As I continue to adjust to my role as a mom, I have to admit, there were a few surprises that no one prepared me for - even the wisest and most experienced mamas I know. Some turned out to be pleasant and others, well...you'll see.
1. My skin grew up. In a good way. I suffered for a very long time with acne. I mean - we're talking over twenty years of my life, trying Noxema and Clearasil and Pro-Activ and three different medications from the dermatologist and countless other treatments, and virtually nothing worked long-term. The closest I came was with the oil-cleansing method, but even that wasn't fool-proof. My skin was pretty clear during my pregnancy, which I knew isn't usually the case. So I buckled down and prepared for the worst when the hormones shifted after the baby came. Nothing changed. I am insanely grateful, and now leave the house without make-up more frequently. Of course, people still seem to think I'm "sick" or "tired" without it, but that's life.
2. Never change a diaper immediately after a poop. This one probably is SUCH a no-brainer to most moms that they don't even think of it as useful advice. I figured it out on my own, and we won't get into any details, but I have a 60-second rule now with changing a diaper full of number two.
3. Formula is freeing. This one doesn't apply to everyone, but it did for me. After several weeks of attempted nursing, and lots of emotional trauma, we finally elected to exclusively formula-feed our little guy. In spite of the heated mommy wars surrounding this topic, we've found that it works best for our family. In my case, nursing was such a painful and frustrating experience that I grew to dread it. Heaven forbid I should be in public when the baby got hungry. I felt forced to make a hasty retreat home, red-faced and shameful. I didn't want to feed in public because it made me uncomfortable - not to mention, after seven weeks, baby still couldn't get the swing of things. For us, formula has allowed the rest of the family to participate more in caring for the baby, as well as given us more mobility.
4. It's okay NOT to worry. Wanting a (cheap) date night, my husband and I planned to see Guardians of the Galaxy at a local cinema's $5 night right up the road from my parents' house. We left the baby and a bag full of supplies with them and I am not joking when I say that not an ounce of worry entered my mind. I knew my parents were going to shower him with love, and my step-mom's extensive experience with children and babies certainly was a comfort, too. I felt guilty only because I thought I was supposed to wail and cry and mourn about my first time away from my newborn. Nope. See #3 above.
5. Babies are noisy. I'm not talking about the crying. I mean, I had no idea that this dude was going to grunt like a billy goat and sigh and sniffle and growl and shriek and hiss. The first few times these sounds erupted forth from my tiny infant, I just stood there with my head cocked to the side, assuming that one of the cats had snuck into the room and was making terrifying bleating noises. But no - cats don't typically do that, either. On the plus side: he's cooing now and it is the best sound in the whole world since the beginning of time.
6. Nothing can prepare you for the NICU experience. Especially if you've gotten this far after dealing with infertility or pregnancy loss, you might think you're invincible. The worst has already happened and no matter what, things will be okay once the baby is delivered. Not true. Even though our little boy was only in for nine days, and received wonderful care, those days were some of the hardest and most miserable we've ever experienced. Not only was I in emotional and physical pain from an emergency c-section, but every time we visited the baby, the updates changed - not always for the better. My heart will always go out to parents whose babies are in the NICU, no matter what the circumstance.
7. The first time someone questions a decision you've made, your heart will break. And your world will dim for a moment, and you'll panic and you'll stumble and you'll wonder if you're a terrible parent and you'll re-evaluate every single plan of action you'd considered. But then, chances are, you'll realize that you're doing the best you can in your situation, for your family. And you'll learn to handle people sneering because you're not breastfeeding...or sneering because you are breastfeeding. And, when your baby smiles at you, the haughty look you got from that random old lady at Sheetz after a misguided and awkward conversation about homeschooling...well, that doesn't matter at all. Not. At. All.
Any other first-time moms get some unexpected surprises - pleasant or otherwise? - when baby was born?
Showing posts with label preemie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label preemie. Show all posts
Monday, August 18, 2014
Monday, August 4, 2014
Mommy Wars - I Surrender!
My baby will be two months old this week. I feel like I've lived a whole lifetime in just these past eight weeks. Late nights have been rough, of course, even with my husband helping to support me. Diaper blowouts, crying jags, traumatic bathtimes - many of the challenges of parenthood have already reared their ugly heads. I've got a good support team, though, so we're all getting by.
They say, however, that no two mommies are the same; nor are two babies. Which means that everything - from how baby wants to be held to which brand of diaper works best, is up for debate. The problem is, this mommy is also a perfectionist, which means that things must be done one of two ways: flawlessly or not at all.
That's not a good thing. Especially when pretty much the next 18+ years of my life will be almost entirely trial and error. *Cue panic attack.*
Although I'm not sharing every tiny little scrap of information about my baby with the world, I think it's important to at least chronicle some of my struggles. After all, my readers have journeyed through miscarriage with me; now that my husband and I have our long-awaited child, we have a new set of challenges, and it's only fair that we're honest about those, too.
Ronen spent nine days in the NICU, and although he received excellent care during that time, it severely limited my ability to bond with him, particularly in the area of breastfeeding. That has been very difficult for me, and I've been quite hard on myself each time Ross or I mixed up a bottle of formula to supplement our little guy. I wanted so badly to be able to breastfeed exclusively, but that just hasn't happened. Poor latch, ongoing pain, exhaustion on my part, or just plain discouragement has led us to turn to the (baby) bottle on occasion. I've already run the gamut of ideas to make things more successful or easier, but most have failed for us, leaving me again condemning myself as a mother when I mumbled "yes, please", to my husband's offer of bottle-feeding the baby as I rolled back over for twenty more minutes of precious sleep when I should have been pumping, or feeding him myself.
I've hated myself for losing patience with the baby when I couldn't understand his needs. He was fed, changed, clean, warm, and swaddled. Why was he still crying and WHEN WOULD HE STOP?!
Ross was concerned that I had post-partum depression. I think the hormonal swings scared him, and rightly so - they scared me, too. However, when I was honest with myself and did a little research, I found that the majority of the symptoms didn't match up with what I was feeling. In fact, the greatest amount of my frustration was coming from one source alone: breastfeeding.
Or rather, my apparent failure at it.
I realized that the times I struggled with the most anger, depression and anxiety were feeding times. This might be linked with the baby's time in the NICU, where feedings were closely monitored and any time in which the baby consumed less than expected or took longer than expected was considered a failure. Or, it could be a side effect of the self-imposed burden of perfectionism, since nursing has not been a happy, beautiful and successful experience from day one. Probably a bit of both.
Still, once I isolated that part of motherhood, things got a little clearer. I pinpointed the specifics of why breastfeeding was making me anxious, and realized that, while some are fixable, some really are not. My son's high palate is something he has to grow into, and is causing latching problems which leave me in pain. So I began to dislike nursing my son.
Dreading breastfeeding made me feel like a terrible mother, so the cycle continued. I'd get upset about breastfeeding and it would frequently result in a self-fulfilling prophecy. The baby would finally latch, but I'd be stuck in an awkward or painful position for forty-five minutes. Or he would thrash about so violently that I'd have to literally pin his arms down to try to get him to eat. And, yes, the little dude picked up on my emotions, and reacted accordingly.
So guess what? He gets formula and pumped milk.
I've read lots of comments in nursing forums online, and frankly, it's enough to make any mother feel that she is valueless if she cannot or will not provide a baby nourishment at her breast. My girl Jaime, whom I frequently mention, was unable to nurse her twins and didn't learn until her fourth daughter was born that she actually had a glandular problem that prevented her from providing for her girls! For four years she dealt with intermittent disappointment and shame because she wasn't a proud breast-feeding mama...and even now, after receiving the knowledge that there was nothing in her power she could have done, she sometimes has twinges of guilt. Yes, breast milk has the upper hand on formula; mommies make it for each specific baby. But, in my case, it was being provided with a heavy dose of stress, anxiety, anger, resentment, and dread. That's not a cocktail I'd want to give any baby.
I frequently see it quoted that any woman can breastfeed if she tries hard enough, because it is "natural". But that makes no sense at all! It's "natural" to conceive children, yet thousands of couples each year find themselves truly unable to have babies, no matter how hard they try. Some can be helped with medical intervention, some cannot. I believe breastfeeding is the same way. I'm sure that the majority of women who have challenges can overcome them, but some cannot. I'm not saying I cannot overcome my own challenges, but I'm slowly accepting that my son has had lots of my own milk these past several weeks - which is a great thing! He gets lots of love and snuggles from anyone who feeds him. The bottle has allowed my family to feed the baby, which has been spiritually fulfilling - after all, these people have prayed for us through each miscarriage and have been waiting to welcome this tiny one into our lives as anxiously as we have. Why shouldn't I share him? Plus, yes...it is immeasurably beneficial for my husband and I to share night-feeding duties. Although I still take the lion's share (he works full time and I do not, so I try to let him sleep more at night and he lets me sleep in and nap on weekends and when he comes home), I definitely tag-team him sometimes. "Your turn," I mumble as I roll over and steal another half-hour of sweet sleep.
I've had a few crisis moments over the past few days. Moments when I am questioning my own decision to feed my baby both breast milk and formula. Wondering if I'm denying him for my own comfort. If Mommy being happy really does impact baby's happiness.
But then I look at my sweet-faced sleeping son, happily snoozing with a belly full of milk, and I realize: even as a preemie, he is easily meeting his developmental milestones as though he were full-term. He rolled over twice at 4 weeks (and lest that be a fluke, he did it again last week). He is starting to smile and express pleasure. He grabs at the bottle on his own. He hold his head up for several seconds at a time. He recognizes voices. He has gained almost 3 pounds since birth. He is beginning to sleep longer and longer stretches at night.
He. Is. Happy.
And you know what else?
Mommy and Daddy are, too.
If he scores two or three points lower on an IQ test because he consumed formula along with breast milk during his infancy, that's ok. I will love him anyway, because he is my son.
They say, however, that no two mommies are the same; nor are two babies. Which means that everything - from how baby wants to be held to which brand of diaper works best, is up for debate. The problem is, this mommy is also a perfectionist, which means that things must be done one of two ways: flawlessly or not at all.
That's not a good thing. Especially when pretty much the next 18+ years of my life will be almost entirely trial and error. *Cue panic attack.*
Although I'm not sharing every tiny little scrap of information about my baby with the world, I think it's important to at least chronicle some of my struggles. After all, my readers have journeyed through miscarriage with me; now that my husband and I have our long-awaited child, we have a new set of challenges, and it's only fair that we're honest about those, too.
Ronen spent nine days in the NICU, and although he received excellent care during that time, it severely limited my ability to bond with him, particularly in the area of breastfeeding. That has been very difficult for me, and I've been quite hard on myself each time Ross or I mixed up a bottle of formula to supplement our little guy. I wanted so badly to be able to breastfeed exclusively, but that just hasn't happened. Poor latch, ongoing pain, exhaustion on my part, or just plain discouragement has led us to turn to the (baby) bottle on occasion. I've already run the gamut of ideas to make things more successful or easier, but most have failed for us, leaving me again condemning myself as a mother when I mumbled "yes, please", to my husband's offer of bottle-feeding the baby as I rolled back over for twenty more minutes of precious sleep when I should have been pumping, or feeding him myself.
I've hated myself for losing patience with the baby when I couldn't understand his needs. He was fed, changed, clean, warm, and swaddled. Why was he still crying and WHEN WOULD HE STOP?!
Ross was concerned that I had post-partum depression. I think the hormonal swings scared him, and rightly so - they scared me, too. However, when I was honest with myself and did a little research, I found that the majority of the symptoms didn't match up with what I was feeling. In fact, the greatest amount of my frustration was coming from one source alone: breastfeeding.
Or rather, my apparent failure at it.
I realized that the times I struggled with the most anger, depression and anxiety were feeding times. This might be linked with the baby's time in the NICU, where feedings were closely monitored and any time in which the baby consumed less than expected or took longer than expected was considered a failure. Or, it could be a side effect of the self-imposed burden of perfectionism, since nursing has not been a happy, beautiful and successful experience from day one. Probably a bit of both.
Still, once I isolated that part of motherhood, things got a little clearer. I pinpointed the specifics of why breastfeeding was making me anxious, and realized that, while some are fixable, some really are not. My son's high palate is something he has to grow into, and is causing latching problems which leave me in pain. So I began to dislike nursing my son.
Dreading breastfeeding made me feel like a terrible mother, so the cycle continued. I'd get upset about breastfeeding and it would frequently result in a self-fulfilling prophecy. The baby would finally latch, but I'd be stuck in an awkward or painful position for forty-five minutes. Or he would thrash about so violently that I'd have to literally pin his arms down to try to get him to eat. And, yes, the little dude picked up on my emotions, and reacted accordingly.
So guess what? He gets formula and pumped milk.
I've read lots of comments in nursing forums online, and frankly, it's enough to make any mother feel that she is valueless if she cannot or will not provide a baby nourishment at her breast. My girl Jaime, whom I frequently mention, was unable to nurse her twins and didn't learn until her fourth daughter was born that she actually had a glandular problem that prevented her from providing for her girls! For four years she dealt with intermittent disappointment and shame because she wasn't a proud breast-feeding mama...and even now, after receiving the knowledge that there was nothing in her power she could have done, she sometimes has twinges of guilt. Yes, breast milk has the upper hand on formula; mommies make it for each specific baby. But, in my case, it was being provided with a heavy dose of stress, anxiety, anger, resentment, and dread. That's not a cocktail I'd want to give any baby.
I frequently see it quoted that any woman can breastfeed if she tries hard enough, because it is "natural". But that makes no sense at all! It's "natural" to conceive children, yet thousands of couples each year find themselves truly unable to have babies, no matter how hard they try. Some can be helped with medical intervention, some cannot. I believe breastfeeding is the same way. I'm sure that the majority of women who have challenges can overcome them, but some cannot. I'm not saying I cannot overcome my own challenges, but I'm slowly accepting that my son has had lots of my own milk these past several weeks - which is a great thing! He gets lots of love and snuggles from anyone who feeds him. The bottle has allowed my family to feed the baby, which has been spiritually fulfilling - after all, these people have prayed for us through each miscarriage and have been waiting to welcome this tiny one into our lives as anxiously as we have. Why shouldn't I share him? Plus, yes...it is immeasurably beneficial for my husband and I to share night-feeding duties. Although I still take the lion's share (he works full time and I do not, so I try to let him sleep more at night and he lets me sleep in and nap on weekends and when he comes home), I definitely tag-team him sometimes. "Your turn," I mumble as I roll over and steal another half-hour of sweet sleep.
I've had a few crisis moments over the past few days. Moments when I am questioning my own decision to feed my baby both breast milk and formula. Wondering if I'm denying him for my own comfort. If Mommy being happy really does impact baby's happiness.
But then I look at my sweet-faced sleeping son, happily snoozing with a belly full of milk, and I realize: even as a preemie, he is easily meeting his developmental milestones as though he were full-term. He rolled over twice at 4 weeks (and lest that be a fluke, he did it again last week). He is starting to smile and express pleasure. He grabs at the bottle on his own. He hold his head up for several seconds at a time. He recognizes voices. He has gained almost 3 pounds since birth. He is beginning to sleep longer and longer stretches at night.
He. Is. Happy.
And you know what else?
Mommy and Daddy are, too.
If he scores two or three points lower on an IQ test because he consumed formula along with breast milk during his infancy, that's ok. I will love him anyway, because he is my son.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
The Cat is Out of the Bag...
...and I'm not talking about that time Thor and Loki had it out over an empty sack of Meow Mix, either.
I mean to say that, after months of genuine indecisiveness, I finally turned in my resignation at work. I'm officially a stay-at-home-mom.
I feel relieved to have finally made my choice, but I'm surprised that relief is pretty much all I feel. I thought I'd feel elated and overjoyed and a big rush of warm fuzzies as I hugged and kissed my baby. I thought I'd feel proud, having made the decision that my husband and I agreed was best for my family.
Instead, I sort of feel a little bit...empty. Like I cut the cord in a huge area of my life and I'm in kind of a freefall right now. And challenged, like I'm standing at the base of a wild, snowy mountain and I've committed myself to climbing it but I really haven't packed enough supplies and I've never climbed a mountain before and in fact, I didn't even watch any mountain-climbing videos on YouTube or anything.
After just a few weeks of staying home with the baby (several of those days with family or friends visiting), I can see that raising children is not a job for lightweights. When Ross got home from work yesterday, I was exhausted. Nope, I hadn't finished three loads of laundry, gone grocery shopping, and groomed the cats. I had fed and changed the baby and thought about what I would made for dinner (eggs, fried taters and turkey bacon). And that was enough.
I can see how motherhood, which is supposed to be about family and community, can be isolating instead. I can see how a mom, even a mom who is a good person and full of lots of love, can get frustrated and resentful towards a new baby. Suddenly, your freedom disappears overnight; you're often expected to make decisions about returning to work long before you're physically or emotionally ready; friends and family and total strangers and the creepy staring lady at Giant Eagle all want to see your baby NOW and get upset because they weren't the first on your list to be invited over; your timetable now revolves around feeding a little guy who, in our case, is still figuring out how to eat, which frequently makes mealtimes stressful and unpredictable (the bonding quotient there is pretty much zero); you begin to dread evenings because you're either afraid you'll miss a feeding if the baby monitor doesn't pick up his cries, or you'll stay up all night because his "self-soothing" pug-like grunts just. Don't. Stop.
I thought it would be easy to quit my job. Maybe it would have been, if I despised my job or even felt indifferent towards it. But I actually liked it. I liked my co-workers. I liked what I did and I felt like I did it well. It was also hard to beat a 6-minute commute (which passed by a Starbucks). Plus, the information I gathered from working in a pediatric office has been invaluable during my pregnancy and now, with a preemie in the house. I had an amazing, engaged, compassionate supervisor and I had a good time working with some really fun, lively girls - going from that to being home with three suspicious cats, an often unreadable baby, Klondike bars and Netflix is a huge change.
We haven't been to church in a while because, well, yeah, we have a newborn and we've been advised to keep him out of crowds for a while. Although we've got offers to visit and help from some of the church gals, it's not the same as being in the Word and enjoying fellowship with our spiritual family. I thought I'd automatically feel closer to God after my son's birth, because, after all, I recognize God as the Heavenly Father, and now I was a parent, too, but that didn't happen, either.
I guess it comes down to expectations. The same unrealistic expectations that drive wedges between spouses in the first few years of marriage can overwhelm new parents. I didn't exactly expect the kind of rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed newborn so frequently depicted in movies and on television...nor did I expect to snap back into my pre-pregnancy body in a few weeks...and I certainly didn't expect to get a full night's sleep any time soon after his birth. But maybe my problem was that I really couldn't prepare myself for a new baby - especially the way he ended up coming into the world.
So, that's what I'm going to focus on these next few weeks - making realistic expectations for myself and my baby. Just getting by, one day at a time.
The anxiety of making The Big Decision is over. I have no obligations to anyone but my God and my family. It's okay for me to breathe. And fail, sometimes. And try again. And ask for help. And not take everyone's advice, if I don't want to.
Because really...the 17-year-old cashier at McDonald's might not be the most reputable source of infant knowledge, knowwhatImsayin'?
I mean to say that, after months of genuine indecisiveness, I finally turned in my resignation at work. I'm officially a stay-at-home-mom.
I feel relieved to have finally made my choice, but I'm surprised that relief is pretty much all I feel. I thought I'd feel elated and overjoyed and a big rush of warm fuzzies as I hugged and kissed my baby. I thought I'd feel proud, having made the decision that my husband and I agreed was best for my family.
Instead, I sort of feel a little bit...empty. Like I cut the cord in a huge area of my life and I'm in kind of a freefall right now. And challenged, like I'm standing at the base of a wild, snowy mountain and I've committed myself to climbing it but I really haven't packed enough supplies and I've never climbed a mountain before and in fact, I didn't even watch any mountain-climbing videos on YouTube or anything.
After just a few weeks of staying home with the baby (several of those days with family or friends visiting), I can see that raising children is not a job for lightweights. When Ross got home from work yesterday, I was exhausted. Nope, I hadn't finished three loads of laundry, gone grocery shopping, and groomed the cats. I had fed and changed the baby and thought about what I would made for dinner (eggs, fried taters and turkey bacon). And that was enough.
I can see how motherhood, which is supposed to be about family and community, can be isolating instead. I can see how a mom, even a mom who is a good person and full of lots of love, can get frustrated and resentful towards a new baby. Suddenly, your freedom disappears overnight; you're often expected to make decisions about returning to work long before you're physically or emotionally ready; friends and family and total strangers and the creepy staring lady at Giant Eagle all want to see your baby NOW and get upset because they weren't the first on your list to be invited over; your timetable now revolves around feeding a little guy who, in our case, is still figuring out how to eat, which frequently makes mealtimes stressful and unpredictable (the bonding quotient there is pretty much zero); you begin to dread evenings because you're either afraid you'll miss a feeding if the baby monitor doesn't pick up his cries, or you'll stay up all night because his "self-soothing" pug-like grunts just. Don't. Stop.
I thought it would be easy to quit my job. Maybe it would have been, if I despised my job or even felt indifferent towards it. But I actually liked it. I liked my co-workers. I liked what I did and I felt like I did it well. It was also hard to beat a 6-minute commute (which passed by a Starbucks). Plus, the information I gathered from working in a pediatric office has been invaluable during my pregnancy and now, with a preemie in the house. I had an amazing, engaged, compassionate supervisor and I had a good time working with some really fun, lively girls - going from that to being home with three suspicious cats, an often unreadable baby, Klondike bars and Netflix is a huge change.
We haven't been to church in a while because, well, yeah, we have a newborn and we've been advised to keep him out of crowds for a while. Although we've got offers to visit and help from some of the church gals, it's not the same as being in the Word and enjoying fellowship with our spiritual family. I thought I'd automatically feel closer to God after my son's birth, because, after all, I recognize God as the Heavenly Father, and now I was a parent, too, but that didn't happen, either.
I guess it comes down to expectations. The same unrealistic expectations that drive wedges between spouses in the first few years of marriage can overwhelm new parents. I didn't exactly expect the kind of rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed newborn so frequently depicted in movies and on television...nor did I expect to snap back into my pre-pregnancy body in a few weeks...and I certainly didn't expect to get a full night's sleep any time soon after his birth. But maybe my problem was that I really couldn't prepare myself for a new baby - especially the way he ended up coming into the world.
So, that's what I'm going to focus on these next few weeks - making realistic expectations for myself and my baby. Just getting by, one day at a time.
The anxiety of making The Big Decision is over. I have no obligations to anyone but my God and my family. It's okay for me to breathe. And fail, sometimes. And try again. And ask for help. And not take everyone's advice, if I don't want to.
Because really...the 17-year-old cashier at McDonald's might not be the most reputable source of infant knowledge, knowwhatImsayin'?
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
I Didn't Have Any Coffee This Morning.
And I can soooooooo feel it.
This parenting thing is strange. I can go a few hours at a time without a single obligation - that is, if the baby's sleeping - and then suddenly, my dinner has to get cold while I need to figure out why the tiny human in my house seems angry. And LOUD. Sleep is now a precious commodity - literally worth haggling over with my husband, if need be. (Fortunately, haggling is infrequent, as I have a great hubby who tries his best to take care of both me and the baby.)
I was disappointed to learn how frequently I have been second-guessing myself since the baby came home from the NICU. I can literally not turn around without getting advice (sometimes solicited, frequently not) from folks on social media. All of the books I have read contradict each other. The NICU doc and my pediatrician gave me advice from two different ends of the spectrum. So basically, this is what I have learned about parenting:
Never wake the baby for feeds, except if he has slept too long, which means anywhere from three to five hours, depending on what is normal for your baby. Let the baby sleep as long as he wants, because he or she will cry to let you know he's hungry. Since crying is a late sign of hunger, you're a negligent parent if your child has to cry to let you know he's hungry. Never use a pacifier unless the child was given one in the hospital, in which case your should abandon all hope of even trying to breastfeed your baby. Co-sleeping is the best way to go because it fosters closeness between yourself and the baby and allows your husband to bond with the baby too, except you're nuts and crunchy and a total wack-job if you let that baby into your bed because he will have all sorts of psychological issues later. You should be ashamed of yourself if your child sleeps through a feeding, because you are going to hell for child abuse. Plus, your milk supply will dry up and you will be like the Sahara Desert. If you use a nipple shield, you're cursing your child to a life of malnourishment, because that will mess with your supply, too. Use a nipple shield if your baby was introduced to the bottle first, as in cases of baby or maternal illness. Oh, wait, your baby was introduced to the bottle before the breast? You must have had a horrible birth plan. Or your doctors didn't adhere to your birth plan because you were not assertive enough in expressing your desires. So you are obviously raising a child with self-esteem issues. Good luck when adolescence hits! Why didn't you have a home birth? You're a terrible person. You should never have had a child at all.
Whew. Glad I have everything figured out now and can go about my merry way, being the best mom in the history of ever.
Truth is, there's so much advice out there on so many topics that you need to take nearly everything with a grain of salt nowadays. Every time I log onto facebook, there is a different article posted from one of my more passionate friends. One day it's on the dangers of GMO products, and the next, it's an elaborate post about the "correct" way to drink water (apparently I've done it wrong for 32 years, which obviously explains why I have utterly failed at life so far). There are articles touting the dangers of poisonous and deadly artificial sweeteners, articles advocating breastfeeding until the kid's practically in college, articles shaming me for eating anything other than organic, locally sourced kale and squash, articles warning me that my children will die if I use any type of cleanser other than white vinegar and baking soda...
...as well as articles refuting nearly every one of the above assertions.
It's terribly difficult to know who and want to trust. Even when it comes to family - whom generally I do trust - there are such dramatic differences between life now and when my husband and I were first born, it's almost like we are all learning everything together, for the first time!
I'm still working the learning curve. Some days are good and some are not good at all. Today, for example, is a not good day. Baby has slept much of the day, which I usually despise, as it's generally an indication he will be up and fussy all night. However, he hasn't eaten much today and he's spit up several times, which is unusual for him. He seems like he's having tummy trouble, so I'm thinking it's best for him to rest today. One day of poor eating won't kill him - even the little guy that he is. I'm hoping that we'll wake with a clean slate tomorrow - and if not, then the docs get a call from me.
The initial few weeks were hellish. I'm the kind of gal who really, really values her eight full hours of sleep (that, paired with my introversion, means that I rarely go out once I'm home from work during the week; yes, I'm pretty hard-core lame). Having that stolen from me was something I almost took personally. Breastfeeding has been an exhausting and frustrating challenge in many ways. (This is not a mommy blog so I choose not to get into details about that; suffice it to say that it is not the beautiful bonding experience I had hoped it would be.) Trying to bond with a baby who doesn't much like to cuddle isn't very encouraging, either. Venturing out of the house with a premature child has been scary and intimidating, too. We're keeping our outings as short as possible now, to keep stress out of the equation if we can. Plus, we're working with baby to reprogram his thinking - that is to say, to rework his days and nights, since he'd sleep for five or six hours easily during the day if I let him, but then he'll wail inconsolably for the same amount of time once nightfall hits.
I feel guilty right now. I'm sure there are some hormones coming into play right now, but my own personal challenge is that I'm expecting myself to experience the glowing joy of motherhood so often portrayed in movies and magazines, without going through the ugly trenches of living on two showers per week, blurry-eyed 3 AM feedings, irrational fights with hubby, seemingly endless crying jags (for me and for baby), and buckets of self-pity over my wardrobe not fitting me yet.
The guilt, I think, is coming from the knowledge that I've overcome three miscarriages for this moment, and I expected to be full of radiance, practically oozing maternal instinct, to suddenly and miraculously have a closer and more intimate relationship with God, but instead, I'm still sorting out my feelings. I thought I was going to literally glow. Instead, I want to lose 35 pounds. I have no desire to cook, which I used to love. I get frustrated with the baby, and with myself, and sometimes I say things I don't mean. I worry I'm not a good mom. I run to WebMD to research my son's birthmark instead of listening to the doctors, who told me there's nothing to be concerned about. I don't know what to do about returning to work. Well, I kind of do, but I'm not sure.
I guess all of that is pretty much 100% normal, and maybe that is the craziest part. This is my new normal, and I have no choice but to get used to it!
Wow.
(Props to Megan B., Deana T., Alayna R. and Jaime H. for helping me get through the first really, really difficult weeks with their great advice and much-needed laughter!)
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Special Delivery: Early Edition
People who know me know that the first step I take in facing my emotions is usually writing about them, and about the experience that led to them. I wrote about my mother's death almost immediately, and about my three miscarriages the weeks they occurred. But sometimes, life gets in the way and I'm left with little ability to write but lots of time to process.
Like that time I had an emergency c-section a month before my due date.
Yes - if you're a family or friend, you probably already know that little Ronen has already arrived, throwing our whole life into a tizzy quite some time before we were ready to be thrown into said tizzy. I don't think it's necessary for me to rehash every graphic detail about the arrival of my child, but lots of folks seem to want a bit more of a backstory as to what happened, so, here goes...
Despite all of my best efforts, I'd struggled with high blood pressure for years. Pregnancy didn't make it better, although, until about a month ago, it was fairly well-controlled with medication. My OB was carefully monitoring me for pre-eclampsia. There was a bit of a concern when my third trimester ultrasound showed a healthy but rather small baby. Granted, both my husband and I are short, but restricted growth could also indicate problems. I was told I'd be getting a non-stress test twice weekly to monitor the baby's development. At a subsequent appointment, I asked about bed rest (per my concerned husband's urging). The doctor's reply was that it would not be necessary, and he left the room to review some test results. Moments later, he returned and said that I would not be going back to work, but to the hospital instead. Protein was found in my urine, and that, coupled with my alarmingly high blood pressure, was an indication of pre-eclampsia, the condition that struck my friend Alayna during the birth of her son Isaiah.
Doctors - good ones - do not mess around with pre-e. It can be unpredictable and lead to sudden seizures. Long story short: I drove myself to Mercy Hospital and checked in for further testing. Ross arrived fairly soon after and the diagnosis of pre-eclampsia was confirmed. I was surrounded by efficient, caring nurses and doctors and that was a good thing, because we were told that the baby was coming within the next 48 hours. We were given the option of inducing labor or a c-section. It was a tough decision, as I had really wanted to avoid surgery, but the idea of putting the baby and myself through up to two additional days of stress and trauma on top of the already scarily high blood pressure I was having...well, that didn't seem right. We opted for the c-section, and at 4:03 PM on June 11, 2014, Ronen Curtis Godlove entered the world.
My husband was the first to hold him, as the anesthesiologists continued to give my updates in their calm, reassuring voices, but a sudden wave of terror hit me when I heard his birth weight. He was only four pounds and three ounces. I panicked. So tiny! The best guess of our sonographer was nearly five pounds! Still, he seemed healthy, and tears rolled down my face when I heard, rather than saw, his first cry.
Family stopped in as I was still hopelessly high on Lord knows what wonderful drugs I was given. My grandmother held her first great-grandchild, tears in her eyes. No one really had the words to say on the occasion - after three miscarriages, we were holding a gorgeous little boy in our arms. So no one said much. And that was okay.
But things went south quickly. Ronen's blood sugar levels were dangerously low, and his body temperature wasn't very reassuring. He was placed into an isolette to warm him up inside our room, but then transferred to the NICU almost immediately. I don't even recall what my reaction was, other than to soberly nod as the nurse was explaining why they took him away.
In the hospital room that night, while my husband slept fitfully, I scratched myself nearly raw from the morphine - not realizing that I was even doing it. I slept for minutes at a time, as my vitals, pain level, and incision were checked constantly. The next day, my husband made his second trip into the NICU to see our son, who was still in the isolette, wires attached to his chest and an IV strapped into his incredibly tiny hand.
The next nine days were, to be trite, a roller-coaster of emotions. One hour, his blood sugar was perfect, but the next, it dropped by twenty points. Although his body temperature regulated fairly quickly, there were other concerns. He was, after all, technically a month early. We were told that he may be out as early as the weekend after his birth, but each day brought new challenges. He was a sleepy baby, and very hard to rouse for his feedings. He wasn't taking enough formula. His blood sugar was unpredictable. All of these things, we were told, were normal for preemies, and we just had to wait things out. He wasn't losing weight, though, which was encouraging.
Finally, after lots of prayers and what seemed like an eternity, our little man was given the all-clear to come home with us. Though I'd visited him frequently in the NICU, trying to breastfeed and just get to know him, I could not believe I was taking home this tiny and helpless stranger. His every need was my responsibility. I was more overwhelmed, I think than I was nine days earlier, when we learned he was coming out, one way or the other!
So, I now have a thirteen-day-old baby in my house. He's my baby, though I'm still having a very hard time wrapping my head around that fact. My husband is utterly enamoured of him and keeps exclaiming that he looks like me (he does). I'm going through the ups and downs that virtually every new mom experiences: the constant trickle (or flood) of self-doubt...the challenges of feeding a newborn...the sleep deprivation...forgetting to eat (trust me; it's the first time in my life that I've ever actually, truly and genuinely forgotten to eat)...struggling to accept help from friends (it's that awful pride thing that tries to convince new moms to handle everything by themselves)...and trying to have patience with myself as I deal with a new role, a new body, and new fears.
All in all, though, I have to brag - my husband has been pretty much my hero these past few days. It only seemed fitting that this past Father's Day was his first as a father, even to a son stuck in the hospital! He has risen with me for most nighttime feedings, has brought me little treats, has encouraged me to drink lots of water to stay hydrated, has tried to keep the house clean, has been as supportive to me as he knows how. I'm dreading the day he has to return to work!
And what about the cats? Well, Loki seems terrified of the baby and will only eye him from a very safe distance. Thor is curious, but not curious enough to really bother him, as long as he still gets his cuddles and pets from his beloved Mommy Cat (he does, though not as frequently). Freyja still hasn't acknowledged the baby at all yet, but Ross and I did notice a change in her behavior. Although Thor and Loki had both been left alone for a few days before, when we went on vacation or on weekend trips, Freyja had not. We think she was terrified of being abandoned, because since we've been home, she has been even clingier than usual. She jumps into visitors' laps and simply has to be in the room with one of us (usually me). She is following me into the bedroom and bathroom now, which she only did rarely before. We're convinced that she was abandoned before, which is why she showed up on our porch to begin with, and she's afraid it will happen again.
Only cure for that is to shower her with kisses and cuddles so she knows she is loved and we're not going anywere!
I've decided that I won't be blogging too much about my baby. And, on social media, I'm limiting who can see pictures and details about him. Things are just too unpredictable nowadays, plus I'm worried for his own privacy someday! I don't know what the internet will be like in ten years, but if Facebook is still around, does he really need to see that I posted pictures of his diaper blowouts or bathtime exploits? Boy, I'm grateful that my mom never had Myspace...
Like that time I had an emergency c-section a month before my due date.
Yes - if you're a family or friend, you probably already know that little Ronen has already arrived, throwing our whole life into a tizzy quite some time before we were ready to be thrown into said tizzy. I don't think it's necessary for me to rehash every graphic detail about the arrival of my child, but lots of folks seem to want a bit more of a backstory as to what happened, so, here goes...
Despite all of my best efforts, I'd struggled with high blood pressure for years. Pregnancy didn't make it better, although, until about a month ago, it was fairly well-controlled with medication. My OB was carefully monitoring me for pre-eclampsia. There was a bit of a concern when my third trimester ultrasound showed a healthy but rather small baby. Granted, both my husband and I are short, but restricted growth could also indicate problems. I was told I'd be getting a non-stress test twice weekly to monitor the baby's development. At a subsequent appointment, I asked about bed rest (per my concerned husband's urging). The doctor's reply was that it would not be necessary, and he left the room to review some test results. Moments later, he returned and said that I would not be going back to work, but to the hospital instead. Protein was found in my urine, and that, coupled with my alarmingly high blood pressure, was an indication of pre-eclampsia, the condition that struck my friend Alayna during the birth of her son Isaiah.
Doctors - good ones - do not mess around with pre-e. It can be unpredictable and lead to sudden seizures. Long story short: I drove myself to Mercy Hospital and checked in for further testing. Ross arrived fairly soon after and the diagnosis of pre-eclampsia was confirmed. I was surrounded by efficient, caring nurses and doctors and that was a good thing, because we were told that the baby was coming within the next 48 hours. We were given the option of inducing labor or a c-section. It was a tough decision, as I had really wanted to avoid surgery, but the idea of putting the baby and myself through up to two additional days of stress and trauma on top of the already scarily high blood pressure I was having...well, that didn't seem right. We opted for the c-section, and at 4:03 PM on June 11, 2014, Ronen Curtis Godlove entered the world.
My husband was the first to hold him, as the anesthesiologists continued to give my updates in their calm, reassuring voices, but a sudden wave of terror hit me when I heard his birth weight. He was only four pounds and three ounces. I panicked. So tiny! The best guess of our sonographer was nearly five pounds! Still, he seemed healthy, and tears rolled down my face when I heard, rather than saw, his first cry.
Family stopped in as I was still hopelessly high on Lord knows what wonderful drugs I was given. My grandmother held her first great-grandchild, tears in her eyes. No one really had the words to say on the occasion - after three miscarriages, we were holding a gorgeous little boy in our arms. So no one said much. And that was okay.
But things went south quickly. Ronen's blood sugar levels were dangerously low, and his body temperature wasn't very reassuring. He was placed into an isolette to warm him up inside our room, but then transferred to the NICU almost immediately. I don't even recall what my reaction was, other than to soberly nod as the nurse was explaining why they took him away.
In the hospital room that night, while my husband slept fitfully, I scratched myself nearly raw from the morphine - not realizing that I was even doing it. I slept for minutes at a time, as my vitals, pain level, and incision were checked constantly. The next day, my husband made his second trip into the NICU to see our son, who was still in the isolette, wires attached to his chest and an IV strapped into his incredibly tiny hand.
The next nine days were, to be trite, a roller-coaster of emotions. One hour, his blood sugar was perfect, but the next, it dropped by twenty points. Although his body temperature regulated fairly quickly, there were other concerns. He was, after all, technically a month early. We were told that he may be out as early as the weekend after his birth, but each day brought new challenges. He was a sleepy baby, and very hard to rouse for his feedings. He wasn't taking enough formula. His blood sugar was unpredictable. All of these things, we were told, were normal for preemies, and we just had to wait things out. He wasn't losing weight, though, which was encouraging.
Finally, after lots of prayers and what seemed like an eternity, our little man was given the all-clear to come home with us. Though I'd visited him frequently in the NICU, trying to breastfeed and just get to know him, I could not believe I was taking home this tiny and helpless stranger. His every need was my responsibility. I was more overwhelmed, I think than I was nine days earlier, when we learned he was coming out, one way or the other!
So, I now have a thirteen-day-old baby in my house. He's my baby, though I'm still having a very hard time wrapping my head around that fact. My husband is utterly enamoured of him and keeps exclaiming that he looks like me (he does). I'm going through the ups and downs that virtually every new mom experiences: the constant trickle (or flood) of self-doubt...the challenges of feeding a newborn...the sleep deprivation...forgetting to eat (trust me; it's the first time in my life that I've ever actually, truly and genuinely forgotten to eat)...struggling to accept help from friends (it's that awful pride thing that tries to convince new moms to handle everything by themselves)...and trying to have patience with myself as I deal with a new role, a new body, and new fears.
All in all, though, I have to brag - my husband has been pretty much my hero these past few days. It only seemed fitting that this past Father's Day was his first as a father, even to a son stuck in the hospital! He has risen with me for most nighttime feedings, has brought me little treats, has encouraged me to drink lots of water to stay hydrated, has tried to keep the house clean, has been as supportive to me as he knows how. I'm dreading the day he has to return to work!
And what about the cats? Well, Loki seems terrified of the baby and will only eye him from a very safe distance. Thor is curious, but not curious enough to really bother him, as long as he still gets his cuddles and pets from his beloved Mommy Cat (he does, though not as frequently). Freyja still hasn't acknowledged the baby at all yet, but Ross and I did notice a change in her behavior. Although Thor and Loki had both been left alone for a few days before, when we went on vacation or on weekend trips, Freyja had not. We think she was terrified of being abandoned, because since we've been home, she has been even clingier than usual. She jumps into visitors' laps and simply has to be in the room with one of us (usually me). She is following me into the bedroom and bathroom now, which she only did rarely before. We're convinced that she was abandoned before, which is why she showed up on our porch to begin with, and she's afraid it will happen again.
Only cure for that is to shower her with kisses and cuddles so she knows she is loved and we're not going anywere!
I've decided that I won't be blogging too much about my baby. And, on social media, I'm limiting who can see pictures and details about him. Things are just too unpredictable nowadays, plus I'm worried for his own privacy someday! I don't know what the internet will be like in ten years, but if Facebook is still around, does he really need to see that I posted pictures of his diaper blowouts or bathtime exploits? Boy, I'm grateful that my mom never had Myspace...
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