Monthly Archives: April 2015

I’ll take diapering a vagina over a penis any day of the week. Hands down. 

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As if being a new parent isn’t hard enough, we have the added bonus of having to care for and diaper a penis this time around. 

I feel like our diapering station is set up like an operating room tray, complete with sterile gauzes and other necessary instruments and tools. With girls, we never needed this. What should be a simple chore involves no less than sixty-three steps, and often, all hands on deck, or at least four hands—Liam’s and my own.

On Easter my dad scoffed in disbelief at my diapering complaints, wondering aloud why it took two of us to change the little guy’s diaper. I just looked at him and said, “Dad, you have no idea.” 

Which of course, he does. It’s just that it’s been over thirty years since he’s had to care for a newborn penis. His memory must be cloudy. Or perhaps he’s blocked it out, due to trauma, which I plan on doing several months from now.

So, I had to remind my dad. 

“Well,” I began, “one person gets the new diaper ready. Another prepares the penis pad (a gauze with Vaseline to protect the circumcision site). Another wets the wipes (our last that remain of the supply given to us by the hospital). Then, one slowly opens the diaper, careful not to disturb any slimy contents too much, lest they creep out and dirty the things around them. Another removes the old penis pad, while still another covers the penis with some kind of cloth until the wiping is complete (We missed this step a time or two, only to be rewarded with a fruitful spraying of penis pee all over the place. Now, this step is essential!). After the wiping, the new protective penis pad gets put into place, the diaper is folded down to avoid adding further injury to the umbilical cord site, and the diaper straps are fastened with a quick prayer that the process will not need to be repeated again any time soon (The boy loves to wait until we change a pee diaper, and then decides to unload his slimy poops in the next few minutes).”

So, by my count, that’s at least ten steps, or ten jobs for ten people. The boy must be wondering about our incompetence as it takes us about as many minutes to complete the task of changing his diaper.

Gratefully, the cord has fallen off and the circumcision site seems to be healing well enough not to require gauze anymore. Also, we are out of hospital wipes, which needed to be moistened with water, and can presumably resume using normal baby wipes. All of this accounts for a reduction in steps by at least five. 

Now I think the only thing we need to protect ourselves against is the wayward spraying fire hose. I can deal with this, though, after the ridiculousness of the first week of penis care. I give you moms to many sons lots and lots of credit for going through this more than once.

Like I said, give me a vagina to diaper any day of the week. Hands down.

Reflections on the birth of our son: Part two.

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Wow. What a whirlwind. The tagline of this blog has never seemed more true. I’ve had every intention of writing for days about the past week, but our minutes and hours—rightly so—have been spent caring for our three, very needy children. Turns out adding a third baby to the mix brings levels of whining, screaming, crying, and clinging to all sorts of new and extreme heights; everyone needs a little more love and hugs, as well as patience and kindness these days.

I wanted to capture a few more memories from the past week while everything is still fresh in my mind. In another week or so, there’s no trusting what will remain.

Laboring at home is far more comfortable than laboring in the hospital. This past Tuesday, the morning of Rowan’s birthday, I awoke at 4:00 with contractions. Although I remained hopeful, I wasn’t sure what to expect given my body had begun false labor already once before.

However, two hours later, after contractions started coming with increasing frequency and intensity, I made the decision to call in to work to request a sick day. This was it! I spent much of the morning pacing the house trying to think of last minute things that needed to be done. Apparently, there was nothing to be done. I got bored. Restless.

We went for a walk around the neighborhood. Frances held my hand for much of it, stopping along with me when I needed to take breathing breaks. Nora rode her tricycle and Liam pushed an empty double stroller, should one or both of the girls tire of walking. In the end, Frances made it the whole way, and Nora needed only to be towed up the steep hill while hanging onto the stroller strap as Liam pushed, a sight funny enough to bring smiles and laughter from everyone, especially when Liam’s swift, unbalanced tugging, threatened to overturn her a time or two.

When we got home, I nursed Frances, hoping to bring about more intense contractions. Success! Several times I had to employ deep breathing techniques just to get through. Although her mouth was occupied with sucking, she managed to copy the sound and intensity of my breathing, through her nose. After the contractions passed I was laughing out loud at her show of solidarity.

We later all moved down to the basement for a change of scene. Liam worked on a playlist of tunes to keep us occupied both at home and in the hospital. He later admitted that he was going to include some of Nora’s favorite Mary Poppins and Frozen songs just for fun, to see what my reaction would be. Although I’m sure it would have brought great amusement for him to hear the songs, I’m happy to report I didn’t have to suffer listening through them at the hospital. Not that I was really all that aware of music in the background anyway.

In the basement, I broke out the yoga mat and the exercise ball, deciding to labor on my hands and knees for a change. Nora did some downward dog with me and was moved too, like her sister, to be a breathing partner. Totally hilarious. But also a testament to how powerful breathing can be.

A little before noon I decided it was time for us to head in to the hospital. We called Candace, our neighborhood sitter, and savior, to come and stay with the girls.

I was disappointed to find when the midwife first checked me, at noon, that I was only two c.m. dilated (they wouldn’t admit us until I reached four c.m.). She gave us the choice to walk the hospital grounds or to go back home and return in a couple of hours. After some indecision, we decided to stay. I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were progressing, and fast. The midwife said she would be back to check me in two hours, at 2:00 p.m.

Since it was a sunny and mild day, Liam and I decided to head outside to walk. And also, because it was a little unnerving and humiliating to be having intense contractions in front of hospital visitors and employees in the halls of the hospital.

Very quickly the contractions progressed to where I had to stop walking and lean on Liam for support. I began to feel nauseous toward the end of every contraction, so we decided to head back inside. An hour had passed—it was only 1:00 p.m. I asked the triage nurse if there was any way the midwife could come back to check me early. She said no, that if I wasn’t further along, they would definitely send me home. She preferred we wait until 2:00.

So, Liam and I headed back into the very small, very uncomfortable room, where I had only the surface of a small counter to rest my head upon, or be in bed. After I threw up in the sink (take that you disbelieving hospital staff!) I climbed into bed, trying not to be sad and angry and disappointed that this was to be my laboring experience for the next hour, instead of having the privacy and space and resources (birthing ball, walking space, yoga mat, whirlpool, labor and delivery nurse) of a proper labor and delivery room.

I went into my breathing trance and waited as patiently as I could until the midwife came to check me, and found I had progressed to five c.m. This was a little after 2:00. By the time they were finally able to admit us to a room, I was a little over an hour away from when Rowan would be born. At this point, my sister, Melissa, had joined us in the room to offer support.

The charge nurse tried to start an IV in my hand (unnecessary since I did not need antibiotics and wanted to go natural), but after blowing veins in both hands, gave up. The other labor and delivery nurse (this amazing woman who was present for part of both girls’ births as well) started a whirlpool tub for me, which I would never get to use on account of the swift progress my body was making.

At eight c.m. the midwife decided to break my water. Not long after, following several more contractions and controlled pushes, I was able to hold our son in my arms. What a relief! He cried a sweet and loud little cry for almost the whole hour he was with me. He did take to nursing a few times, which was great…and quiet.

 

And then there were three. The girls love their baby brother. Nora insists she can take care of Rowan by herself. In her mind, this means she can watch him from the couch as he sleeps peacefully in his chair. She likes to snuggle him and kiss him and put stickers all over his clothing. She is fond of singing him songs and trying to calm him with her endless chatter when he cries.

Frances loves holding Rowan. She sits patiently with arms outstretched and seems amazed by his features and noises and very presence. She gets distressed when he cries, wanting to make him feel better in any way she can. She is clearly the one who is suffering the most from this transition. No longer our baby, she is learning that we can’t always respond to her every need. She wants to be held a lot and has a renewed and vigorous interest in nursing. Indeed, our tandem nursing is off to a good start. How long we will be able to keep it up remains to be seen. But, for now, we are all mostly happy and thriving.

Our patience has been tested countless times since we’ve come home from the hospital. And, things have indeed gotten quite tense here in our small house. However, our hearts are full with gratitude, and we are trying to be intentional about holding on to the effortless moments, full of warmth and love, to see us through the chaotic, trying times when we find ourselves asking: What in the hell were we thinking?

Reflections on the birth of our son: Part one.

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Contrary to what John Mayer’s lyrics say, my body is not a wonderland. While I will proudly acknowledge that it strongly, amazingly, naturally, and very capably brought forth life and love two days ago, it is now wholly wrecked and wicked.

I’m looking forward to the coming days when a trip to the bathroom no longer looks like a crime scene afterwards, and the muscles in my back and shoulders no longer ache as though they were involved in pushing Sisyphus’s boulder up a hill over and over again, instead of just pushing out a baby (albeit a nine-pounder!).

Next up to look forward to in the new mother body era: porn star-sized boobs full with good milk and lots of lots of leakage. Can’t wait.

Good sleep is hard to find. Our boy arrived late in the afternoon on his birthday. However, I’d been up since 4:00 a.m. that morning with early contractions and general restlessness.

On his first night, I logged only three sleep episodes, one lasting an hour, another forty-minutes, and the last, almost two hours. A far cry from normal.

Since our little man was born not so little, he had to undergo heel pricks every three hours to check his blood sugar levels. This happened with our girls too, but they fared fine on breastmilk alone and their numbers checked out okay.

With the boy though, the numbers kept dropping, so they had to increase checks to an hour after feedings at times. This, combined with vital checks on me and the baby, combined with the baby’s fussiness and my not being able to feed him on demand due to the blood sugar testing protocol, created an environment full of stress, crying (just baby, thankfully), and some zombied-out parents. Which segues nicely into the next revelation.

Sometimes breast is not always best? At least not in its own, as was the case with this guy. Those of you who know me well, understand my love and attachment to breadtfeeding. So, when the pediatrician and nurses were explaining to us how the frequent blood sugar checks and falling numbers were proving that my milk, or colostrum, was not enough to sustain the high caloric needs of my giant baby, you can imagine my disappointment when, after two really low sugar numbers, they insisted I start supplementing with formula. The alternative was to have him go to the NICU with an IV. At this point, even the lactation consultant was on board with using the formula, despite earlier attempts to try and advocate for us.

So, we started a new feeding routine every two-to-three hours that looked like this (and took nearly an hour to administer, start to finish):

  • Nurse the baby no more than ten minutes a side
  • Hand-express as much colostrum as possible into a pumping cylinder and syringe-feed it to baby
  • Use breast pump to try and express more colostrum, then syringe-feed this to baby
  • Syringe-feed as much formula as baby is willing to accept
  • Pray numbers go up so the heel pricking and blood squeezing and baby screaming can stop

After the first supplementation with formula, the baby’s numbers went up. After three more rounds, his numbers were finally holding steady. Hallelujah! No more stabbing and poking and squeezing blood from my baby (he probably endured about sixteen-seventeen needle sticks)!!

I was so grateful when today’s rounding pediatrician caught me getting ready to begin more formula supplementation, after seeing me syringe-feed some good quantity breastmilk, and asked shockingly, “What are you doing?”

I explained everything we’d been through up until that point, and she reassured me that the colostrum looked milky enough (a sign my milk was beginning to transition) and that hypoglycemic babies, once their levels balance out, rarely just fall back into trouble. She wanted me to quit the formula and just try to exclusively nurse and pump. Woohoo!

So that’s what we’ve been working on. And, in fact, since early this morning, we have quit the pump too. The baby is latching great and I’m hoping we will be able to round the corner soon enough. We’ve got a pediatrician appointment scheduled for tomorrow just in case.

Not quite the Club Med vacation we imagined. Yes, I know. Giving birth is hard work. But then, after the fact, there are nurses and aids who take care of you and respond to your every want and need. There is free hospital food to be eaten, TV to be watched, jacuzzi soaks to be taken, and lounging about to be done to begin the healing process.

When we woke up after our first sleepless night, we were excited about ordering enormous breakfasts and sipping on coffee (obviously we were delirious and still running on adrenaline). We talked about watching TV and reading some magazines, enjoying a break from work and parenting the two girls (my parents have had them for the past couple of days). 

And then, I don’t know where the day went or what happened to the hopeful thoughts that this hospital stay might be like some kind of mini-getaway for us. But, poof! It was gone.

We did enjoy breakfast, and some chocolate peanut butter pie, but TV turned out to be hugely unsatisyfying. And, we had a couple of family visitors, on top of round-the-clock care and feeding for the little-big man.

Around dinner time, the adrenaline had worn off. The lack of sleep had left us feeling completely wrecked, and…wait for it...we had both begun to feel as though we were getting sick with some kind of bug. 

I couldn’t eat my dinner. My tummy was gurgling and I just felt weak and exhausted. Liam, however, started with chills and aches and nausea. Basically, he became worthless from midnight until just before we were discharged this afternoon. Poor guy. Up until that point he had been an amazing partner and teammate.

Thankfully, my symptoms were less, though still aggravating. And, somebody had to care for this needy baby. So, my super-human mothering abilities kicked into high gear as I worked through the night to feed our improving son. No small feat. Thankfully, I was able to sleep better, if only slightly, than the night before. 

We are home now resting comfortably, with what I imagine is a touch of the stomach bug the girls just had. Our luck continues. Not quite how I imagined spending our last day at the hospital. Now we have to wait and see if the little guy will get it or not. Always an adventure here.

More to come another day on laboring at home with the girls and their reaction to “Baby Brother” who now, finally, has a name: Rowan James. We do love him so!

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