Mostly, I couldn't imagine hauling myself out of the pool in the midst of all this. I heard her send one of the apprentices out to get the birth stool, and that was all I needed to hear. I had spent months imagining my baby being born into water, and I was determined to make it happen.
I pushed with all my might through the next contraction, and could feel him crowning. It did burn, but only for a second. I thought I felt his head come out, so I was asking, "Is baby out? Is that my baby?" and they said, "No, but you're right there. Keep going!" I couldn't understand why I thought I felt baby come out and they were saying no, but I pushed through the next contraction and felt his head, then his body slide out. That felt like a HUGE relief. Turns out, what I felt earlier that I thought was his head coming out was Sue pulling his right hand up and over his head. He was coming out with his hand by his face, which meant his head was torqued to the side. The odd angle of his head and the hand by the face (nuchal hand) explained why he was just sitting there and not moving while pushing. They told me later that if his hand hadn't been there, he would have been out before Sue had even gotten to my house. He also had his cord very loosely around his neck one time, but as is the case with most nuchal cords, it was never a dangerous situation.
Rohan Morrison Kahle was born at 4:25 p.m.
I love how this picture really captures how powerful and joyful I felt in that moment.
The amazing Sue continues to support me, even after Rohan is born.
As soon as he was out, I reached down for him and they handed him to me to put him on my chest, and I started to laugh and cry. I kept thanking everyone and saying, "I can't believe we did this!". They corrected me and reminded me *I* did it, which of course made me cry some more. Darrick got the camera and took some pictures (the plan to photograph and video it all went by the wayside when it went so fast), and I just held him for a few minutes. Finally, Darrick lifted baby's leg and we both said, "BOY!".
They cut the cord after it stopped pulsing, and I ended up delivering the placenta in the pool and getting out right after. I got onto the couch and they covered me with blankets because I was shaking (post-birth hormones). By this point I was already feeling fine and not in pain at all. I was laughing about the vegetable oil and talking to everyone as though it were a normal day and I hadn't just given birth in a plastic pool in my living room on a Monday afternoon.
My MW and her apprentices hung out until about 6. In that time, I breastfed Rohan, we went upstairs and they did a newborn check on him, and they checked me for tears. Because of his size, the hand by the face, and the speed of my labor, we expected I may need stitches. My tear ended up being minor enough we opted not to stitch it at all. And I'll tell you....I am having NO pain at all, despite a big baby and a hand by the face. I really think being able to feel what was happening made for a better delivery and recovery. And to answer the question everyone seems to want to know the answer to...NO...I did NOT have to use the skimmer!
Weighing my beautiful son.
Newborn exam.
This was a novel, but I want to remember all the details before they get lost on me. This story is just the facts and details I know I'll want written for posterity. What I'm not sure it captures fully is the intense joy and surrender I felt giving birth to my first son at home, surrounded only by people I asked to attend and supported fully. Throughout my pregnancy, I grew to know and love my birth team, and they were supportive of every decision my family made and provided us a safe space in which we were able to create the birth we desired. It was an amazing experience. There was not a single moment in the whole pregnancy, labor, and birth when I was worried about my safety or Rohan's, and I never even thought about drugs while at home. I felt very safe and very comfortable, and though it was fast and for sure it was painful, it was amazing and I felt SO strong and so loved and supported.
I know homebirth isn't for a lot of people, but it was so amazing, and I'm glad I trusted my body and my baby and my husband and I got to have this beautiful experience.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The shape of a mother?
Have you seen this website? It's an eye opener. It has pictures and stories from mothers of all ages, shapes, and sizes, both during and after pregnancy. Some of the pictures are jarring and frightening to those who have not birthed. Some are impressive and jealousy-inspiring to those who HAVE birthed. But I think they, overall, provide a unique glimpse into the female body.
But, my point is not to get your TOO wrapped up in that very engrossing website. It's to bring something up that I sort of skirted around a few days ago: having a baby changes everything, right down to the curve of your belly and the texture of your skin.
I started a project awhile ago on this blog, one which I have yet to complete because I don't feel it's ready. I wanted to get pictures of women - real women - in swimsuits and share them here. I wanted all women...thin, fat, tall, short, moms, not...to share pictures of themselves showing what REAL women look like. Because sometimes it's perfection, and sometimes it's not so much. But no matter what, it can be beautiful.
So, part of this post is to ask you women out there who have not sent me pictures to consider doing so. You can show your face, or not. If you're willing, comment here and I'll get in touch with you.
The second part of this post is to point out my own hypocrisy: I have not taken my OWN swimsuit picture for this project. And why not? Because I am ashamed of my body post-baby. I had more than enough curves before having Luca. Now I have more than one person could EVER need. And yet...I want other women to share their pictures with me and all 12 of my readers (ha!). So I started thinking how we mothers do amazing things. Our bodies create and nourish life, support it into this world, and feed it the 'perfect' food. And yet, we mothers tend to be more ashamed and let down by their bodies than most any other group. I wish I could change this. Maybe I need to start with myself. With realizing my body is not what I wish it was, but it's amazing still, not because of how it looks, but because of how it LIVES.
But, my point is not to get your TOO wrapped up in that very engrossing website. It's to bring something up that I sort of skirted around a few days ago: having a baby changes everything, right down to the curve of your belly and the texture of your skin.
I started a project awhile ago on this blog, one which I have yet to complete because I don't feel it's ready. I wanted to get pictures of women - real women - in swimsuits and share them here. I wanted all women...thin, fat, tall, short, moms, not...to share pictures of themselves showing what REAL women look like. Because sometimes it's perfection, and sometimes it's not so much. But no matter what, it can be beautiful.
So, part of this post is to ask you women out there who have not sent me pictures to consider doing so. You can show your face, or not. If you're willing, comment here and I'll get in touch with you.
The second part of this post is to point out my own hypocrisy: I have not taken my OWN swimsuit picture for this project. And why not? Because I am ashamed of my body post-baby. I had more than enough curves before having Luca. Now I have more than one person could EVER need. And yet...I want other women to share their pictures with me and all 12 of my readers (ha!). So I started thinking how we mothers do amazing things. Our bodies create and nourish life, support it into this world, and feed it the 'perfect' food. And yet, we mothers tend to be more ashamed and let down by their bodies than most any other group. I wish I could change this. Maybe I need to start with myself. With realizing my body is not what I wish it was, but it's amazing still, not because of how it looks, but because of how it LIVES.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Baby Weight.
No, this post is not about losing th pregnancy weight...that's a topic I'm highly unqualified to discuss. It's about babies, and what they weigh.
Odd topic? Maybe, but one that every pregnant woman and mom will find herself obsessing over at one point or another. When you're pregnant, people are forever guessing at baby's size. I heard more than a bajillion times, "That's going to be a BIG baby!". Mostly, this was said by people who took in me (5'8") and then looked over to my husband, who at 6'5" and 275 pounds, dwarves most mere mortals. On top of this, my mom had 4 kids, and 3 of us were well over 8 pounds. So, from early in my pregnancy, I was resigned to a 'big baby', but I tried not to let it bother. The way I figured...AND head coming out of that part of a woman's body hurts...whether it's attached to a 6 pound body or a 9 pound one.
Well, wouldn't you know it? I ended up with a skinny baby, tipping the scales at a mere 6 lbs, 7 oz. She was lonf (21") and lean, with a small head (in the 25th %). And you KNOW I heard ALL ABOUT IT from everyone...people I knew, people I loved, people at stores and restaurants and everywhere we went. The most common question we got was, "Is she a preemie?" She was not. In fact, she was born right on time, and in spite of the odds, she was just a little bird.
Now, when you're a new, first-time mom and you're trying to figure out breastfeeding, and the media and pop culture inundate you with picture and stories starring fat, bald babies, you start to wonder. You read baby magazines, filled with chubby, pink and camel skinned cherubs, their thigh rolls yummy and looking like little spilling vats of pudding. Their TOES are chubby, for shit's sake!
And there's your baby....your little, thin, bird-legged baby. And you worry. And you stress. And you wonder if breastfeeding really is the right thing to do. And, of course, you take it personally. You start thinking of witty comebacks to all those invasive questions about your baby's size and weight. Offhanded smartass remarks like, "She's only small because of all the meth I did in pregnancy!", "Small? No, no, no! You're just so used to seeing fatasses like yourself everywhere you go, so you don't recognize a normal kid.", "She's on a diet. We'd appreciate if you wouldn't mention her weight...she's really sensitive about it!"
But, of course, I never dared. I just smiled and endured conversations like the one I had at the mall one day:
Saleslady: "She's precious! How old?"
Me: (cringing because I KNOW she thinks my kid is a matter of days old, and she's almost 3 months) "Almost 3 months."
S: "Oh. OH! She was a preemie then?"
M: "Nope. Right on time. Just a skinny little bean."
S: "Don't worry honey. My grandkids were preemie twins, and they caught up. She'll catch up too."
M: "Oh, um...she's not a preemie. Just skinny."
S: "Yeah, preemies can be so hard. Don't worry. She's get chubby soon."
Ummmmmm.....what conversation was that woman in? How many ways can I say "She's not a preemie." before I lose my fucking mind?!?!?
I eventually developed my own pat answer to these sorts of inquiries. One that was honest, slightly passive agressive, and made most people stop haranguing me: "She's not a preemie. She's just long and skinny. We should ALL be so lucky, right?"
Anyhow, as Luca grew, it turned out my instinct that she wasn't 'too small' was right. Turns out, she was just right for Luca. Every Pediatrician appointment brought a weight check, and then a visit with the growth chart.
A word on bay growth charts: 99% of Pediatricians use a chart based on formula fed babies. And, studies show, formula fed babies not only tend to start out chubbier, they tend to stay chubbier into adulthood. So when your breastfed baby is being compared to a formula fed one, it's not an even contest at all.
Anyhow, when she was a newborn, we'd go in and those words "She's 5th % for weight..." would crush me. I could feel the unspoken, "So what are you doing wrong???" hanging in the room, whether or not her Dr was actually thinking it. People would ask me what she weighed, and I'd cringe, then answer, then watch the shock register on their faces. Nine times out of ten, these were other moms asking, and 9 times out of ten, I'd get a response like, "WOW. Really? Was she a preemie? MY son weighed 6 pounds more than that at her age!"
Now, this would be followed by me looking into the stroller to see a kid who was so fat his little shorts were being sucked up into his thigh fat, and he had neck cheese spilling out onto his shirt.
MmmmHmmmm.
Now, far be it for me to judge chubby kids. I envied them, really, because while we all know that obesity is on the rise in America, chubbiness is still considered the 'norm'. People run around declaring with glee, "He's in the 99th percentile for weight!", and no one bats a lash. Imagine me, running around bragging about my baby: "She's in the 3rd percentile for weight!!!". How do you think THAT would have gone over?
Anyhow, our latest appointment was for Luca's 12 months. She weighed in and, to our surprise, had jumped up a few rungs on those famous weight charts. She was a healthy 18 pounds, 6 ounces, landing her a spot in the presitgious 10th percentile for weight. Her height was (has always been) in about the 75th percentile. So how did I feel about being 7 percentage points close to 'average'? Relieved. Not that she had gained weight, but that I could STOP HAVING TO ANSWER THE AGE OLD "WHAT PERCENTILE IS SHE IN?" WITH "THIRD.".
It was only after her appointment that I stopped and realized something: Luca's 12 month appointment was done almost 3 weeks late, but her little weight dot was plotted on a chart with ther 12 month olds. We cheated the system by 3 weeks....and I wonder how many percentage points?
Odd topic? Maybe, but one that every pregnant woman and mom will find herself obsessing over at one point or another. When you're pregnant, people are forever guessing at baby's size. I heard more than a bajillion times, "That's going to be a BIG baby!". Mostly, this was said by people who took in me (5'8") and then looked over to my husband, who at 6'5" and 275 pounds, dwarves most mere mortals. On top of this, my mom had 4 kids, and 3 of us were well over 8 pounds. So, from early in my pregnancy, I was resigned to a 'big baby', but I tried not to let it bother. The way I figured...AND head coming out of that part of a woman's body hurts...whether it's attached to a 6 pound body or a 9 pound one.
Well, wouldn't you know it? I ended up with a skinny baby, tipping the scales at a mere 6 lbs, 7 oz. She was lonf (21") and lean, with a small head (in the 25th %). And you KNOW I heard ALL ABOUT IT from everyone...people I knew, people I loved, people at stores and restaurants and everywhere we went. The most common question we got was, "Is she a preemie?" She was not. In fact, she was born right on time, and in spite of the odds, she was just a little bird.
Now, when you're a new, first-time mom and you're trying to figure out breastfeeding, and the media and pop culture inundate you with picture and stories starring fat, bald babies, you start to wonder. You read baby magazines, filled with chubby, pink and camel skinned cherubs, their thigh rolls yummy and looking like little spilling vats of pudding. Their TOES are chubby, for shit's sake!
And there's your baby....your little, thin, bird-legged baby. And you worry. And you stress. And you wonder if breastfeeding really is the right thing to do. And, of course, you take it personally. You start thinking of witty comebacks to all those invasive questions about your baby's size and weight. Offhanded smartass remarks like, "She's only small because of all the meth I did in pregnancy!", "Small? No, no, no! You're just so used to seeing fatasses like yourself everywhere you go, so you don't recognize a normal kid.", "She's on a diet. We'd appreciate if you wouldn't mention her weight...she's really sensitive about it!"
But, of course, I never dared. I just smiled and endured conversations like the one I had at the mall one day:
Saleslady: "She's precious! How old?"
Me: (cringing because I KNOW she thinks my kid is a matter of days old, and she's almost 3 months) "Almost 3 months."
S: "Oh. OH! She was a preemie then?"
M: "Nope. Right on time. Just a skinny little bean."
S: "Don't worry honey. My grandkids were preemie twins, and they caught up. She'll catch up too."
M: "Oh, um...she's not a preemie. Just skinny."
S: "Yeah, preemies can be so hard. Don't worry. She's get chubby soon."
Ummmmmm.....what conversation was that woman in? How many ways can I say "She's not a preemie." before I lose my fucking mind?!?!?
I eventually developed my own pat answer to these sorts of inquiries. One that was honest, slightly passive agressive, and made most people stop haranguing me: "She's not a preemie. She's just long and skinny. We should ALL be so lucky, right?"
Anyhow, as Luca grew, it turned out my instinct that she wasn't 'too small' was right. Turns out, she was just right for Luca. Every Pediatrician appointment brought a weight check, and then a visit with the growth chart.
A word on bay growth charts: 99% of Pediatricians use a chart based on formula fed babies. And, studies show, formula fed babies not only tend to start out chubbier, they tend to stay chubbier into adulthood. So when your breastfed baby is being compared to a formula fed one, it's not an even contest at all.
Anyhow, when she was a newborn, we'd go in and those words "She's 5th % for weight..." would crush me. I could feel the unspoken, "So what are you doing wrong???" hanging in the room, whether or not her Dr was actually thinking it. People would ask me what she weighed, and I'd cringe, then answer, then watch the shock register on their faces. Nine times out of ten, these were other moms asking, and 9 times out of ten, I'd get a response like, "WOW. Really? Was she a preemie? MY son weighed 6 pounds more than that at her age!"
Now, this would be followed by me looking into the stroller to see a kid who was so fat his little shorts were being sucked up into his thigh fat, and he had neck cheese spilling out onto his shirt.
MmmmHmmmm.
Now, far be it for me to judge chubby kids. I envied them, really, because while we all know that obesity is on the rise in America, chubbiness is still considered the 'norm'. People run around declaring with glee, "He's in the 99th percentile for weight!", and no one bats a lash. Imagine me, running around bragging about my baby: "She's in the 3rd percentile for weight!!!". How do you think THAT would have gone over?
Anyhow, our latest appointment was for Luca's 12 months. She weighed in and, to our surprise, had jumped up a few rungs on those famous weight charts. She was a healthy 18 pounds, 6 ounces, landing her a spot in the presitgious 10th percentile for weight. Her height was (has always been) in about the 75th percentile. So how did I feel about being 7 percentage points close to 'average'? Relieved. Not that she had gained weight, but that I could STOP HAVING TO ANSWER THE AGE OLD "WHAT PERCENTILE IS SHE IN?" WITH "THIRD.".
It was only after her appointment that I stopped and realized something: Luca's 12 month appointment was done almost 3 weeks late, but her little weight dot was plotted on a chart with ther 12 month olds. We cheated the system by 3 weeks....and I wonder how many percentage points?
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Can I talk about boobs?
(By the way, you are not allowed to freak out about those pictures. My boob is safely encased in a bra and tank top and Luca is not attached. This is post-feeding, when she's in Milky-Zone. Plus, I was brave enough to post the pictures, make-up free and all, so you can't be too mad.... and I look kinda skinny in them, further supporting why I'm allowed to post them.)Well, it's my blog, so I suppose the answer is I can talk about anything I damn well please. So there we have it. Boobs it is (they are?). I'm not sure whether any of my 6 or so readers really give a shit about my boobs and their happenings. But lately I've been thinking a lot about the wonders of boobs in general, and specifically related to feeding babies.
Now, let me preface this with one thing: the intent of this blog post is not to make anyone who has a baby/babies feel bad if they do not/did not breastfeed. Your boobs, your baby, your decision. Mmmmkay....do we have that clear? I care not who has or has not sucked your teets, although if someone has and you're happy/proud about it, I'd love to hear your story, be that someone a cute baby or a cute boy (or girl...it is the millenium, people!).
With that out of the way, let's get on to the topic at hand....boobs.
Let me just say now: anyone who says breastfeeding is easy or perfectly natural is either a freak of nature and extremely lucky, or a sadistic bastard trying to make new moms everywhere feel like complete failures. Suffice it to say, breastfeeding was anything BUT easy in those early days. When I was still pregnant, I told myself I would try to breastfeed, and if I couldn't for some reason it would be ok. But I had myself fooled into believing that it would be easy for me. It was not. I also was pretending to be a rational human being, not an extremely-stubborn-even-under-the-best-circumstances-so-forget-being-rational-when-hormonal-and-post-partum new mom.
The first problem we faced was that Luca swallowed some fluid when she was born. So, I got to hold her for a few minutes, but was not allowed to feed her until almost 3 hours later, once they determined her lungs were clear. Missing that window of the hour after she was born took a toll. By the time I first tried to breastfeed, she didn't seem interested at all. She was just sleepy. And trying to latch a baby when neither of you has any idea what you're doing and it's 3 a.m. and you just...HELLO...birthed a real live human being? Well, it's not easy. And it hurts. In fact, the pain was so bad that the hospital bed was shaking because I kept tapping my foot like a mad woman to try to get my mind off the pain.
We went home the day after Luca was born, and I continued trying to feed her. She was still super sleepy, though, and I assumed she was getting enough. And then...all hell broke loose. My milk came in. And it just so happened that right about that time, Luca decided she was not only awake, but HUNGRY. I'll spare anyone still reading this far the details, and just say it was the longest damn night of my life. Baby crying. Mom crying. Dad trying everything short of actually latching on himself to make sure the boobs were working. I thought I would go insane. And at 4 a.m., when your baby can't eat and you can't figure out why, there's not a whole hell of a lot of help to be found.
The next day, we took our exhausted selves to see a Lactation Consultant. Future Moms who wish to breastfeed...find thee a LC you like and put her # on speed dial. They are freaking lifesavers (I went and saw Mary here: http://www.milksmile.com/). I think she cost us the best $30 we've ever spent. Basically, she snuggled Luca, listened to my story while politely pretending she could NOT tell I was 2.4 seconds from a mental breakdown, gave me a huge motherly embrace, and gave us just what we needed to make this whole thing work.. Behold the Nipple Shield.
Some moms get their baby's first shoes bronzed. Not me. I'm getting the damn shield bronzed. For you moms and to-bes, I'll note here that I've been told many times that Luca should have been weaned from the shield within a week or two of introducing it....and here we are nearly 7 months later and still using it. I say: screw what the 'experts' say and do what works. Did I mention my plans to bronze that little fucker?
You know, you can read and read and read all you want about breastfeeding and how to know if baby's eating enough, and still.....I never knew. And it was a nightmare, because she wasn't gaining weight fast enough to please her Dr. She was born at 6 lbs, 7 oz and left the hospital at 5 lbs, 15 oz. By 2 weeks of age, she was supposed to be back to birth weight, and she was not. This, despite the fact the kid LIVED on my boobs for the first 6 weeks of her life. We're talking Darrick would go to bed and I'd be on the couch feeding her....and 8 hours later he'd get up for work and we'd be in the same spot, both of us half-asleep in the same position.
For the next 4 weeks, I had to take her to the Dr every 3 days(ish) to get her weighed and make sure she was doing ok. I'd go in, they'd weigh her, and she would still not be gaining enough to make the Drs stop worrying. I'd hold it together and try to maintain a calm facade, then rush out to my car where I would break down and sob hysterically. Nothing made me feel more like a failure than not being able to help my baby grow. I believe the best way to describe how I felt is to say I felt like a wild animal who had been caged with my screaming, seemingly constantly hungry offspring. And I wasn't sure if the universe wanted me to figure out how to make breastfeeding work, give her a bottle and give up, or eat her. SO glad I didn't choose the last option, because by 2 months, she was gaining at a steady rate, and it was determined that she was on a 'curve', albeit a low one, and she was therefore ok, so we were allowed to go back to the normal baby appointment schedule, and around 3 months I broke my scale addiction and returned the rental to the breastfeeding store.
But, there was more. At 6 weeks I had to go back to work, and I was so sad and stressed out about it. I didn't know how I could continue to breatfeed when it was hard enough to do while home with Luca all day and night. I had a major breakdown and my mom had to come over and talk me down from nominating myself for 'Shittiest Breastfeeder of the Year'. Thank god for moms. I decided to stick with it, and it did get better. But part of what made it better was retiring Lefty.
Ah, Lefty. The bane of my breastfeeding experience. From early on, Luca was not a fan of Lefty, and Lefty apparently was not a fan of her, because he failed to make much milk at all. I worried about it. I stressed about it. And between feeding her almost constantly and taking supplements and eating enough eggs to feed a small village just to get more protein and pumping every goddamn 2 hours around the clock....Lefty still seemed determined to not pull his weight. I worried about that, since I was sure I needed both of them to be working in order to feed my kid. And then my mom, on the night she came over to talk me down, relayed how she fed one of my brothers from just one side. I never thanked her for that bit of TMI, but I should have, because her saying that freed me mentally to do the same. Thanks, Mom.
Weaning from Lefty was no big deal. I kept pumping him (I refer to Lefty as 'him' because no female boob would fuck with a post-partum first time mom the way Lefty did), sometimes 6 or more times a day. And when I went back to work, I tried to keep him going by pumping at night and in the morning, in addition to the daytime tandem pumping sessions. In fact, until a week ago, Lefty was pumped at least 2 times every day. I just stopped that last week when I realized I could pump Lefty three times a day or three times a week and still get the same cumulative amount....about 0.0000657462927397238th of an ounce. And so....Lefty has been retired. Only I refuse to bronze that Fucker.
Anyhow. So that brings us to now. Luca will be 7 months old this week, and we're still breastfeeding. Of course, she gets cereals and fruits and veggies now. And the funny thing about it is, if you'd asked me when she was 3 weeks old how long I'd breastfeed for, I would have expected to have weaned when I went back to work. I was sure it wasn't going to last. I was positive I was going to fail. And now....well...now that she's closer to an age where a lot of babies are weaned (or, really, past it since only about 36% of women still breastfeed past 6 months in the US - http://kellymom.com/writings/bf-numbers.html), it's so easy I'm in no rush to wean. I have no plans to be breastfeeding a Kindergartner, so please don't worry. And I'm still shaving my arm pits, so we're safe there. But it took me until Luca was almost 4 months old to finally realize the joy and beauty of the mother-child breastfeeding connection. And I admit...I'm not quite ready to give that up. Because, really, after a long day of work and a disgusting commute, I find peace in these kinds of moments:
All I can say is, I hope maybe someone who read this will benefit someday from knowing that women DO struggle to breastfeed. Not all women, but since having a baby and talking to other moms, I think the majority do in one way or another. And if you're very blessed, like I was, you can work through it if you try. But not all breastfeeding issues can be worked through. And not all moms are as insanely stubborn as I was. For many a mom, sanity and happiness comes in a tub of formula, and I support and commend that decision. And I also promise this will not someday be me:
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Soul
I could list for days the things no one tells you about being a parent. Or, even the things they DO tell you, and you rub your fat, pregnant belly smugly and think "That won't happen to US.", and then it does. When I was pregnant, I truly felt like ALL people told me about having kids was the bad stuff. The dark and sad and ugly and exhausting stuff.
What they didn't, or perehaps couldn't, tell me was that having a baby is quite literally akin to taking a chunk of your soul and placing it in the cutest possible packaging right outside of your body. And, for the first few months at least, that little chunk of soul is so close to you so often that it sort of is easy to pretend you are still one. She sleeps better next to you. Her body folds into yours perfectly. Her smile is a mirror of yours. You are separate, but she has yet to catch on and you sure as HELL aren't going to be the one to point it out to her and start on the road to her hating you and thinking you are the 'meanest mommy ever' before it's her time.
I think the point at which that little chunk of your soul becomes a separate and distinct being is different for everyone. As a mom who breastfeeds, especially, I think for Luca it took awhile to recognize that we are not the same person. The first sign she was starting to realize this came at about 3 months old, when suddenly she realized that while nursing she could unlatch, roll from side to back, look at me, smile with milk leaking down her cheek, and then roll back on her side and carry on. And, she could (and did) do this about 8,765 times per nursing session. I remember when she was first born and my mom (who breastfed 4 kids) told me that baby should be able to breastfeed in 5-10 minutes per session. At the time, this just made me feel like there MUST be something wrong, since Luca only finished in less than 40 minutes if she fell asleep while eating. Anyhow, by 3 months she'd shortened each meal to about...oh...30 minutes. That is, until she discovered that - HELLO! - I was there! Right there! Just a roll away! And so it began, Luca's realization that she and I were not one being any longer, along with the return to the never-ending nursing session.
What they didn't, or perehaps couldn't, tell me was that having a baby is quite literally akin to taking a chunk of your soul and placing it in the cutest possible packaging right outside of your body. And, for the first few months at least, that little chunk of soul is so close to you so often that it sort of is easy to pretend you are still one. She sleeps better next to you. Her body folds into yours perfectly. Her smile is a mirror of yours. You are separate, but she has yet to catch on and you sure as HELL aren't going to be the one to point it out to her and start on the road to her hating you and thinking you are the 'meanest mommy ever' before it's her time.
I think the point at which that little chunk of your soul becomes a separate and distinct being is different for everyone. As a mom who breastfeeds, especially, I think for Luca it took awhile to recognize that we are not the same person. The first sign she was starting to realize this came at about 3 months old, when suddenly she realized that while nursing she could unlatch, roll from side to back, look at me, smile with milk leaking down her cheek, and then roll back on her side and carry on. And, she could (and did) do this about 8,765 times per nursing session. I remember when she was first born and my mom (who breastfed 4 kids) told me that baby should be able to breastfeed in 5-10 minutes per session. At the time, this just made me feel like there MUST be something wrong, since Luca only finished in less than 40 minutes if she fell asleep while eating. Anyhow, by 3 months she'd shortened each meal to about...oh...30 minutes. That is, until she discovered that - HELLO! - I was there! Right there! Just a roll away! And so it began, Luca's realization that she and I were not one being any longer, along with the return to the never-ending nursing session.
With a face like that, though...could I really be annoyed?
It took me longer to recognize the separateness of our beings. No, really, though. I mean, on an intellectual level of COURSE I know we are two separate beings. But it wasn't until she made The Move. You moms know the one: The Move to The Crib.
For us, this happened when she was about 4.5 months old. I know, I know....moms everywhere are shaking their heads in disbelief that she slept in our room that long. And, just to get those heads shaking more vigorously, she even slept in our bed sometimes. That's right...right there in our bed. Horror of horrors. Next thing you know, we'll be buying her a pony and teaching her about liberalism and birth control.
Anyhow, I posted once before about how I want Luca to be able to embrace her Orange side for as long as possible. And part of this was letting her 'tell' us when she was ready for things like sleeping in her crib. And, much to the chagrin of the parents out there who would shake their head and wag a stern finger at us for being lax about where she was sleeping, she did indeed let us know when she was ready. And the transition, I'm proud to say, was 97% smooth. We still have our rough nights where she does not want to go to sleep. I still bring her back into bed with me sometimes in the middle of the night. But, by and large, it's been a success.
And yet, here I am, a month and a half into the whole crib experience, and I'm still adjusting. The little sprout is fine. She's happy. She sleeps like...well...a baby. And yet I find myself, night after night, creeping in to watch her breath. And when it's too dark, and I can't be sure she IS breathing, I crouch down and sneak an arm between the bars and lightly rest my palm on her back or belly, just to feel the rise and fall. It may as well be the rise and fall upon which the universe exists, as far as I am concerned. And in those moments, when the house is quiet and dark and my little bird is sleeping, safe and sound and without me to hold her (sob! I can't believe she doesn't NEED ME!), I have to remind myself that a chunk of my soul will forever live outside of my body. So I hold the warmth of her little body in my palm and I whisper "I love you so much." to her sleeping form, warm and pink and smelling of all things sweet and lovely, and I tip-toe out of her room into my bed and, like a kid waiting for Christmas, I anxiously await the morning when I can hold her little body again.
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