Not Nice Spice
On the eve of my daughter’s third birthday, Stud and I were not so much nostalgic as we were proud of the parents we have become. Sadly, we couldn’t always see her essence, but as I looked over at her eating lunch being a wiggly little goat my heart swells. Three years ago we were two naïve newlyweds, aghast at the turns life can bring. With a huge life curveball and new adventures we decided to start trying to grow our family. Somehow we hit a homerun on the first try and Stud found himself in takeout heaven. Nausea lasted nearly the whole pregnancy, left me with an abundance of dry heaving and pissed pants not to mention hurling out the window on the Cross Bronx ,and again on the Palisades Parkway, and again and again on our way to family parties. There were enough tears to fill an Olympic size swimming pool, restless nights, anxiety ridden Google-ing and truly no clue how our lives were about to change. Other than these typical ticks, our pregnancy was smooth and healthy. At 40 weeks with a cervix as hard as a rock my midwife preformed a membrane sweep with no avail. At 41 weeks she sent us to get the baby’s kicks counted. We decided vigorous walking couldn’t hurt, skipped the subway and walked the mile downtown to the birthing center. With everything peachy (took about 10 minutes to get more than enough kicks and a few contractions) we hiked back uptown and had a second membrane sweep. Afterwards we loaded up on groceries and hopped on the 7-train hoping for some type of labor to begin. Secretly I was hoping to start contractions on the subway, but quickly thought better of that! Stud was busy working when my water broke around dinnertime. I started timing the contractions, bounced away on my birthing ball, took a hot shower to relax, and texted my midwife pictures of my bloody show (because who really knows what the heck is happening the first time around anyways?!). Stud and I debated for hours when he would actually call a cab to take us from Queens to the birthing center on the West Side. Since contractions were less than five minutes apart he anxiously went to hale a cab. He was gone a freaking good while when I heard him unlocking the door and I was ready to jump in and be on our way. But there was no cab! He said he just couldn’t! He was so stressed that I’d have the baby in the cab and everything would be a mess. So he called his parents sometime after midnight and my in-laws graciously came from north of NYC to Queens to drive us across Manhattan. We all thought we’d meet our little Chickadee in a few hours, but typical with showing up at the hospital labor slowed, and I was only 4 or 5cm anyway. There were only three suites in the birthing center and loads of babies due in October, so I wasn’t admitted. I went to labor in the hospital cafeteria and hurled a handful of times (desperately trying not to pee myself). Of course there was a poor soul there trying to watch some TV and eat a snack, while my husband was wiping barf off the edge of the trash can (and trying not to hurl himself!). Finally we get a green light to labor in the birthing center. And can we just stop here for a second and get everyone on board with birthing centers—they’re so freaking nice! Private room… private bathroom… mini fridge… access to a kitchen… unlimited birthing support team members… a jetted tub… a queen size bed with headboard… dimmed lights. I’m sure I’m still forgetting something, but good Lord they take care of you! And it’s the samecharge as Labor and Delivery, so if you’re willing to give natural birth a try it’s soooo worth it! Anyways. So we settle in and I find out that I hate the tub, I hate the GBS antibiotics and I really hate contractions. We went from ridiculously fast, to slow-moe-joe and then the pushing stage, which gave me three contractions in a row about five minutes apart (decreasing in intensity and gave me a chance to rest). During this stage I finally said in a very matter of fact manner, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” HA! Nothing like crowning for the first time to give you a dose of reality! With the nurse reminding me to relax my shoulders and exhale through my body (which I never fully understood until my lovely fissures and then my second delivery). And then, well, against everyone’s better judgment, Stud found himself holding a leg in the air and he was able to witness the WHOLE birth of our little Chickadee, as she came slithering out like a baby lizard. We had agreed you cant come back from that visual. His job was to time out my contractions so I knew that I was nearing the end. For thirteen hours he counted out 5 seconds, 10 seconds, 15 seconds… 60seconds. Seriously, he is the best husband. So it surprised both of us when all he wanted to do was talk about how AWESOME it was that a baby came out of that tiny hole. Sadly, he had to wait about five months until I fully healed. I didn’t even want to think about going to the bathroom let alone birth. Even worse there was no sex either—nothing like tearing and my first postpartum cycle at six weeks to throw a wrench in your love life. I ended up with a second-degree tear (nearly third with lovely fissures and all), and was getting stitched (and feeling each thread pulled through) while I waited for the nurses to feel comfortable with Chickadee’s ability to clear her passages. She took an hour or so for that to happen. In the meantime, we also had a handful of lactation consultants to try to get her to nurse. She just refused. Wasn’t having it. So after having my boobs manhandled for 24hrs I learned the very taxing art of hand expression and syringe feedings. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. Besides time consuming, it was ridiculously exhausting mentally and emotionally. And since she wouldn’t nurse, I had to try every 30-45 minutes to see if she would warm up to the idea. She never did. I had to supplement with formula, which was the worst idea ever! Guess what?! Both of my kids get stomach cramps with dairy, but how do you know what’s causing all the fuss for a newborn??? She had rising bilirubin levels and I had to take her to the pediatrician every other day for over a week. I ended up exclusively pumping for six weeks. I hadn’t researched anything about what to do if your baby won’t nurse, I didn’t know that insurance would actually provide afreepump, and I had no idea how many things there was to know about pumping. It was just too much. So I researched the best formula (which, good Lord, is stinking expensive) and loaded up my online cart. I was in the middle of pumping when Chickadee woke in a frenzy and desperate to eat. Before giving her a bottle, I said a prayer and gave breastfeeding one last go—she latched!!!!! There is a God! I was literally crying and shooed Stud out of the room when he came running in with her bottle. I didn’t want to jinx it. We didn’t give her a bottle for months after that. And I only pumped for about a week after she was solidly nursing. It felt like we hit the parenting jackpot. Recovery was shocking. Everyone says it takes a while to get your body back or maybe you never will, but no one said your stomach would feel like bagged pudding. Everyone says skip the extra stitching, but no one said you still would need to find specialist to get fixed again (4 months postpartum, no less). Everyone says enjoy the baby snuggles, but no one mentioned the shock of becoming a SAHM after maintaining crazy work hours for years. Everyone says sleep when the baby sleeps, but no one said how to manage a colic baby when your husband is at work 13 hours a day. Everyone says to make mom friends and join mom groups, but no one tells you where the freaking hell these groups are. I’m so grateful for everything I went through with my first pregnancy, delivery and recovery. It’s taught me so many things about myself. It’s changed my marriage and allowed me to really see my husband. It’s given me a crazy wild understanding for how much God loves us, even if we are a bit aggravating at times. The first three years with my Chickadee were quite frankly the most overwhelming, but now I look at that spitfire and know there is nothing that will stop her. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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Kate FrancesWhen you don't know what else to do, then it's time to write. Then write a little while longer for good measure. Archives
February 2020
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