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At the risk of saying something completely obvious while sounding as though it's highly illuminating...parenting is a whole other country -- different language, rules of the road, currency, bathroom protocol, just to name a few. You'd think it'd require a passport, or a least a special visa issued only after appropriate background and character checks were performed. But lo and behold, they let anyone in. Just look at me, and Jamie Lynn Spears, if you need proof.
In case you also didn't know this already, babies are born with claws at the end of their teeny, tiny, little, snappable-like-a-twig fingers. That leaves a nervous new parent two choices: 1) keep them in mittens until they're 6 and would love an opportunity to attempt to trim their own (or others') nails with the scissors in their 1st grade classroom; or, 2) figure out how to swindle someone else into solving the problem. I tried asking for a "demonstration" from the pediatrician, but instead she gave me a "talk-through." I begged my mom, but apparently her generosity stops at full room, board and 24/7 babysitting services. Then I realized I should ask my sister, the expert mother of four. She told me what I couldn't quite swallow the other 2-3 times someone had suggested it: the safest way to trim a newborn's nails is to bite them off.
Who knew?
Late one night, slightly delirious and emboldened by whatever hormones it is that help keep me awake during these repeated 3a feedings, I tried it. I admit, it worked, and neither Dj or I was terrorized in the process. Still, I'm looking for an expert to do the job for me. So, if any of you nail-biters out there are looking for a guilt-free way to satisfy the urge -- and do a good deed at the same time -- come on by.
Brad sent us this "postcard" from Illinois. Though the signmakers might have had a different interpretation in mind, guess Brad knows what I'm doing all day every day. The good news is I'm no longer watching this child out of fear that he'll stop breathing or choke on his own spittle. (That was Week 1.) Nor am I watching him in confusion about when and whether he should be sleeping or wakeful. (That was Week 2.) Now I'm watching him with complete and utter fascination as to how he's growing and changing before my eyes. It's slow in many ways, and strange but mesmerizing, like laying in a field waiting to see a flower bud's petals unfurl.
Dj and I are leaving today, to spend the rest of December and January at Nana's place in Atascadero. It's going to be a great place for me to continue to recoup, and for him to discover the benefits of a more rural life. I don't suppose his eyes are ready to see stars yet, but I'll show him anyway. There are so many you can see from there.
We had our first visit with the pediatrician yesterday, and she says he's doing great. He's re-gained his birth weight and then some -- thanks to the addition of a little formula to every one of my breastmilk feedings. He's even grown chubby cheeks! I love it that he was born with a naturally lean, muscular build, but now that I'm a Mama I have the overwhelming urge to plump him up.
People say babies don't "really" smile until they're at least a couple months old. But just to prove how advanced my little guy is already, I thought I'd post proof of one of his recent smiles here.
On Friday, November 30th, I finished my last day of work and headed off to my regular weekly check-up at Kaiser. The folks at school had thrown a baby shower for me and Jamilah -- another pregnant teacher -- at lunch that day. They were so incredibly generous I could barely carry all the presents out the door. I managed to get them precariously loaded into bags and balanced in my arms, and I had just enough time to drop them off at home and pick up my friend Gunner's van for the drive to my appointment across town.
Winnie, my nurse practitioner, noticed my blood pressure was high and said we'd have to re-check it after our visit. Since I had been racing against the clock all day -- and having a high stakes conversation with Nora from the SFUSD office while my blood pressure was being taken initially -- I didn't worry too much about it. But it remained high, even after I'd been relaxing on my side for 20 minutes, so Winnie said I'd have to go to the hospital for some bloodwork and monitoring.
Hospital? -- I thought. I had planned to be at the USF pool having a nice swim.
The hospital, as you might imagine, was full of bright flourescent lights and kind but officious people, neither of which was helping my blood pressure come down. They drew some blood for labwork and I called Brad, one half of my Birth Coach team, to tell him where I was and why. (I knew Andi, the other half of my Birth Coach team was smack dab in the middle of moving her home, and hoped I wouldn't need to bother her at all.) By the time Brad arrived at the hospital with some snacks and a screw-top bottle of wine -- his own commendable idea of how we were going to get my blood pressure back down -- one of the lab results had come back and revealed me to be "mildly pre-eclamptic." The doctors seemed ready to let me go home and monitor myself overnight, until the second lab result came back and I was upgraded to "severely pre-eclamptic," and told I needed to stay.
Pre-eclampsia is a complex and mysterious disorder suffered only by pregnant women, and usually after the 37th week of pregnancy. Nobody really seems to know exactly what it is or what causes it, but they are crystal clear on what can happen if it goes untreated: seizure, stroke and/or multi-system organ failure. The treatment, as it turns out, is delivering the baby. So, I was admitted to the hospital and the induction began.
I started out with what they call an unfavorable cervix, meaning it was nowhere near ready to be opening up and passing a baby through. The doctors put me on intravenous Pitocin to artificially jumpstart my contractions. Apparently I was already having some contractions on my own, but not at a level I could feel, nor at a level that would help with the big job to come.Being hooked up to an IV machine was annoying, as was having to measure and check my urine every time I went to the bathroom. But I was trying to adjust to this new game plan, trying to be a good sport. Then the doctor came in and said my liver and kidney functions were tanking and they needed to put me on a new IV of magnesium sulfate and relegate me to bed. Foregoing all notions of stiff upper lip, I sat right down and had myself a good cry.
Magnesium sulfate sucks. It makes you lethargic, woozy and extremely dry in the mouth. And -- oh yeah -- being on it also means you can't eat, and have to severely restrict your liquid intake. This whole labor & delivery thing was getting less and less fun. But Brad was ever the voice of reason and encouragement. He kept reminding me of the goal, and making sure all the doctors and nurses were explaining the situation and the options at every stage. He even squeezed himself into the tiny chair-bed next to mine and stayed with me through the night.
I woke up to painful contractions at 5a. By the time the contractions were in full swing, Andi had arrived to complete my Birth Coach team. I kept she and Brad busy for the next 5 hours, alternately moaning, wimpering and pleading for mercy. They were so amazing the whole time, rubbing my back and shoulders, offering me ice chips, helping me change positions, comforting me between waves, even getting into the shower with me, continuing to tell me what a good job I was doing throughout.
Every now and again the doctor would come and check my dilation. For a while I was making steady progress, but when I got stuck at 6cm for an hour and a half I decided it was time to ask for pharmacological help. The anethesiologist was on the spot immediately, and 10 minutes later I was out of pain. A medical miracle. I had hoped I wouldn't need an epidural. I thought I was tougher than that. In retrospect, though, it was the best admission of weakness I've ever made.
For the next 5 hours, I was able to chat and laugh with Andi and Brad while my uterus did all the work without me. It was an incredible relief, but it still felt a little like cheating.
My mom and sister joined the party at 3p, just as it was time to start pushing. And push I did for the next 4 hours straight. In case you're wondering what that really means, it's like doing a 3-part sit-up every 3 minutes, holding each part for 10 seconds, and squeezing your bottom as hard as you can. Thanks goodness I never gave up doing abdominal exercises in yoga class. Unfortunately, all my great pushing wasn't getting the baby to stay where I pushed him. So at 7p serious talk of C-section began. I brokered a deal for just a little more time, hoping that an extra 30 minutes would make all the difference.
Right about then, two Labor & Delivery nurses I met at a class the week prior walked in and literally turned the tide. They saw how hard I was working, and how much I didn't want a C-section. They quickly set to work finding me new and as-yet-unheard-of positions for pushing. With their help -- and the extra grace time from the doctors -- I was able to get the baby down far enough that he could attempt to be helped out with a vacuum extractor. Three more contractions for pushing, that's all they gave me. If he didn't come out then, we'd have to be swiftly wheeled into the operating room for emergency surgery
I wish I could tell you more about how this worked and what it all looked like, but my eyes rarely left my navel for those last three contractions. The room was full of people, most of whom were loudly cheering me toward the finish line. I was in another world, a world with just the baby and I reaching for each other's hands.
Three minutes after he emerged -- blue-tinged but breathing -- Django Rey Daillak was placed on my chest, and our love affair instantly began.
Today's the day Django was due to arrive.
I like to tell myself IF he had waited that extra week, THEN all of the baby things that are currently sitting in a big, fat pile downstairs would already have been organized, and I would know just where to find a new, clean, newborn-sized onesie after he did that amazing trick -- again -- of peeing all over the back of his shirt without getting any onto the diaper!
Truth is, though, he came exactly when he was supposed to, exactly as he was supposed to, even though nothing about it was as I planned or imagined it would be.
8:05 P.M. 12/01/07 6 lbs, 15 oz 20 inches long.
