Category Archives: Birth

I think we are a little late on settling in. BUT, we are settling nonetheless. Elsa is 7 weeks tomorrow and, FINALLY, I feel like I can do this and do it happily.

The major challenge of this whole experience has been breastfeeding. Go figure. Prior to giving birth, my entire focus was on the birth. I was totally obsessed with thinking about labor/pushing and how I would handle it and how John and I would fare as a birthing pair. I was fixated on who would attend the birth and whether or not I would be able to do it without pain medication. I wish someone had slapped me and told me, “The birth is the absolute LEAST of it!! You will be fine. Worry about being a parent!! Worry about the psychic impact of this impending irrevicable change. Worry about the stabbing pain you will have in your breasts for nearly 2 months!”

But no one did. And I was knocked off my feet by how hard and totally insane it is to become a parent (especially a parent with fire nipples).

Prior to Elsa’s birth, I knew I would breastfeed. I didn’t give it a second thought. I read La Leche League’s book, “The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding,”and then read 50 books about childbirth. Again, I can’t stress enough that my preoccupation with the birth was not warranted. That’s not to say that birthing was not the most INSANE, difficult, somewhat terrifying experience of my life. It’s just that, it was NOTHING like I had read in the books. NOTHING that I expected. Although, I did make it through without any interventions (no monitors, no IV, no medicine) – so I guess some of my preparation paid off.

But nothing had me prepared for the fact that a tiny little human was about to become my constant 24 hour/day companion. That she would be the sweetest, most beautiful little girl ever born (obviously). That my love for her would scare the shit out of me and make me feel vulnerable beyond belief. That I would feel like a totally different person the minute I became her parent. That I would have a DAUGHTER and that she would be my daughter for the rest of our lives. That I would cry in the car daily thinking about how scary it is that I love her so much and that, ultimately, I will have no control over whether or not bad things happen to her. That I would start to feel like I would die if anything bad ever happened to her. . . but again, I have no control over these things. That I would watch her for hours at at time, totally entranced by her crazy little face and her flailing arms and legs. That I would sleep with the light on and with her snuggled in next to me in bed – not because I am scared or anxious, but because I just love to be able to see her next to me whenever I open my eyes. That I would have worries about how I can give John enough of myself when I am giving SO much to this little baby.

And on a different note. Before I had a baby, I thought people were so lame who complained about “how hard it is to have a baby.” I refused to believe that babies are: a) a lot of work and b) make it more difficult to do ANYTHING. I figured, you just strap them on and go! Keeping a baby in the home just makes for a neurotic baby and a neurotic mom! American moms are soooo lame and materialistic with their absurd diaper bags and strollers and bottles and pacifiers, etc. Somehow I imagined I would just throw a diaper in my purse, strap the baby to my bosom and have long, productive days.

I concede defeat. It’s MUCH easier to stay home with a baby – easier, but also likely to drive you totally insane. Which is why we have been taking Elsa out since she was about 3 days old. Even though it was February. And freezing. It takes some degree of conviction to pack up your infant with all their diapers (yes, you need much more than one), wipes, burp cloths and extra outfits (because they will pee/poop/vomit on themself while you are out).

Then, I try to plan each outing to start the minute she is done breastfeeding [which, p.s. was supposed to be the subject of this post but has gotten away from me]. That way, I know I have 2-3 hours until her next feeding when, hopefully, I will be home again. Someday, I will be able to effortlessly breastfeed in public . . . maybe. But we are definitely not there yet. For now, I have to watch in order to latch her on – which means one of two options: Either I expose my breast in public (which I am starting to feel like is a viable option) or, I put a blanket over BOTH of us (think of a little kid draped in a sheet for Halloween) and then, once latched, poke my head out from under the blanket, face red, hair tousled, and hope that she doesn’t unlatch herself (which she frequently does and which prompts another arduous trip under the blanket).

Plus, whenever I get out of the car, I have to decide if I am going to lug her around in her 33 pound carseat, wiggle her into a wrap/sling/baby holder, or put her in the 500 pound stroller that someone gave us as a hand-me-down. I thought the wrap/sling option was going to be so easy, but honestly? She is heavy and, when I carry her, I feel a little like I am 9 months pregnant again. And she is like a little heat factory on my chest so that, when I take her off, we are both dripping in sweat. Plus, I realize that she is strapped on there nice and tight, but I can’t help but worry she is going to fall off, so I am always holding her with one arm, just in case we unravel. A trip to the grocery store is no longer just a quick in-and-out.

I lost my thoughts here. Another day, another post and perhaps, we will get to the breastfeeding story. It’s a thrilling tale of firey hot pokers applied to my nipples, brutish, medieval procedures where my daughter gets her tongue-tie clipped, giant rock-hard sacks of milk dangling from my chest, bed sheets soaked with milk, and about 30 boxes of nipple pads and nipple cream. Oh! And the story even has a villain! A totally insane lactation consultant who briefly convinces me that if I would only live a gluten/dairy/tree nut/soy-free existence, I would stop poisoning my daughter. Oh. And Johnson’s baby soap? Also poison. Microwaves? Poison. Cooked food? Poison. Seriously. I paid someone, in desperation, to tell me that I am poisoning my daughter.