New Motherhood, Internet Thievery, and Other Panics

The Baby is now 12 weeks old and three days away from his three month birthday. (Yes, I am now a person who discusses her child’s age in both weeks and month-anniversaries. Deal with it.) This means that I’ve been a mother forrreeeeevvvveeeeer, and therefore have some feelings about it.

The most pressing of these feelings is the overwhelming need to tell all new moms and mothers-to-be in my life that is okay to feel bad. People revel in telling pregnant women to dread stretch marks and sagging boobs and to expect the worst during delivery. Other women delight in this, bizarrely. I wish I had had fewer moms tell me that my body would be ruined and more moms tell me that I’d have to reconstruct my self. That my life as I knew it was over. Because it was, and it is. I will never again be the person I was before I had The Baby, and as much as I love him, I had to grieve the end of my old life. I wish I’d known that would happen. Maybe it doesn’t happen to everyone, but it has happened to 100% of the mothers I’ve asked.

I love my son more than anything I could ever imagine, but it is a love that consumes me, in every sense of that word. It isn’t romantic love. It isn’t familial love. It’s a love that forces you awake at 2am, even while your newborn sleeps, so that you can stare into the face of the person you created with your own body and cry about how much responsibility it is, how innocent he is, how much you miss life before, and how you would rip someone apart with your bare hands if they dared to take him from you.

Most of the time, I’ve got this handled. I’ve got time off to be solely with The Baby, and I am grateful for that. I can follow his lead, feed him on demand, hold him every second he needs me. However, some of the time, I find myself furiously rocking The Baby in the glider after trying to get him to sleep for three hours, wondering when I’ll ever be able to use my own arms again to make food, fold laundry, or use my laptop. (I’ve spent so much time in the glider that my new non-existent mom ass has bored a hole in the foam of the seat, and now it looks like Homer Simpson’s couch).

In the last few weeks, it’s gotten markedly easier to be a mom, because The Baby interacts with toys now and loves sitting in his bouncer or laying on his playmat and punching things. For the first many, many weeks of his life, he wouldn’t tolerate being put down at all, and I am not exaggerating when I say that I carried this boy in my arms constantly for more than two full months. As I type this now, however, he’s happily attacking a dangling hippopotamus, which I am actively encouraging. You slap that hippo, Baby. GET HIM.

Being The Baby’s mom amazes me every day. It’s true what they say: seeing the world through the eyes of your child is incredible. I’ve watched The Baby discover that he loves warm baths, jingly noises, black and white illustrations, attempting to stand up, and Billy Joel. I know that he hates sleeping alone, being on his tummy, and pooping his pants, and that sudden changes in temperature confuse him. He is my favorite little person in the entire world.

I just wish that instead of smiling and gleefully telling me, “You’ll never sleep again,” people had told me, “You’ll never sleep again and you will feel crazy and everything will seem impossible and when it does, call me.”

In other news, I, like most new parents, think my child is the cutest, smartest, funniest, most interesting creature. I would love to document all his craziness here, but I recently made a discovery that has made me wary of posting any more photos of him to this blog. When he was one month and one day old, he broke out in what everyone assured me was baby acne, the product of swirling newborn hormones that would eventually resolve itself. It eventually got so bad that literally (I’m prone to hyperbole, but this was literally) every pore on his face was raised or red or covered in a fluid-filled bump. I became convinced it was a dairy intolerance, and within a week of cutting out all dairy, it started to improve and ultimately went away. (I snuck some dairy a few times in the last couple weeks and now his skin is reacting again, so take that, people who thought I was nuts!)

Annnnnyway, while investigating his mystery rash, imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon a Pinterest pin of a very familiar picture. The pin led to this website:
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That’s a photo of ME, taken in a South Carolina hotel bathroom ten years ago, and posted on this, my personal blog, as an attempt to help other people who may be struggling with acne. I was immediately pissed to see that it had been lifted from here and used somewhere else not just because that’s a gross thing to do, but also because the reason I posted it was to offer potential help and support to other acne suffers and the way it’s being used by the person who stole it is disingenuous. It’s posted under the heading “How to get rid of cystic acne on chest during pregnancy,” which is shitty because: I wasn’t pregnant for the five years I had this problem, it wasn’t cystic acne, and I didn’t “get rid of it” in any of the ways listed below the photo. I haven’t pursued trying to get the photo removed because 1) I’ve been busy (see above) and 2) it’s being used by one of those aggregate content websites written in language that is just different enough from how actual people speak that it must be computer-generated (i.e. the site is called “Let’s Rid Of”), so I assume no one is really running it and no one is really reading it. However, it still upsets me.

And it’s also a clear example of how what I post on this blog I don’t think anyone actually reads can end up in places I not only didn’t expect, but also didn’t allow. I don’t want personal photos of my tiny little person to end up on some rando website that promises to “Cure Babies of Nighttime Farts” (although I would really like to know how to do that).

If you’re interested in seeing photos of the gremlin, you can request to follow me on Instagram (which has gone from a feed of various photos of travel and food to just photos of The Baby). Try not to look too much like a robot or someone trying to sell me baby weight loss products, because it’ll be a waste of everyone’s time.

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The Baby!

IMG_3351_2The eagle has landed! On Friday, July 17th, our tiny little bub was born. We are absolutely in love with the little creep. I haven’t stopped staring at him since he was born, and am only now starting to put him down for naps (as in, not hold him 100% of the time) only because I need to get him used to sleeping in his Moses basket at the side of the bed at night. (I am too high strung to bed share, so every night has been a not-so-delicate balance between being terrified of falling asleep with him in bed with us and being terrified of not having him close to me.)

The following is a ridiculously over-long birth story, which I’ve recorded here mostly for myself, and then also for any moms (or dads) -to-be who might be interested:

Thursday, the day before The Baby was born, was The Boyfriend’s birthday. Randomly, and for the first time since taking his current job, The Boyfriend had Thursday and Friday off work, so we settled in to celebrate his birthday like the old people we are: by staying home for two days, eating a ton of candy and baking a ton of cookies. By late afternoon on Thursday, I had to abandon the remaining cookie dough because I was getting mild contractions every 2-3 minutes. Having gone through the pregnancy with no Braxton Hicks “practice” contractions and having never had a baby before, at first I thought I was having some totally unfortunate bowel trouble. The contractions felt like diarrhea pains, only they were on a regular cycle and they were close together. However, they were also mild and only slightly annoying, and at 39 weeks pregnant exactly, I had gotten used to just ignoring feeling like I had to poop all the time. I called the hospital for advice, and when the midwife heard that it was my first baby and that I could laugh off the contractions, she told me to go to sleep because it could still be days.

It was that response, coupled with my desire to labor at home for as long as possible in an effort to avoid hospital interventions, that contributed to my spending the hours of 2am to 8am in a kind of crazy dream state, having increasingly painful contractions, closer and closer together, in the shower, on the toilet, in the bath, pacing the living room, crawling up the stairs. This was just five days ago, and I couldn’t tell you why I didn’t call the hospital back or wake The Boyfriend up, other than I’d never done it before and didn’t know when to say enough and I was also probably in denial. I’d abandoned timing the contractions because when they got painful enough for me have to lean over the back of the couch and moan my way through them, the last thing I wanted was to focus on exactly how long they were lasting. (This is why it would have been wise to wake The Boyfriend and force him to do it. Again: denial is a powerful force.)

I finally decided it was time to go to the hospital when I started feeling like a wild animal. I couldn’t think straight and knew I needed to be where the baby would be born. In addition, I started bleeding, which was scary. I woke up The Boyfriend, and then I called the hospital to tell them I was coming in. She warned me that they were very busy (incidentally, it was the full moon, which is a time when labor wards are notoriously full), and asked if I wanted to wait another hour at home, but I wasn’t about to spend another second in my house.

After I writhed around in the car in early morning traffic for a little while, we got to the hospital and all I wanted was privacy and someone to help me. It wasn’t even pain medication I wanted – I just needed to be where I was going to give birth and have someone close by who could tell me what was happening. As it turned out, they were so busy that there were no free rooms. Instead, I was led to a partner waiting area, where the midwife who dropped me off assured me that “no one would forget I was there.” Totally reassuring.

About fifteen hour-long minutes later, I was moved over to the maternity day unit…to a waiting room full of couples and children waiting to have ultrasounds. The idea, I guess, was that I could be examined in an out-patient room there while they sorted out a room for me on the labor ward, but for me, given no explanation and being guided to a chair in a crowded waiting room while sweating through my clothes and rocking back and forth, I was so upset. I wasn’t getting the help I thought I would at the hospital, and now I had none of the privacy I’d had at home. I went immediately to one of the bathrooms and cried while leaning over the sink. The Boyfriend had to come find me when they called my name, because I refused to leave the toilet until someone came to help.

To make a long story short(er), the midwife tasked with examining me in the out-patient room only got as far as checking the baby’s heart rate (which was perfect) before the blood and my absolutely heathen behavior freaked her out. She sent me back to the labour ward, where I was matched with the head of midwifery.

This woman was like an angel, and I mean that in the most sincere way possible. I remember laying on the exam bed coming to pieces and seeing her name and title on her badge and thinking, Oh, thank God. The Head of Midwifery. She took some rapid-fire notes about what had been going on with me, ran and got a pan just before I vomited all over myself, and then gave me my first-ever (and only) internal exam. To her surprise and my complete and utter relief, I was nine centimeters dilated.

NINE. CENTIMETERS. For those who don’t know, you start pushing a baby out when you are at ten centimeters. At this point, I cried tears of legitimate joy. I was close to having the baby, and I wasn’t being an insane person for being so angry about getting shuffled around. (Yes, even in labor, I was afraid of what people would think of me for being a dickhead to them.) I was in transition, the hardest part of labor which takes a woman from cervical opening to pushing, and had been sent to a public waiting room. In the hospital’s defense, there was no way for them to know how far along I was, as they just did not have the space to examine me when I arrived. Because the active part of my labor had, at that point, only been about six hours and because it was my first baby, I don’t think anyone expected me to be so far along.

Once my angel midwife knew this, however, she transferred me to a bigger, better, more “active” labor room, with mats and yoga balls and a giant bean bag chair to use to keep me off the bed. I was on beds on my back for a grand total of five minutes while in labor and it was horrible. I can’t imagine being strapped to a bed on monitors and having to labor without medication. The only thing that made me feel better was moving around, mostly because it was a distraction. Being on my back on a bed forced me to focus on how much I hurt.

I didn’t have the chance to use any of the active labor goodies, though, because as soon as I hit that room, I needed to push. The midwife threw the bean bag chair onto the bed, I got on all fours leaning over it, and using “gas and air” (laughing gas, effectively), pushed a tiny human out of my body in 45 minutes. The pushing was the most physically exhausting thing I’ve ever done, but it felt productive and didn’t ever hurt, which is strange, considering you’d think that would be the most punishing part of having a baby. I made lots of primal, crazy-person sounds, and tore off my dress and bra like a mad woman. For anyone concerned with how they might look/feel during childbirth: you will not give a shit. At all. I have never been so exposed or looked so insane, but when faced with trying to be modest or trying to be more comfortable, comfort won 100% of the time.

People told me that, but I didn’t think I would ever get to a point where I didn’t care. I brought make up to the hospital and had an outfit planned for delivery. However, I quickly learned that lots of the cliches about childbirth are true. In fact, at one point, I whimpered, “I just want him out already,” which felt like a cliche even as I was saying it.

But, then he was out, and it was surreal. He was beautiful and perfect and ours. We were in the delivery room for a few hours, so I could rest and shower and so that the baby could be examined, and then were transferred to a post-natal ward, where we stayed for just a little while longer before being discharged and coming home. The Baby was born before noon and we were home around 7pm.

Aside from getting a slight runaround at the beginning of the hospital experience, the labor and birth were as straightforward and wonderful as they could have been. My intentions were to avoid intervention and pain medication other than gas and air, and I managed to do it, by some insane stroke of luck.

Having had a baby without an epidural, I can say now that I understand completely why women chose to have them. Labor is scary and it is painful and if you found yourself with an IV or an electronic fetal monitor keeping you on your back in a bed, I can’t even imagine how much more painful and scary contractions can be. On the other hand, I think not having an epidural spared me a lot of complications. I was active and mobile right until the very end, which may have contributed to shortening my labor. I also had a lot of control over the pushing stage, which might have helped spare me any injuries. Ultimately, I think my experience was due partly to believing I could do it, and mostly to being really, really fortunate.

Now, I get to spend all day, every day with The Boyfriend and The Baby, who is basically the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Love, love, love.

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