Well, Baby

Last weekend my girl Tanya and I went to the outlet mall in Woodburn for a little sweet, sweet discount shopping. It was the longest Zephyr and I have been away from the house (4 or 5 hours), and he behaved commendably. On the way, Tanya pumped milk using the power source from my car, and we joked about how it feels like we're cheating on our babies when we pump. It's true, right? I always hunker down and wait until he's napping before I get out the pump, lest he smell my milk from across the room and get offended that it's not directly for him. It is for him, though, just so Scott can feed him.

And on the other side of that coin, why do I get jealous when he's being fed from a bottle? Last week Scott took him in the morning so I could sleep in a bit, and when I came downstairs he was giving Zephyr a bottle. For some reason, my milk started to let down and I felt a little possessive of Zeph and took ownership over his sustenance, even though Scott is doing me a huge service by taking over for an hour and giving my tits a break. So weird.

We had his two-month Well Baby checkup last week, and turns out he's above the 99th percentile for weight (at 14.3 lbs) and length (at 25.25"). He got most of his vaccinations - I opted for all of the ones that prevent particularly virulent diseases that actually do still float around. His howls of pain broke my heart in two, especially after I had clipped his fingertip with the nail clippers when I tried to trim his nails earlier that day. Poor baby. I was happy that he comforted easily, but I still experience such a visceral response to his guttural cries. I can feel my blood pressure raise and my eyes mist up, and I feel desperate to protect him.

His herniated belly button had been bugging me ever since his cord fell off (at 5 weeks - very late, I think). We had taken him in and had it checked, but his regular doc (Christine Martin) wasn't working that day and the other one said to just apply hydrogen peroxide and keep an eye on it. I told her I thought it was a granuloma, and she said it wasn't (she said this since "it isn't red like a granuloma"). Well, Dr. Martin confirmed my suspicion and hit his belly with a little silver nitrate to dry it up. Thank goodness for that, because that oozy little flesh nubbin had been freaking me out for weeks.

His sleep cycles have been going through fits and starts, too. Tuesday, he slept pretty well from having had such a rough day at the pediatrician's office (and the vaccines really took it out of him). Thursday and Friday, he gave us two nights in a row of sleeping 5.5 and 5 hours, respectively. Last night he slept for 4 hours, but we went to bed later than normal and that mat have had something to do with it. We're still trying to figure out if there's any cause and effect there.

On Wednesday he was being such a pill - no nap all day, fussing all the way until 10:30pm - that we finally just gave him a squirt of baby Tylenol. I felt sort of guilty, like I was drugging him to get to sleep, but I figure he must've been fussy for a reason, like the shots the previous day, or because his lower gums are a little swollen. That's right. At two months, he's already showing the first signs of teething.

Speaking of guilt, does any ever find the time to be 100% engaged with their baby during those precious "quiet-alert" stages of consciousness? Sometimes I take that opportunity to interact with him, singing my favorite Grizzly Bear songs or giving him some tummy time or a bath, but sometimes I just take advantage of not needing to give him a boob (or other techniques for trying to get him down for a nap), and just park him in his Pack 'N Play to stare at his owl mobile. He seems happy enough, cracking up at them, and I always take him out again if he gets bored, but I feel like I'm being a terrible mother for needing a break. Like when I peruse the internet with one hand on my iPhone while I'm breastfeeding instead of gazing into his eyes. He won't remember such egregious acts of neglect, right?


I got an IUD inserted last week, too. I love this little guy so much, and would be devastated to let someone steal his thunder too soon.

Faces of Zeph

At five weeks old, last week Zephyr started making eye contact. Not just the odd cross-eyed drive-by, he actually looks at us and reacts, with adorable results. He smiles and laughs, too - a stuttered cackle that follows a rapid panting. His smiles aren't just for passing gas anymore, and he has an excellent sense of humor. These days he's thoroughly rapt with his friend The Light (any lamp, window or television) or his friends The Birds (the black-brown silhouettes of birds in flight that I painted across our sloped, attic bedroom ceiling). His friends The Owls (his mobile of heather-blue and brown raptors) also crack him up, but I'm leery of calling The Owls out separately from The Birds lest he think that owls are not birds. He also grins at the mounted insects that hang on the wall above the TV room couch. A budding Attenborough, he is.

That's not to say he's all smiles, all the time. Oh, no. His sleeping and eating schedules are slow to evolve, and though he occasionally makes it four hours between feedings (at night, this is a blessing), he usually sticks with his clockwork three hours and fuss for boobies. You can set your watch to it. And instead of sleeping on and off all day, now he will often only take one good, long nap and wake the minute we're about to sit down to dinner. Besides that, he just nurses every hour and falls asleep when I try to burp him. If I try to put him down in his crib at this point, he wakes after ten minutes or so. Repeat ad nauseum. Some days, though, I get lucky and he just needs to recharge his little battery, in which case I might be afforded enough quiet time to say, get a latte, finish making birth announcements, or go visit our friends Tanya and Sigga.

His birth announcements were fun to make. I had the negatives from Justine's photos converted to a CD of jpgs, and used a few of my own photos, and came up with a couple options that I really like. Here are a couple of my favorite of Justine's portraits of Zephyr:

Look at that tiny hand and chubby arm. Couldn't you just eat him up? He is such a handsome little baby! I know everyone thinks that about their baby, but I'm pretty sure mine really is particularly and uniquely attractive. I can't believe how much he's grown in the four weeks between these photos and the ones in the collage at the top of this post. He's been consistently putting on about 10% of his body weight every week, and now he's already up to about 14 pounds.

His belly button is also pretty well healed up. Enough so, anyways, that we gave him his first real bath in the sink (instead of just a sponge bath). Here's Zephyr, looking uncertain in fluorescent light (hence the poor white balance and unfortunate skin tone of the photos) and our tiny bathroom sink:

I love that last photo where he's holding onto my thumb for moral support. Once his little legs kick reflexively into the warm water, he gets this look on his face. That "oh, this is really something - this is a Thing" look. But when we immerse him in the soft suds, he looks like he's just not sure what to make of everything, and he wears this adorable little furrow on his brow. Then we pull him out to dry him off, and the rapid temperature change makes him pee all over the place. Yay!

He looks so much like Scott right now. It's wonderful (especially wonderful for reassuring Scott, whom I suspect is getting a bit frustrated with Zephyr's recent unwillingness or inability to be comforted by him). We have a picture of Scott being held by his dad at around this age, and I plan to recreate the image with Scott holding Oosch to make a diptych. Should be a fun project - I am completely in love with the subject matter.

Baby's First Christmas

In our five years together, I think Scott and I have actually celebrated Christmas exactly once; after our first, we gave up on formalities and just started giving each other gifts in November. We'd drink to the holiday, and did not a lot else. I think we stayed awake long enough to toast the new year once or twice - one year we were so busy playing Everquest II that we didn't even notice the clock strike midnight, and only realized it was the new year when we heard the noise in the streets. We just weren't big holiday people.

Personally, the holidays stopped having much meaning to me after my grandma Laverne died about 8 years ago. She baked three different pies from scratch (pumpkin, mincemeat and "Christmas" - a fluffy coconut cream pie); made numerous candies including chocolate covered peanut butter balls, chocolate fudge and divinity; and baked a million different cookies (my favorite were her pfeffernüsse - nutty, crumbly little bites). This, in addition to her seven-course dinner. She was the most important person in our family and always did so much to make everything special. After she died, I found little reason to talk to anyone in my family.

My mom always hated the holidays because they reminded her that our family was poor and that made her feel like a failure. She complained about the hassle each year when it was time to put up our little plastic tree, and worried about how to pay for presents. It was depressing, and I'm sure played a role in my own feelings about the holidays, even though I don't have to worry about things like stretching food stamps to the end of the month or keeping the lights on.

Now that we have a baby I feel like the holidays should mean more to us, even though we aren't religious "reason for the season" types. Though we were always a unit together, Zephyr really makes us feel like a family, and I'm glad Scott and I can create our own family traditions now. It gives me a much more positive outlook on everything.

I'm making some French toast for breakfast tomorrow using pannetone (Italian sweet raisin bread that's almost like cake) with orange syrup, sausages and mimosas. It'll be our new little family Christmas tradition.

We still open some of our gifts early.

Growth Spurt

Today is Zephyr's three-week birthday. He has earned himself a few nicknames, including Amuse Bouche and Jellybean (aka Butterbean). My favorite is McBoosh (the natural evolution of Ooschie). Scott overheard me one night when I was having trouble getting Zephyr latched on to the nipple, and in frustration I muttered "Dammit, McBoosh!" He laughed and said it made Zephyr sound like a character in a bad 1980s cop movie. Now we get a kick out of saying it, but adding lines like "You're out of your jurisdiction!" or "One more move like that and you're off the force!" We laugh and laugh at the thought of a tiny baby getting put on desk duty as punishment.

Any day now, I expect that my milk should start changing to a higher butterfat content, keeping him full longer. This is about the time when babies are theoretically supposed to be able to sleep for those four or five hour stretches, right?

Instead, we get a growth spurt.

Now, instead of those lovely three hour sleep chunks (still hard to adjust to but at least it's sleep), for the past two nights he's been waking every hour or two and wanting to feed. He falls asleep on the breast and never eats enough to stay full for longer than that. Or conversely, he'll want to cluster-feed, essentially staying at the breast for three hours, during which time he usually fills up completely and pukes all over me at least twice. My side of the bed smells like a yogurt factory about now.

Ohp, he's a-stirrin'.

The Wind Waker

World, meet Zephyr. Here he is at two days old, in a room flooded with mizzled November daylight, during one of the fleeting early moments when his eyes opened to meet mine. This is the story of how we met.

On November 25, I arrived at my midwife's office for a routine checkup. It was my due date, and a pre-holiday visit seemed prudent. If I didn't go into labor soon, I would be induced on the following Monday. Women with gestational diabetes usually aren't allowed to go past their due date, but I was healthy, and besides, Thanksgiving was the next day.

Weight check: 187 pounds, even with shoes off. A nearly 40 pound weight gain over the course of the pregnancy, though I didn't really look like I gained it anywhere but in the front. "She's all baby!" people said about me while I was pregnant. And although I resent that women's bodies are suddenly up for public discussion when they become pregnant, I never minded when people said this about me, because I was so proud of my taut pregnant body. Well, except that in the past few weeks my legs had started retaining water and resembled sausages, and I couldn't wear my wedding ring anymore. And my face was starting to get a little puffy. I was kinda ready to have my body back.

Next routine check: blood pressure. 137 over 75. Ouch. Must be the coffee? Or that I was hurrying to my appointment? I felt fine. Midwife is concerned about hypertension, particularly with my diabetes, sends me to have a fetal non-stress test (NST), tells me to have another BP reading when I get there. Trena, the nurse who administers my NST, takes my BP again and it's actually higher. The baby sounds fine, she says, but she tells me to go ahead and plan on staying put anyway. I'm getting induced. I decide to start Tweeting my progress via iPhone.

(Twitter update: Gah, my bp is a tad high and midwife wants to induce. Like, *now*. Guess he's gonna be a T-giving baby after all! How a propos. :) 1:17 PM Nov 25th)

My options, what are my options? The baby was still posterior - I was hoping I'd have time to try to get him to move so I wouldn't have to endure back labor. I didn't want Pitocin. Under no circumstances was I to have Pit. Scott and I went to all these hyponobirthing classes and I was determined to have an intervention-free birth, but now that that was off the table I still wanted to start small. What about misoprostol? Ehhhh...still not what I really envisioned (soft moaning and rocking back and forth in a warm bath while I slowly meditate through labor), but it seemed like the least intrusive of the possible next steps, aside from just saying "peace out" and leaving the hospital, where I may or may not go into labor on my own, and may or may not risk harming the baby with preeclampsia. I was already dilated about a centimeter and 80% or so effaced, so the miso might work fine. Sure, we'll try it.

My cell rings. It's my company's HR department. Jeff in the Seattle office has been trying to get a hold of me, but I'm not responding to emails or voicemail, and he doesn't have my cell number. Jeff must've missed the part where I told him the prior Friday that it was my last day, or my out-of-office autoreply that clearly states I'm on FUCKING MATERNITY LEAVE and have more important things to worry about than updating my corporate resume. I laugh into the phone and explain to HR man that I'm about to be induced to go into labor, and to pass that on to Jeff.

Time to kill. Scott runs home to grab some things (we'd been in the habit of bringing a suitcase to the hospital with us just in case, but I needed other stuff like my glasses, snacks for me and cookies for the nurses, champagne). He tells his mom, who is staying at our house, what's happening and she kind of freaks out a little and wants to hang out at the hospital and just pace a groove into the floor. He assures her that this is a terrible idea and that we'll keep her posted.

While Scott is out running errands I order something to eat and start signing forms and checking boxes for which procedures I'll allow or decline. I have to explain why I don't want my baby's eyes being swabbed with anti-gonorrhea ointment (I don't have gonorrhea) and don't want him vaccinated against Hep B yet (again, I don't have it). Resist the urge to go off on the nurse about the absurdity of universally vaccinating newborns against sexually-transmitted diseases. They make me sign waivers to decline their routine procedures.

(Twitter update: Eating some hospital food (tastes like Lean Cuisine) and signing forms. Feel like a PITA for declining so much, but whatevs. My baby & body! 1:55pm Nov 25th)

The annoyance begins. My midwife instructs the nurses that I am to test my blood sugar every two hours instead of just after meals. I'm beginning to get pissed at the lack of control I have over this entire situation. After an hour, I am already officially sick of being hooked to the fetal monitor. They let me take a break to pee. This would be only the beginning of my long hate-affair with the monitor. Here's the imprint after three hours.

(Twitter update: Fetal monitor srsly cramping my style - stuck in bed hooked to it for 40 mins of every hour. This is bullshit. >:( 2:53pm Nov 25th)

I was so happy to get off the monitor for a half hour or so. By this point, the misoprostol had well kicked in and I was having plenty of contractions, but labor still hadn't kicked in. I spent my break in a hot shower to try to get enough nipple stimulation to kick things off, then walked in circles in the maternity ward for about 20 minutes. Still nothing. Scott and I start watching Wizard People Dear Reader on Youtube until I'm too distracted to pay attention.

(Twitter update: Contractions about a minute apart! Still can't really feel them, but back starting to ache a little. 7:29pm Nov 25th)

After two more hours go by, I'm only about 2.5 cm dilated. My midwife is long gone, leaves me with the OB. We discuss next steps. She mentions that she'd had some success inducing with a Foley bulb. This will mechanically dilate my cervix, after which I should go into labor on my own. They would insert a rubber hose into the opening in my cervix and then inflate it with saline to push my cervix open. I'd have a little Ambien to help me sleep, then they'd come wake me up at around 5:30am and my cervix should be at 5cm. This doesn't sound too bad, and I'm totally sick of being there, so I agree to it. It doesn't hurt going in, but it's awkward getting up to pee my usual 4 or 5 times with a fetal monitor strapped to my belly and a rubber hose dangling from my vadge (taped to my thigh).

(Twitter update: Gah, still no labor, though having plenty cntrxns. Trying foley bulb to get the next 2.5cm, Ambien, will try to sleep it off. 9:27pm Nov 25th)

Thanksgiving day. I am awakened by the nurse at 5:30am, and the bulb must've worked because it falls right out with a slight tug. They take my BP and blood sugar again. BP still high, glucose normal. The misoprostol wore off a long time ago, and my contractions have stalled. The OB comes in, and we discuss Plan D. I am informed I basically have three options left: breaking my bag of waters, Pitocin, or Cesarean section. I realize that fighting is futile, and decide to let go of anguish over not having the birth I planned, and concede.

(Twitter update: 5cm/90% effaced/-1 position after 6 hrs sleep, still no labor. Gonna get a whiff of pitocin to get things going. Not devastated. 6:03am Nov 26th)

After I get a shower and some breakfast, the OB returns to my room for another BP and glucose check. She decides to go ahead and try breaking my water first. This sounds like the best idea since I am adamant that I am at least afforded the opportunity for a vaginal delivery, and I know that Pitocin often leads to an unplanned C-section. She inserts a poking object into my cervix, and I feel a lot of warm liquid running out of my crotch into the Chux pads under me.

(Twitter update: Broke my water (waiting on Pit) and now it's gush and ouch time. 10:40am Nov 26th)

This feels different. Whoa, Nellie, this is definitely different. I chug a fruit smoothie and try to bring my A game. I am a little afraid I can only muster my B game. This is only the beginning. This is back labor. After writhing in bed for awhile, I suck in my guts and Scott helps me waddle down to hall to the jacuzzi. The thought of jets hitting any part of my body sounds dreadful, so I just lay in the water and try to breathe.

The contractions came in thunderous waves that crashed me against the rocks and left me awash in a steely sweat, eyelids crunched shut. I was unable to merely breathe through them, and began to mewl and curse.

After my fingertips began to wrinkle I had to crawl out of the tub and back to my room, where the world's most grievous bed awaited. After spending two days in it, I fucking hated that thing already, all rigid plastic and hard seams, but now it felt like I was in Eli Roth's version of the Princess and the Pea. I think only an hour or so had passed since the beginning of the intense contractions, but it could have been two or three. I had no idea what I had coming ahead of me. I begged for a little something so I could catch my breath, and was given fentanyl. I couldn't tell if it did any good, but I did feel like pushing.

When it's time to start pushing, your body just knows it. Zephyr's head was down low and he knew it was time, too. The only thing I was aware of in those two or three hours of pushing was when it was time, after a 30 second break, to summon my inner Viking and bring my strength. When the contraction surged up and crested, I used my core and bowel to push back with an equal magnitude. Rest for a second to catch my breath and slow it back down, then surge up and push down. The only consciousness I have is the strength I need to bring. My hips ache, my belly is raw fire. Breathe. Move him down further, further, one millimeter at a time until Zephyr is at my womb's nadir and he is spanning his two existences.

His head is stuck. His heart rate drops. The OB: "Do you want an episiotomy or shall I use the vacuum?"

Get him out as quickly as possible. Get him out. "Vacuum."

She affixes the vacuum to his head and I scream out the last fervent push as I am cleft in twain and feel my son spill from me. His cord is wrapped around his neck. Twice. It is cut and clamped before it can pulse the last hale nutriment to him. I demand to hold my baby and he is unceremoniously slapped down on my belly for a splitsecond then pulled away again before I can know his face. He's not breathing and he's wearing an ashen pallor. He is ushered to the other side of the room and three or twenty nurses work quickly to remedy this.

Maxine the OB distracts me by asking me to deliver my placenta. She says it's a good, hearty placenta and asks me if I want to keep it (I don't, particularly). Zephyr is announced to be 9 pounds 11 ounces, and 22.5 inches long. I had no idea he would be so big. Maxine mops me up and is amazed that I have no tears. "You were built for having babies," she says, and tosses her gloves and my placenta into the biohazard bag.

Zephyr is taken to the nursery for monitoring and Scott goes with him. I'm alone in the room for a moment, in shock at the sudden silence. A nurse reenters and tells me that everything is fine, and I believe her. She congratulates me again on a job well done. I feel like a fraud and admit that I had asked for a shot of pain relief. She laughs. "That wore off in 45 minutes. You only got a half dose."

(Twitter update: I did it! 9lbs 11oz. Vag birth, no epidural. So fucking tired & sore from 8 hrs of contractions & 2 hours of pushing. More later. 7:26pm Nov 26th)

An hour later, I am holding my new son and giving him his first taste of my breast. After two days of recovery and monitoring (his blood sugar, my blood pressure and demeanor), we are briefed on how to care for him and released to go home. We're still getting the hang of things, but it feels like Zephyr is a good, easy baby. His needs are all obvious (as long as we're paying attention), and he rarely cries. Being a new family is strange and wonderful, and I can scarcely remember life without him.