A fresh start

I've found a new home.

And, because I'm going to be more careful about my anonymity there, here's a last picture for those of you who've known me here.

I'm not sure if anyone will make their way back here, but if you do, I'd love to see you over at my new place!

Intensity or A Fitting Final Post

From the moment my parents first saw my son in the hospital they were declaring him to be not just the most beautiful, but also the easiest baby in the world. “He’s going to be a good sleeper.” Never mind that his dangerously high bilirubin levels had him completely conked out. “He’s going to be a good eater.” Never mind that nursing for more than an hour at a time wasn’t exactly my definition of a “good eater.” “He’s just so calm. This baby has his father’s personality, that’s for sure.”

And despite all of my never minded frustration, they were right. For the first 10 weeks,* big G. was a dream. He slept long stretches from an early age. Once I figured out what the hell I was doing, he nursed well and on a pretty regular schedule of his own making. And when he wasn’t eating or sleeping, he spent long stretches of time in the “quiet alert” state. And now, at nearly three years old, he’s generally very easygoing and sweet and compassionate.** Just like his dad.***

And from almost the first day: “You certainly did nothing to deserve such an easy baby. Just wait, the next one will be just like you. Then you’ll see what it’s really like.”

Well, we all know that “the next one” was easier said than conceived. But again, they were right. Lil’ G. seems to be a lot like I was.

When she’s asleep, she’s really very peaceful. But if she’s awake, even if she’s nursing, she’s pretty pissed off. Most of the day is spent in cranky, but placatable despot mode. But as 7 pm draws nigh, she decides she’s been rather too lenient in tolerating the injustice of the world. Every time, I try to feed her, but she acts as though the boob is just getting in the way of her plans to raise a ruckus. By 7:45 she unleashes the full power of her wrath.

Her wails sound remarkably like a car alarm. Rhythmic and piercing and nerve jangling. Occasionally punctuated by a bone-chillingly guttural sound that makes me think of nothing so much as what the Wicked Witch of the West sounded like as she was melting into a puddle of witchy goo. There are very brief moments of relative calm, acheived by tightly swaddling her, taking her out into the humid night air long enough to get her to suck on the pacifier, then popping her into the swing at its highest speed, complete with its electronic music (which segues nicely from "Love me Tender" to "Edleweiss" to "Home on the Range").**** The only way I’ve found to bring her to her senses enough to latch on and nurse herself into a drunken stupor is to give her a bath, which she despises. After wailing her way to cleanliness and screaming like a horror movie victim while I dress her in a fresh sleeper, she’s finally willing to latch on, nurse like a bulldog, and then pass out at around 11 pm.

These three or four hours each night are their own brand of frantic, chaotic hell for me. It is physically painful to hear her scream like that. And the fact that it runs from 7 to 11 is making it nearly impossible to get big G. into bed for the night when I’m by myself (which is most of the time now that my mom has gone home for good). Last night, I bravely soldiered on, attempting to read big G. his bedtime story by shouting over the wails coming from the sling at my chest and bouncing around the room like a kid in need of a Ritalin fix. I finally gave up and just begged big G. to go to sleep without the rest of the story when he declared “Baby Gwen is crying, Mommy. Big, big crying. Can’t hear you, Mommy. Big, big crying.”

The advantage of being a mom for the second time around is that I know, really know that this will get better. That she’ll get older and may one day even smile and be happy, if only for fleeting moments.

And if not… well, what is there to be so happy about most of the time, anyway? After all, I have to say that being like me has served me pretty well. Most of the time, I like me, even if a lot of other people don’t.

And I think I could be a pretty good mother to someone like me. For starters, I need to work out a way to remember what she’s like now without labeling her the “difficult” kid for the rest of her life. Every family gathering of my life has eventually led to swapping stories about what an awfully difficult baby and toddler and preschooler I was. The crying and temper tantrums and stubbornness. The time I tried to kick out the back window of our Datsun stationwagon. The cute way I refused to wear underwear until I was five and would wear only loose “Jesus” sandals until I was seven (rain, wind, sleet or snow be damned). My first memory is of my mother dumping every one of the several dozen pairs of shoes she had bought me into the floorboard of the car and dropping me off at preschool with a note pinned to my chest declaring “If you really want her to wear closed-toed shoes, you’re welcome to try it.” One of the first things my husband knew about me was that I bit a girl’s earlobe off when I was 18 months old.*****

I should also probably try to nip this “big G is like his dad and lil’ G is like her mom” thing in the bud, too. I listened to a refrain about how I was just like my father (who's a pretty great guy but comes from a long line of crazy) and my brother was just like my mother (meaning, according to my mother at least, that he’s sensitive and basically optimistic and generally good) for my entire childhood and it sucked. It’s still a source of tension between me and my mother, who is so convinced that I’m a clone of my father that she refuses to believe that I don’t suffer from chronic constipation like he does. It’s pretty annoying to be on the receiving end of a constant stream of advice about how to get more fiber into my diet when, in fact, I’ve always been quite regular, thank you very much.

Of course, my brother, simply angelic until he turned eleven, made up for lost time later. And I figure if everyone goes crazy once in their life, going crazy at an age when you’re still small enough to be contained in a playpen isn’t such a burdensome way to do it.

As I’m sure you can imagine, my parents are loving this. “Yep, just like you.” “Mmm hmm, you usually started screaming around seven too.” “Oh, I remember bouncing you around the house for hours and hours and hours.” “Really wears you down, doesn’t it?”

One thing I’ve noticed though is that there isn’t any talk of the “next one” this time. My parents had two children and they’re assuming (despite my past comments to the contrary) that we’ll do the same.

I had always (well, since I was old enough to imagine having a family, anyway) thought I’d want to have three kids. It just seemed like a nice round number. When my brother and I were locked in a fight to the death (and by the time he was eleven, there was a genuine fear that it could have come to that for one of us, probably me), I’d always think “if there were another one of us, this wouldn’t be such a big deal.” And I still have those thoughts that a group of three siblings is better than two. But maybe I was (and am) wrong.

Starting at around the middle of this last pregnancy, when I look at moms with three kids, I don’t see anything that could resemble my future self. I mean, I’m sure it’s great. I’m just not picturing it for me anymore.

I don’t want to make this decision based on the daunting prospect of doing IVF again (besides, ironically enough, it seems that our new insurance might actually cover part of it) or on the difficulty of dealing with my “intense” daughter. I want to make it based on whether I feel like there’s a person missing from our family. After big G. was born, as happy as I was, I knew from the first moment that I wanted and needed to love and raise another child too. And I knew that I would make that happen one way or another, come hell or high water.

I don’t feel that way now. Obviously, that could change. But I’m feeling comfortable enough with the idea of my family of four that I don’t picture an Infertility 3.0. And let’s be honest, you were all good sports for putting up with my bitching and moaning about trying to have a second child anyway.

And so, I’ve decided that this will be my last post. A post about meeting my daughter’s intense screaming with the equally intense love of a kindred spirit. And a post about finally feeling (however tentatively) that my family is complete.

I can never thank you enough for the love and support and laughter that you all have given me in the last fifteen months. And I’ll certainly stay in touch through your own blogs and other means.


* The happy days ended when his reflux got bad enough that he screamed bloody murder any time I tried to feed him and eventually went for as long as 48 hours without ingesting anything but a few drops of water. But once we found the right dosage of Zantac (at around 5 months) and gave it time to work, he was back to his happy self.

** Except when he’s sick, as he is now. Then he’s whiny and clingy and generally maddening. But, you know, sick. So I put up with it without complaining too much.

*** His dad is also dramatically unpleasant to be around when sick.

**** This morning, I was trying to figure out whether it would be feasible to leave both kids with a babysitter for a couple of hours after big G. has gone to bed so that I could make it out to my book club in a couple of weeks. Imagining myself explaining to a sitter this swaddle, outside, pacifier, swing, music routine as a means to getting 10-20 minutes of silence out of my daughter, I realized that there's just no way I could pay anyone enough to do this for a baby who isn't their own. What would your going rate be? Fifty... a hundred bucks an hour? Suffice it to say that mine would be pretty high. You know, if she weren't mine.

***** Yes, off. I ran into the poor girl years later when we were both in high school and she still has a noticeable scar from where it was reattached. I only recently learned that this incident occurred when our mothers plopped us into a small playpen together so they could enjoy a game of tennis. So, in my defense, what do you think is going to happen when you put two 18-month-olds into a playpen together unsupervised?

Fantastically wonderful update from the pediatrician

Gwen's brain ultrasound is normal! Normal, I tell you!!! Normal! No unnecessary dangling of the choroid plexus. Normal-sized ventricles. Normal, normal, normal. Whew!

Also, she's just an ounce shy of her birth weight already (they like to see them regain the weight lost in the first couple of days by two weeks old, so she's doing great).

She seems to be starting to work out her day/night confusion a bit and actually slept for two long stretches last night. A sweet sweet relief after four nights of about 1.5 hours of sleep in 15 minute snatches.

Oh, and H. is totally psyched that his paternity leave coincides with Shark Week. He's been saying for over a month that if we got really lucky, the timing would be just right. I suppose it is nice to have something the whole family can enjoy watching during all those breastfeeding hours. Me, I'm totally psyched that his fellowship director gave him a whopping 12 days off! TWELVE DAYS! Beats the shit out of the five days (including the three we spent in the hospital in labor, delivery and recover) that he got from them last time.

Lucky Girl

After a late night of sealing the grout in the newly tiled family room and shifting the furniture back into place, I took a nice long bath and settled in for the night. A couple of hours later, I woke up to a truly painful contraction. Hmm, I thought. Could just be gas. We'll see...

From 1 to 4 am, I woke frequently to painful contractions, but was able to fall back asleep between them. Don't time anything just yet, I thought, you need to get a bit more sleep before you start to really pay attention to this.

At 4 am, I wasn't able to fall asleep again between contractions so I started to time them. Five minutes... four minutes... seven minutes... five minutes... six minutes... two minutes... three minutes... I decided to call my parents at 5 am. You should start getting things ready to head up here. I'll call you back in an hour to let you know for sure.

The call roused H. and I let him know what was happening. He dozed again while I counted for another hour. Four minutes... three minutes... two minutes... eight minutes... five minutes... three minutes... three minutes... three minutes... three minutes... I called my parents back and told them to head on up.

G. woke up early at 6 am and H. went upstairs to tend to him. I quickly discovered that the contractions were no longer managable while I was lying down and got up to try out different sitting and standing positions.

At 7 am, I called a friend to tell her we'd almost certainly be dropping G. off with her nanny at some point over the morning. He'd been hugging me and chatting away about going to play with his friend and seeing his Nana and Papa later. "What's wrong, Mommy?" he asked during a few contractions and I decided it was time for him to leave the scene.

H. took G. to our friend's house around 9 am, but we decided I could stay put and labor at home for a few more hours. For most of the early morning I had puttered around the house: tidying up a little, packing our bag for the hospital, updating you all. I'd stop every few minutes and lean into the nearest wall or countertop or bed, relax my belly and breathe deeply through a contraction, trying out several different positions and finding time and time again that anything horizontal was a bad idea. When they started to pick up, I got into the shower.

At one point, I started flipping through Natural Childbrith the Bradley Way and came across a section describing different types of labor. "Textbook" jumped out at me immediately. Contractions start up slow, building in intensity and frequency over several hours. You head to the hospital after getting a few good hours of "serious" labor behind you. You have the baby about 5 hours later. Ok, I thought. Serious labor seems to be starting up right about now... so maybe I'll be heading to the hospital around 1 pm and have a baby around 6 pm.

While H. and G. were gone, I shifted gears. Puttering was no longer appealing, so I set myself up in the rocker in our bedroom with lots of cushy pillows and a footstool, listened to some relaxing music and rocked and breathed. Between contractions, I gazed out the sliding glass doors at the treetops in our backyard. There were several birds perched in the big tree just outside the window. At one point, a dove slammed right into the glass in front of me. It's not something I've seen happen before and at first I worried that it was a bad sign, but then decided to take it as a sort of display of solidarity.

The contractions weren't perfectly regular, but were definitely getting stronger and were generally around 3 minutes apart. When H. got home from dropping G. off, he started to pester me about when exactly we were going to call my OB. I put him off by giving him tasks to accomplish and talking about my self-doubts and what I thought I would need him to say to me over the next several hours. He puttered and cleaned the kitchen. I rocked and listened to music and watched the green treetops.

At noon, I decided I was ready to make the call and braced myself for the trip downtown. I couldn't imagine how I'd manage the bumpy 20 minute drive or the long walk from the hospital's entrance to the labor and delivery floor if I waited much longer. By 12:30, we were in the car and I was hoping that what the Bradley book author had said about adrenaline slowing down contractions to make the trip to the hospital more bearable would be true.

H. pulled through the drop-off at the main hospital entrance. He helped me out of the car and I braced myself against a newspaper vending machine for a particularly painful contraction. Sitting in a wheelchair didn't seem like it would be comfortable, so I said I wanted to make my own way to the L&D floor while H. parked the car. I made it a few yards at a time. The elevator presented a particularly difficult challenge, I forgot the floor number and rode up and down twice with some very skittish looking fellow passengers before I managed to get off at the right place. At the check-in desk, I had to ask them to stop with the questions while I braced myself and breathed through contractions. A very calm and unassuming nurse, who would be in attendance until just after the birth, led me back to a room and set me up with a gown and monitors.

H. made it to the room just as a midwife who works with my OB came in to check me. I hope I've made some progress after all we've been through so far. I was praying for at least 3 centimeters, knowing I'd only been one at the most just the previous morning.

1 pm, at the hospital, 4 centimeters and 60% effaced. Nice strong contractions registering every 2.5 to 3 minutes. You're doing great, say H. and the midwife. The baby's heartrate is a little flat on the monitor. Looks like you haven't had enough to eat or drink. Let's get you some apple juice. If we see a good strip of variability, you can get out of bed if you want to. Several sips of juice later and the heartrate looks beautiful, but the contractions are spacing out again.

A few minutes later, new resident arrives with instructions that I must lie down on my left side. Heartrate decellerating during the last few contractions. I can't, I can't. You have to try. I roll over and vomit profusely. I'm not doing this. I'm getting up on all fours. They cover me up. Anything to not be lying down.

Around 2 pm, Dr. Huxstable arrives. What is she doing? What did you tell her to do? No, heartrate looks fine, you can sit up again. 5 centimeters, 90% effaced. But the contractions are staying a bit spaced out and becoming a bit more irregular. I know you don't want pitocin, and I know you're going to say no to this too, but eventually I'm going to want to break your waters. I can do it now or I can let you wait a bit.

I want to wait because the longer spacing between contractions is giving me a chance to get my bearings in my new bedbound state and I'm not ready for things to pick up just yet. I'm doing ok, I want to wait, I need a break before transition.

Around 3 pm, contractions are every 2.5 minutes and getting stronger but not registering well because I'm sitting/squatting almost completely upright in the bed. When Hucks comes to check, he trusts my breathing and rythmic scratching of my thighs more than the monitor. I'm making progress. 6.5 centimeters, 90 % effaced. Let's break the waters now. Ok, I'm ready, I can do this. Transition is coming soon. Waters broken, warm gush feels quite nice and gives me permission to let it all hang out. 7 centimeters and fully effaced. Transition is here. During the worst contractions, I claw methodically at my thighs and belly and it feels good. You're going to cut yourself sweetie. No, it's ok, it feels good I'm ok.

I'm not relaxing through contractions. Fuck Bradley, that's not going to work for me. Instead, I sit Indian -tyle and slowly, methodically, fiercely scratch at my thighs and belly waiting for each contraction to peak. I know the peak is almost here because H. tells me so and simultaneously I feel an enourmous but brief instant of nausea. One at a time. One second at a time. One at a time. Don't think about the next one. I can't do this I can't do this I can't do this. The nausea is good because it means I'm coming over the wall. This is a wall. This is not a wave this is a wall. I can't do this I can't do this Ican'tdothisicanticanticant. I can do it. One at a time, one at a time. One at a time. One. I can do this. I am doing this.

Check her, she's grunting. Pressure, pressure, pressure, pressure. At the peak, I stall like a car motor and grunt. Pressure, pressure, pressure. Check her now. Nine centimeters. Bladder is very full. Catheterize and she'll be fully dilated. Yes! Get the pee out it hurts! I'm trying to pee in the bed but I can't. I heave and stall like a motor and grunt. The catheter is in. Aaaahhhhhhhh Aahhhhhhhhh Ahhhhhhhh. Do what you need to do sweetie. Do whatever you need to do. I can do it. Aaaaahhhhhing is right. It's helping me remember to breath. Like a scuba diver ascending from depth, don't hold your breath, a slow steady exhale. Aaaaaahhhh Ahhhhhh ahhhhhhh Arrrrrrrghghghghghgh! Pressure pressure pressure pressure. The catheter is out. Fully dilated. We're going to start pushing. Try a push. Yes, pushing. A moment of complete clarity and sanity. I can do this I say clearly and calmly. I can do this because she's smaller. She's smaller and I can push her out. Not like last time. Not like last time. I can do this. Yes. Now push. Oh yes, this is what I'm talking about this feels so damn good and right. Oh yes, Lindy, but stop, let's get you in the stirrups. Or no, just push, brace your foot against my chest. Push. Oh yes, this feels good this feels right. I feel her head, rock hard and moving. Moving moving moving! Now push again, no sounds, just push. Oh yes, not like fire, burning but feeling so good. Stop, stop, don't push, let that pressure stretch your perineum. Don't push. NO. I can't. I'm pushing. Ok, one good slow steady one. Push.

No one says so but I know the head is out. Double neuchal cord. Wait. Do not push. Clamping and cutting. I'm looking down at her head and watching them cut two rings of twisted umbilical cord from around my baby's neck. Slow and steady and she's here on a blue paper sheet on my chest. Bloody and slimy and looking a mess. She flushes a bit blue and the wisk her to the warmer to rub her. Is she ok. She's ok, she's great, she's perfect, she's big. Hucks looks at the resident, at H. and at me and looks truly shaken. A true knot in the cord. This could have been very bad. Things could have gone very differently. The resident delivers the placenta. The nurses are rubbing the baby and she starts to cry a bit. There she is!

Lots of blood. Is there a clot? No tears. And no episiotomy, I ask? No, no episiotomy, no tearing. And a big, big baby. You're a champ sweetie! The resident massages and punches my belly. Huckstable is swabbing at me with sponges. They're pushing pitocin but it isn't working. A nurse realizes my IV is kinked and fixes the problem a bit too late. But the bleeding slows down. After much more grunting and aaahhhing. That hurts. I'm tired of hurting. It's time to feel better now so leave me alone down there.

And suddenly we're done. They're covering me up and the nurses are laughing while they put Gwen on the scale. How much do you think she weighs, dad? 7 pounds, 6 ounces, he guesses. Give mom a little credit! 8 pounds 10 ounces. She's a big girl.

They wrap her up and put her in my arms. Her eyes are swollen and red. We've both been through quite an ordeal. She's perfect.

Here she is!

Home!

Very quick post to say that Gwendolyn Sarah arrived at 5:38 pm yesterday after four hours in the hospital, two minutes of pushing. No drugs, no tearing, no episiotomy. 8 lbs., 10 oz. and 21 1/4 inches. She's perfect and I feel great. We were discharged from the hospital just short of 24 hours after the delivery and I'm so, so happy to be home with her.

Then again...

I could go into labor on my due date.

The first truly painful definite real deal labor contraction was at 1 am, followed by obvious mucous plug/bloody show action. The painful ones were quite irregular until 4 am. They've been about 5-6 minutes apart for the last hour and a half.

I've called my parents and they're loading up the car. If I need to go to the hospital before late afternoon, we'll drop G off at a friend's house.

So nice of the babe to give me some warning on this... she must have heard that our nighttime on-call for labor babysitter broke both of her ankles yesterday morning.

I'll update if I can later today. Or if not, I'll try to call Jen at Fertility Now.

8 am:

Contractions getting stronger and now about 3 minutes apart. Getting ready to take G to friend's house. Will head to hospital if this keeps up for another hour or so. Still doing fine in between contractions though. Giving H some last minute tips on how to coach me. We'll see...