All through my pregnancy, I watched TLC’s A Baby Story religiously. All five times a day it airs. Then I called it preparation for childbirth. Now, twenty-nine days after giving birth, I’m still watching it, only I call it all I do is nurse my baby every 2-3 hours, what else am I supposed to do? comparing notes.  Herein follows my baby story: 

As you probably know, I was scheduled for an induction on Monday, March 1, at 6 AM, a week before my due date.  My OB and I had decided the previous week that it was a good idea to get Liam out of there because A) I was having major swelling issues that were causing a lot of discomfort, like carpal tunnel syndrome, and my blood pressure was slightly elevated, which put me at risk of developing preeclampsia the longer Liam stayed in and B) the longer Liam stayed in, the more weight he would gain; while my doctor wouldn’t let me go more than a week beyond my due date, the extra pound he would gain between that checkup and then might make all the difference between my being able to deliver vaginally or by Cesarean section.  (Which, actually, turned out to be an issue even a week early.)

So, on Monday morning, Jeff and I woke up at 3:45 to go to the hospital and have our baby.  We live five minutes from the hospital.  We were all packed for the hospital.  It doesn’t take either of us more than about 45 minutes to get ready.  3:45 was insanely early.  We were excited.

And then, at 5:15, we got a call from Labor and Delivery, asking if we could wait till 7:30 to come in, because they’d had a baby boom in the night and didn’t have a bed for me.  Which my doctor had told me never happens.  This seemed just my luck, and I started to get twitchy that all those women were having long labors and they’d have to bump my induction off the day’s schedule and I would have to stay pregnant.  But luckily I fell asleep again until about 7, whereupon the Labor and Delivery nurse called back and said they had a bed for me and to come on in and have my baby.

At about ten to nine, they began the induction, which, as it turned out, was barely an induction at all. I was given a minimal drip of pitocin, which got my contractions going, but after about three hours my doctor broke my water and my body took over labor on its own, so I probably could have skipped the pitocin all together; it was turned off at that point.

But after three hours of induced labor with no pain medications, I was spent.

I was only dilated to 4 cm at that point, and, knowing I most likely faced at least six more hours of labor before I even got to the pushing stage and was getting no personal gratification out of enduring the pain of labor, other than to be able to say I’d tried it out, I asked for an epidural.

All I will say about epidurals is that it’s a lot more fun to watch your contractions happen on the monitor instead of feeling them happen in your body.

My family couldn’t get over seeing the monitor spike up to the 100 mark every minute or so and going, “Wow, that was a huge one! You really didn’t feel it?” I did feel it — but only as a tightening in my belly, like false labor contractions, and then in later labor, like a lot of pressure in my lower back and butt.

Anyway, I was happy I went for the epidural.

Jeff was, too, as it allowed him to make it through the birth without me once saying, “I hate you! You did this to me! I’ll never let you touch me again!” Instead, we had a very sweet time together, working a crossword puzzle and watching TV.

And, of course, chowing down on ice chips, because I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything since midnight the previous night. I was dying for a McDonald’s Big and Tasty with a vanilla shake (not helped by Jeff sending my brother out to get him McDonald’s) and helped get my mind off the increasing pressure of the contractions by dreaming of the meal I was going to have as soon as I gave birth.

Alas, I was not going to get to eat for much longer than anticipated.

After I’d been stuck at 9.5 cm for about two hours, my doctor said it was time to consider a c-section. Not because she wanted to get the show on the road, but because Liam’s head, though engaged at the 0 station, was turned so that it was actually causing my cervix to swell instead of complete dilation. She tried to turn him herself while I pushed, but he wasn’t budging. He couldn’t; his body was turned at a wonky angle from his head. He wasn’t going anywhere. So, after a few tears (of frustration and of pain — though not necessarily of regret, because those test pushes had hurt like the devil despite the epidural) it was off to the operating room for my c-section.

Surprisingly, I was feeling really calm about the c-section, though I’d spent most of my pregnancy terrified of having to have one. I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to let myself give in to fear or disappointment and not entertain the idea that I’d have trouble bonding with Liam this way or feel cheated out of the natural birth experience I’d envisioned. This was what it was, and I was going to make the best of it.

And when they lifted my little goop-covered 8 pound, 4 ounce, 20.5-inch boy over the curtain at 7:21 PM, all I could do was cry for joy and say, “Oh my God, look at all that hair! And those chubby cheeks!”

(Oh, and the little dickens — the instant they pulled him out, he let loose a stream of pee. Which, I later realized, must have been all over me. Only I couldn’t feel it, being all anesthetized…)

I didn’t care that my arms were spread-eagled out on the table and I couldn’t hold him when they put him up to me, because all I wanted to do was kiss and kiss those cheeks.

I couldn’t resent that Jeff got to hold our baby before I did, because it was amazing to see him become a daddy, to fall in love with his “little dude.”

Or to see, for the first time, my husband’s eyes fill with tears.

Really, I wouldn’t change anything about my birth experience. My birth plan absolutely went to pot, but my doctor and the nurses were all very supportive and went out of their way to make sure I was comfortable with every decision we had to make, and took excellent care of me and Liam.

That is not to say that I wasn’t dying to nurse him. Alas, it would be about three more hours before I’d get to do that, while they closed me up and sent me to recovery to stabilize after the surgery while they checked Liam out in the nursery. Though the time went rather quickly for me, as some of the medication to stop my bleeding made me sick and I promptly fell asleep on the operating table.

Meanwhile, Jeff followed Liam to the nursery and captured some of those precious first moments for me:

And then, finally, I got to hold my little boy:

As did Liam’s Grandmommy:

…Grandaddy:

…and Uncle Greg:

And then, alone with our son, Jeff and I just stared at him (and took pictures) for hours, taking in all his tiny changes of expression and trying to decide who he looked like:

There’s a line in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, when Lupin and Tonks have their baby, that I always thought was cute, but suddenly made so much sense to me in that moment of having my own child:   “Dora says he is like me, but I think he looks like Dora.” Everyone on my side of the family thinks he looks like me, and everyone on the other side thinks he looks like Jeff. We think he mostly looks like Jeff, though the head full of hair is me, and a couple of my baby pictures look quite like him. Though only time will tell, as every day brings little changes to his sweet little chubby-cheeked face:

Since I had a c-section, I was in the hospital for three nights. Which I didn’t mind, since I was in quite a bit of pain. It was nice to have a hand with Liam, though we kept him with us most of the time.

By Thursday, we were ready to go home.

I could walk by then, but hospital policy…It was actually quite like Jim and Pam’s baby episode of The Office, with Jim not pulling the car up to the front door of the hospital.

Liam loved his ride in his carseat, though we later discovered we’d dressed him much, much too warm for March in Texas! Babies do not get as cold as you’d expect.

Home!

Dorrie was not thrilled about what we brought home after four days. She ignored Liam and me, but was downright hostile to Jeff, hissing at him and swatting at him as if this was all his fault. Well, she had a bit of a point… But she got over it. Realized we like her better if she’s not being a rude gus. She’s getting curious about Liam, and now will creep up to him and sniff his head or hand without hissing at him.

The cat isn’t the only member of our family who’s adjusting to life with a baby.  It’s taken some trial and error, but Jeff and I are getting the hang of things.  I’ve got a new mantra (“Babies are messy; don’t take it personally.”) and the guilt of having laughed at my child peeing in his own eye during a diaper change, but we must be doing something right because four weeks later, we’ve had friends over and taken him out shopping and to restaurants, I’ve nursed in public, Mr. Liam is up to ten pounds and has outgrown all his newborn clothes, and is actually letting us get 6-7 hours straight each night.  (Not that he’s sleeping 6-7 hours straight; we’ve worked out a shift system that he hopefully won’t catch on to and decide to undermine.)  And he’s giving us the occasional smile.

Which makes it all worth it.

And that’s my baby story.

]]> http://www.lrburt.com/mom-blog/a-baby-story/feed/ 26 http://www.lrburt.com/mom-blog/so-sexy-it-hurts/ http://www.lrburt.com/mom-blog/so-sexy-it-hurts/#comments Thu, 25 Feb 2010 05:23:42 +0000 L.R. http://www.lrburt.com/?p=709

For those of you who don’t follow me on Facebook:  I am too heavy to sit in my husband’s lap.

This would be grounds for utter devastation, were it not for the fact that I am 38 1/2 weeks pregnant with a baby that will probably make headlines and retaining enough water to fill Lake Superior.   It’s easy to be amused about outweighing your husband (yes, I really do) when you know that in a few days, you’ll be well on your way back to the status quo.  (Oh yeah; in my failure to update this blog regularly, I might have neglected to mention that we’re going to induce labor next Monday, a week ahead of my due date.  Because of the Lake Superior and 19-pound baby issues.)

My poor husband must be given credit where credit is due; he tried to let me sit on his lap.

He was browsing the interwebs for new computer desks (for his upcoming new work-from-home job, which I also really need to post about!) and I wanted to look with him but didn’t want to walk the whole six feet over to my desk to drag my chair over, so I asked if I could sit in his lap, as I often do when we want to look at stuff together.  The dear man didn’t even cast a wary eye over my gargantuan belly before un-crossing his legs to accommodate me in his lap.

So, certainly he can’t be blamed for letting out a quiet, “Uffda!” when I sat on him. Or even for adding, “You are kind of heavy,” because he was amused, not critical; my vanity wasn’t the least bit wounded, though I feared his lap was. I asked if I should get up and get my chair.

“No,” he sort of gritted out, shaking his head with determination — like a weight-lifter asked by his spotter if he needs a hand with his bench press. “You’re fine.”

I was fine for about three minutes longer.

Really, it’s a testament to what a sweet man he is that he can tell his wife she’s squashing him (and that he’s looking forward to the return of the status quo, too) without making her cry. (Of course, considering I have only had one melt-down during my entire pregnancy, I’m starting to think that instead of becoming hormonally unhinged, I have developed the emotional control of a Vulcan.  Eat your heart out, Mr. Spock.  I only hope this continues through those harrowing weeks of learning to live with a newborn.)

I’ve always liked my husband a lot.  Duh.  That’s why I married him.  But pregnancy has made me like him even more.

Probably I shouldn’t have said that.  Undoubtedly, he’ll remind me of these words at some crucial juncture Monday when I’m at the brink of screaming at him never to touch me again.

So, before Walmart, I ran in Kroger for the express purpose of buying Ragu 7 Herb Tomato pasta sauce. Two jars of it.

I came out with six jars.

Plus six more in other varieties.

And nine boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch…

…five boxes of Lucky Charms…

…four boxes of Barilla pasta…

…three 8-roll packs of Bounty paper towels…

…and two packages of Oscar Mayer hot dogs.

It’s like The Very Hungry Caterpillar Goes Grocery Shopping.

I couldn’t help myself! They were all items I buy regularly, and they were on sale cheaper than Walmart ever has them, and in stock, and–

Well, you know you may have gone a little beyond taking advantage of a good sale when the cashier remarks, “Not planning on going out for a while?”

I gave a sheepish laugh and indicated my baby belly. I should have told her I was preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse and asked if she was ready (because nothing says preparedness for zombie attack like weenies, cereal, pasta sauce, and paper towels). But I never think of these things in the moment. Even when I’m not pregnant.

Sunday night, Mr. Burt and I went to dinner at Sweet Tomatoes (which is, by the way, a fantastic salad bar/buffet that caters to a younger, more health-conscious crowd than Golden Corral or Sirloin Stockade) because I was too tired to cook after a long previous day of shopping and decorating, a largely sleepless night, and a baby shower that afternoon.  As we were carrying our trays of salad to a table, one of the guys busing tables interrupted an animated conversation he was having with a table of ladies to shout to me, “Hey!  How many months are you?  Eight?”

“Just about,” I replied.

He threw his hands up in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown.  “I knew it!”

“You’re having a boy,” chimed in one of the women, pointing at my belly.  “I can tell from how you’re carrying.”

“Oh yeah,” agreed the busboy.  “You’re totally having a boy.”

“It is a little boy,” I said.

Another victory dance.  I wondered how excited this guy would get if his own wife told him he was having a boy.  “Is he going to be a junior?” he asked Mr. Burt.

“Nah,” Mr. Burt answered.  “He’s my little dude, but we’re not naming him after me.”

The busboy’s jaw dropped.  “You have to name him after you!  Carry on the family name — all the kings did.  You know, like Henry VIII.”

Apparently the busboy missed the part where Henry VIII kept divorcing and beheading his wives because they weren’t having boys… (Though, to be fair, Henry VIII’s illegitimate son was a junior.)

“You should name him Kingston!” suggested the woman subscribing to the old wives’ tale that carrying low means a boy.

“As in, the capital of Jamaica?” I whispered to Mr. Burt as we left the busboy and the customer to continue their discussion about what to name baby boys.  Who knows?  Maybe a romance blossomed that night, and nine months from now the busboy will be the proud papa of Busboy, Jr.

Thankfully, the nurse who took my blood pressure yesterday at my OB appointment thinks Liam Alexander is a great name.  We concur.

Considering that I spent Saturday in a state of insatiable hunger and today throwing up everything I attempted to eat, this weekend’s memories are not ones I want to preserve.  Especially not in photographs.  Therefore, my horoscope is wrong.

Or, since I’m immortalizing it on the interwebs, does that mean it’s right?

Also, wouldn’t this have been a better horoscope for the start of a weekend than the finish?  What if my Friday night or Saturday had been awesome, but I found myself without a camera because I hadn’t yet been told by a clairvoyant to bring one?  Horoscope fail!

I guess I did for a lot of last week, too — I was nauseous after nearly every meal, getting really warm at night and having trouble sleeping. Part of me wonders if my symptoms this week aren’t a bit psychosomatic, worse because I now know I’m pregnant (oh, by the way, in case you didn’t know, I’m pregnant) and am therefore attributing everything odd with my body to that.  But I am at five weeks, so I should be feeling some of the effects now. I’m having a bit of nausea and occasionally throwing up (mostly first thing in the morning and in the evenings).

The main thing is the tiredness, which seems to be getting worse every day. The only time in my life I’ve felt this absolutely drained was when I was on a particular birth control five years ago. Thankfully the sleeping problems haven’t persisted this week (though I am having to get up to use the bathroom a lot), but even though I’m getting 8-9 hours of sleep a night, I still wake up feeling run down and need a nap (or two). This morning I’ve had absolutely no energy and when I did finally drag myself to my desk to do a bit of work, I dozed off several times in the middle of typing. I’d shake myself and read what I was typing and realize I was typing the completely wrong sentence. Lunch perked me up a bit, so I’m going to try and answer a few emails after I make this post, but then I foresee a very long nap…

It is amazing and mystifying how an embryo the size of a poppy seed can leech every ounce of your energy. (I am, in all affection, calling the baby The Parasite.) But I can’t really begrudge him/her; it’s a lot of work developing your brain and vital organs.

I knew that having children would change me, but I wasn’t quite prepared for pregnancy — especially this early — to change me. Not in any huge ways, but I am finding it quite a challenge to my routine. I’m a creature of habit by nature, but I think especially because I work from home, a schedule is hugely important to me to get anything done. Before I got pregnant, the routine that worked best for me was to get up at 6 AM to exercise, wake Mr. Burt up a little before 7, hop in the shower, be ready to get to write by 8 AM, and do that for a good four hours, take a lunch break, and have another 3-4 hours of work.

Already this week, that’s all gone out the window. When you wake up exhausted and/or nauseous, you just can’t get up at 6 AM, and you really don’t want to eat or exercise first thing. (At least, I don’t. That trick of eating Saltines before you get out of bed is not working for me.) I’m learning already to listen to my body, to sleep when it wants me to, to eat when it wants me to, and to work everything I need to do around my body. (Not that there aren’t some things I need to be disciplined about — like not necessarily eating what my body wants to eat if it’s not healthy, and making sure I do exercise at some point, even if I’m feeling a bit tired.) Somehow I’m managing to get just as much done as ever, just not in my usual spurts. I can live with that. Especially if it gets the first draft of my  novel finished by the end of the summer, which is my goal…

I suppose this will be a helpful habit once the baby’s born, when everything will revolve not around my body, but around the Baby Burt and his or her demands. Flexibility is essential to parenting, isn’t it, or else you’ll lose your mind? (I can see why they say yoga’s a great thing to do during pregnancy — on many levels!)