Easing

Slowly but ever surely, we're getting the hang of breastfeeding. I got him hooked on a nipple shield, a marvelous invention but definitely a setback. See, I have the good fortune of having an inverted nipple -- yes TMI -- on my right side. That, and the nipple shield, makes it impossible to nurse in public, a feat I have not yet attempted. As it is at home, the milk machines just hang there, exposed and willing, oftentimes dripping, and there's no shame in it, er, them. Sometimes when I'm cradling him, he maneuvers his head inch by inch down toward my breast, finally finding the front of my shirt to suck on, resulting in a round wet spot. It is so cute and I can't help but laugh.

But I've find it hard to laugh lately, with this serious lack of sleep.

And in three weeks I will be royally screwed. My mom goes back home, and I have to make the transition back to work. I'll do a couple of practice runs before she leaves, where I'll work a few half days a week, and bring the baby with me. I have been poking my head in the office for a few hours at a time, 2x a week.

I would love some suggestions on a sleep/nurse/work schedule. Does this even exist? I am really freaking out trying to figure out how wannabe dad and I are going to be able to function. If I hear him say one more time, we'll figure it out, I will scream. Baby is sleeping maybe 2 hour intervals during the night. He is 8 weeks tomorrow and is going on week 2 of a growth spurt where during the day he'll want to nurse every 1-1.5 hours. Right now I nurse baby all night, wannabe dad takes over from 6-8:30, when Mom takes over till about 11 when I get up. I also get up maybe 2x during that time to pump. But when she leaves, all hell will break loose, me included.

Banana

Arrgh. The internet is all abuzz with news of my 20th high school reunion. Gulp. Ack. Classmates from near and far are contacting each other, signing up on a web developer's social networking baby specifically targeting high school alums, uploading pictures of them and their nearest and dearest from the last 20 years, hoping to get a glimpse of their first crush, their arch enemy, their circle of friends now defunct.

For some, high school was the worst time of their lives. For others, it was nothing but glory -- the football star, the track star, the cheerleader, the homecoming queen, the courts of the various proms. I did my best to fit in, balancing the fine line of asking my parents to buy me the latest trendy clothes (Chic jeans with the tulip legs, which I later cropped and stuck in bleach) and fashioning combinations of my own with what I had (an especially memorable number was a bright yellow sweater skirt and black mock sleeveless turtleneck with yellow and purple flowers). With the humidity in Hawaii, you couldn't get too fashionable without suffering the consequences. Most got by with the requisite shorts, surf-themed t-shirt, and rubber slippers (aka flip-flops).

Always keeping a low profile and erring on the side of nerd, I stuck with two or three groups of friends. The band people. The people on the lawn (known back then as "mod" - think Cure and Morrissey). Two girls from junior high. I eventually ditched the latter for more excitement -- hanging out on the appointed bench near the band room with the band people at first recess, then under the shady tree on the lawn with the mods at lunch. There was a bit of bad teenage blood with me and the junior high girls, but eventually we did become friendly again.

It never occurred to me that I at some point created some ill-will toward low-profile self. It probably took a few weeks to notice, but on my way to the band bench I heard the same word yelled in my direction, by the same voice. Banana. I didn't pay much attention, eagerly making my way to my friends to distribute the notes I had written the night before. One day. Banana. Another day. Banana. Holy crap, something is going on here.

And in true high school form, I didn't show my, what is the word, cringe? At each utterance, peppered with hate, the sayer protected by her posse, me not daring to seek its source, I kept my cringe under wraps. Months later, I found out from one of the posse members, a meek spy I shared a class with, that Annie (her real name) targeted me because she had overheard me expressing my excitement about my upcoming Ball event, complete with dinner, a dance, and pictures, with a shared crush. Who the f knew??? Annie thought I knew she was madly in love with him and that I was trying to make her jealous by talking about him so loudly. I didn't even know who Annie was. (And Annie was not even his type!)

Weeks, probably months went by. As the barrage continued, I made a plea to a classmate. She was tough, from a low-income family, tough, and smart. We shared a math class. We were clearly different -- I was so not tough, I was a front of the bus rider while she ruled the back seat, I didn't make people clear the hall when I walked through. Nevertheless, we were friends. I mentioned to her not in so many words that this person was giving me trouble, that I didn't even know her, that I wished it would stop.

It did stop. I can't remember how long it took. She never confirmed if she in fact intervened, and I didn't ask. I don't know what happened to her after high school.

Why "banana"? Apparently, the spy told me, the day Annie decided to put me in her bullseye, I wore that bright yellow skirt. 

The worst thing about it? Annie was a year younger than me.

Neglect

It was inevitable, that. All my frying pans are full of big fish and unfortunately my updates have been so scarce. 

Hives, still active. I suspect I'm allergic to sleep, because at night I'll sleep and wake up with hives. One night I didn't get to bed till 2 a.m. and was hive-free. Then I slept, and 2 hours later, hives. My mom thought it was the new free & clear laundry detergent we switched to, so one night I slept in previously washed sheets and clothes. The result? Hives. I suspected once, many nights ago, that I was getting overheated while sleeping, as the hives appeared on the side I was sleeping on and I woke up hot and itchy, so skimpy clothing was on the menu. The result? Minimal hives. Then another night, skimpy with full-blown hives. I did a g.oogle search and someone mentioned their hives possibly being triggered by oxytocin from breastfeeding. Possible? Doesn't matter, I won't stop nursing. I told my OB about the hives and she referred me to a dermatologist. I haven't gone, don't want to, don't need a prescription for a topical cream good lord what sleep deprived person will even figure out what to do with it and forget to wash her hands and the baby ends up getting sick from it?

Baby is doing well. Getting heavier, that boy. My wrists are taxed. My months on bedrest did a number on my physical strength, I'm bothered about that because I've always been active and strong like ox. I spend hours looking at him, I pick him up with every cry and gurgle and coo. He spends evenings napping on his Papa's chest (Papa is Dad, not grandpa), which his Papa looks forward to all the time. We go for walks some nights (morning walks are SO out of the question). My mom being here has saved my sanity, I should tell her that more often. Once a week she does the night feedings and I get up to pump. Wannabe dad does the morning feeding between 6-8. I am lucky.

My believer needs fixing because I can't believe he's finally here.

Welcome

A big warm welcome to Julia's new little boy, born last week. Wishing Julia and her beautiful family lots of love and hugs!!

Afflicted

Somebody done opened up a big ol' can o' whoop ass on me. Is it day or night? How many minutes was I asleep? And why am I breaking out in hives, on my "love handles" and my inner thighs, especially on the side I sleep on? Anyone experience this? It is most annoying especially for the middle of the night feedings. Concentrating on a good latch while being distracted by the fierce itching of hives is no fun.

I've been thinking of the toss ups between having a living baby and a dead baby. With a living baby, all the suffering has a "worth it" button you can easily push. With a dead baby, there is no button and all of your suffering has nowhere to go. But if given the choice between a dead baby and not suffering from hives and a live baby with my suffering from hives now entering its 3rd week? That's a no brainer, and yet the two choices are really not choices at all. It's like saying, would you rather have a broken left leg or a broken right leg? Either choice sucks.

But this time around we're not planning a funeral. Would I take hives over a funeral? You bet. This time around the cards that arrive in the mail don't have ridiculous phrases of "now you have an angel watching over you" and "they aren't gone, just away", but happy sing-song verses of bouncing baby boys and cutesy animals and blue and yellow and green and happy happy joy joy bursting through the mailbox. Definitely the congrats cards win out over the sympathy cards.

And I'm not lamenting the puffiness of my waistline, my enlarged belly button (now I can finally clean it - with a toilet scrubber!), the itchy red stretch marks on my hips, the lymph nodes in my left armpit bulging when it's time to nurse, my hair in a ponytail for days on end, the tender spot in me that is my uterus healing from surgery. 

I press that button.

***

Baby is doing fine. He had jaundice and stayed in the hospital two additional days after I was released, under and over the bilirubin phototherapy lights. The last two days he was put in an isolette (cue flashbacks from the NICU days - we tried our damndest not to freak out) with a phototherapy light above him. That seemed to work and we were discharged with instructions to feed him as much as possible. Five days later we were back in the pedi's office and a blood test showed his levels were back up! Uggh...so supplementing with formula was prescribed. We think he is back to or past his birth weight, having been at 8 lbs at the two week appointment.

We made a quick stop at the cemetery after being discharged so the girls could meet him, and the floodgates opened. It was painful to see the grave marker and our beautiful, perfect boy sitting next to it. I have three children, but I only have one. 

We are adjusting. My Mom is here, a blessing. My Dad arrives in two months.

His name -- he is named after wannabe dad. His middle name, Makana, Hawaiian for "the gift".

He is crying now, and the milk is coming down. Stopping lactation or encouraging milk supply? Definitely the latter, even though let down hurts a bit and his latching on is not consistent, and he likes to swat at and kick the tender nipples.

Press.

Feelings

While I would be the first to discount the whole "birth experience" phenom, as in, just be glad you have a live baby, things could be much worse, why are you even complaining about it, when you're making decisions based on the trust and expertise of your doctor, who has been with you since you conceived the twins, who gave you the grim news of the dilated cervix at 23 weeks, and all that the shit hit in the next 10 days, you would think that anything she tells you should be taken with all the salt in the world.

And for her to tell you that the risks associated with a VBAC are much greater in women who have not had a previous vaginal birth, while you are laying in a hospital bed with contractions 10 minutes apart, with an ill-measured dilation, when in all the long months before she was supportive and confident that a VBAC could be achieved (though she did reiterate that sentiment after disclosing the addional risks), you have to start questioning. You Have To!

And let me mention that she is 6 months pregnant, and although we were fortunate that she was on call, imagine your own doctor being able to deliver your live baby, she did mention that if things did not pick up, as in my contractions not increase, she would be off at 9 am the next morning and her baby shower was that day as well.

This is not an issue of me having the perfect birth experience. Had his health been in danger, I would not be writing this post. But his health was not compromised, nor was mine, throughout the entire pushing Olympics, while I squatted, bore down, pushed my tender tissues inside out, with hemorrhoids on top of hemorrhoids forming, with mineral oil-coated fingers stretching my vag six ways from Sunday. A vaginal birth was not without its own specially assigned pain, you see, and I had no idea it was going to be that difficult. (In the ensuing days, word of my pushing performance traveled throughout the department and each of the rotating nurses applauded my efforts.)

The common complaint about c-sections is that they are done for the convenience of scheduling. Proven? She probably looked great in her shower pictures.

Ultimately -- I signed the consent form. I took what I thought was the lesser of two evils, hell I had a c-section before so I knew what to expect. You want to vacuum my son out of me? She could have presented the third option, which was to stop pushing for a bit and continue to labor.

She was, however, kind enough to remove my old scar and assured me that this one would heal much nicer. Just in time for my bikini line to debut on Top Model.

So begins the care and feeding of a c-section, much more difficult, physically, with having to care for and feed a baby. Surprisingly, my recovery thus far is much more advanced than after the last one and I'm glad for that. I stopped the painkillers on day 7. But shit, the scar tissue. The numbness. The several layers of healing. The ouch when the fold of my [elastic-waisted] jeans hits the scar. More months of taking it easy. Just added hassle, ya know?

And no shit the birth experience is irrelevant. I am not unhappy that my beautiful son is here because I had a c-section. I'm not wallowing about while I gaze at his gorgeous face and his (I know they're not real, yet) smiles, and smell his baby breath and stroke his soft, full head of hair. Welcome home, sweetheart.

Facts

1. Got to the hospital last Thursday at 4:30 pm with painless ctx 10 min. apart.
2. Checked by the nurses, told I was 7 cm dilated, they marveled that I wasn't in pain.
3. My OB arrived, checked and said I was 4/4.5 cm dilated.
4. Admitted at 5:30 pm, ctx still 10 min. apart.
5. Swayed on birthing ball for a bit.
6. OB broke my water at 9 pm.
7. Ctx ramped up, epidural administered at 11 pm at 8.5 cm dilated.
8. 12 am fully dilated.
9. 12-2:20 am Olympic power pushing. Several positions used. Mom very tired. Perineum stretched and swollen beyond belief and reasonable doubt.
10. Given the option to use vacuum, if that didn't work, then c-section.
    
11. Skipped the vacuum, straight to section.
12. Baby arrived screaming at 3:20 am. 

Feelings on the above on upcoming post. I made the mistake of watching "the business of being born" the next day. Damn that mama guilt.