back to work, 11 weeks old

I’ve been back at work for over a week now. Over a week in which I have felt like some bizarre combination of a disembodied head attached to an electric pump. It has been disorienting, exhausting, stimulating and also, for good measure, TEARY. Mostly, “work” has just become the stuff that happens in between pumping. It’s all very bizarre. Here then are some new-working-mama-lessons-from-the-back-to-work-trenches™.

(1) They can hear you

I had it all planned out. It was 9 am and time to pump. No matter that I had a VERY IMPORTANT PHONE CALL with a VERY SERIOUS LAW ENFORCEMENT TYPE. I would simply hook myself up to the milking machine and disguise the incessant, thumping sound of the pump with a series of scarves and other patented sound mufflers (my hands? A down coat?). Because that’s just who I am. SUPER MOM/MACGYVER.

<A mere 3 minutes into VERY IMPORTANT PHONE CALL>

Serious law enforcement type: (laughing uncomfortably) I’m sorry, but I am having a really hard time concentrating – what on earth is that sound?

Sarah: <totally awkward and not at all believable reference to “construction” happening “outside” plus, oh I don’t know,… an ambulance?>

Serious law enforcement type: <brutally long pause while deciding whether or not to call me out on my totally not plausible explanation>

Sarah: <searches for excuse to end phone call immediately>

Ahem. Lesson learned.

(2) Simple pleasures

The pleasure of using the bathroom alone and for more than 8 pained seconds cannot be overstated. Really. Really.

(3) Getting used to answering the same god-for-saken question

Means-well-but-only-kind-of co-worker: How old is your son?

Sarah (under eye bags prominent): 11 weeks

Means-well-but-only-kind-of co-worker: <with great anticipation> Is he sleeping through the night?!

Sarah (under eye bags growing darker with each passing minute): No.

Means-well-but-only-kind-of co-worker: <grave disappointment>

And then, 15 minutes later, THIS ENTIRE EXCHANGE WILL BE REPEATED WITH EVERY SINGLE COLLEAGUE.

(4) Growing efficiency mixed with complete distraction

There’s something about the incredible demands of an infant, the exorbitant cost of child care and the singular drive to go home and go to sleep AS SOON AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE that makes one exponentially more efficient at work. Also, DISTRACTED. Because, you know, baby, baby, baby, must sustain human life, must look at pictures of baby and watch video of baby while at desk writing important legal brief. See also: BABY. It’s baffling, really.

So guys, what am I missing? What other back to work life lessons should I be made aware of?

Rockin' his hipster threads.

managing expectations, 17 days old

Managing expectations. Remaining flexible. Keeping an open mind. Recognizing that I’m no longer in the driver’s seat. Ceding control.

This, I suppose, is parenthood.

And why not? I mean, I confronted infertility in my twenties. After ten years of birth control and the occasional terror and panic at a late period, I’m slapped with the totally non-specific and mystifying hypothalamic pituitary dysfunction, followed by a little junior varsity infertility, early miscarriage and, finally, after a shorter path than many but a longer path than I anticipated, pregnancy. Clomid and IUI and <deep breath>, pregnancy. And now, after 40 weeks 38 weeks – which I was mistakenly led to believe was only 9 months – I have this incredible human being. A beautiful, coneheaded and jaundiced little cub who we made, who I birthed, who is somehow, ours. Forever. Or at least until he’s 18 and we ship him off to military reform school college.

And now, two weeks in, another curve ball. Another – of many that are sure to come – moment in which things are not progressing as I expected. In which I am forced to step back, re-evaluate, remove judgment – of myself, of others, of my ability to parent.

Born at 7 lbs 14 oz, little Ez dropped to 7 lbs 1 oz a few days after he was born. Right on the threshold of the 10% he’s allowed to lose before TERROR! PANIC! FORMULA FEED HIM ALL OF THE DAYS! FAILURE TO THRIIIIIIIIVE!

And so, after the initial shock of labor, of being handed this incredible little infant, this strong pair of lungs connected to a diaper, this tiny creature who is completely dependent on us for his very survival and incidentally, comes with ZERO instructions, and whose only consolation prize is (approximately) 47 stitches running the length of my perineum, we fed. And fed. And fed. And fed. Twelve times a day. Every two hours. Whether he was awake or not, we woke him, he screamed, we jammed boob in his gummy little mouth. I slathered on the lanolin and APNO, dreaded the hot shower and his tiny fingernails, like daggers. We brought in two lactation consultants and a post-partum doula. Our dear, avuncular pediatrician made a house call (so quaint). We went to a breast feeding support group. We read and read and read – from everything on the ubiquitous-in-the-world-of-boobs kellymom to the trolls on Yahoo! Answers to the ivory towers of academic peer reviewed journals. The latch improved. He opened his mouth as wide as he could. I pumped and pumped in an effort to stimulate more milk production. We tried to supplement with pumped milk. C did the bottle feeds so Ez wasn’t confused. We used slow flow boob like bottle nipples. I read about galactagogues. I ate oatmeal and drank (a little) beer. I read all about fenugreek, but for fear of GI problems piled on to my Crohn’s disease, declined. Then, on someone’s advice, I stopped pumping and focused on just feeding. We did more skin to skin, carrying him around in my shirt[1] whenever I could. And then we fed him again. Our sleepy little baby whose high billirubin initially made him lethargic had woken up. Awake and alert, quiet and wide eyed, this boy wanted to eat. And I just didn’t have enough.

And then, on Friday, we went back to the pediatrician. Another naked screamy baby, another weight check. 7 lbs 3 oz. I cried. And again three days ago, 7 lbs 4.5 oz. And again, I cried.

If you had told me before giving birth that my inability to sufficiently nourish my son in the absence of formula would leave me ugly crying and sweaty – in the pediatrician’s office, in our home, on the phone with my mom, while driving to the grocery store, or anywhere in between – I would have balked. But there I was. In all of those settings and others. Ugly crying through the perceived inadequacy of my motherhood (overdramatic much?).

It’s now been two days. Two days since we began supplementing with formula – the same formula that came free in the mail during pregnancy. The same formula companies that sent me relentless, insidious emails over the last 40 weeks, seducing me with their wares[2].

My emotions have swung wildly between extremes – grateful that Ezra is here. That he and I are healthy and that I have the means to feed him, whether or not it’s the means I anticipated. Resentful that nothing goes according to plan. Lucky and guilty. Ashamed and judged. And then right back around to grateful.

The general consensus – among the lactation consultants and the pediatrician and my dear doctor husband – is low milk supply. Maybe because of insufficient glandular tissue – I do meet several of the criteria – or maybe for reasons unknown.

So we proceed. Breastfeeding and supplementing, round the clock. Like a marathon. Pumping a few times a day. Gearing up for another weight check tomorrow. And in between, just trying to enjoy this amazing little kid.

---

[1] Pretty much the best baby-wearing gear we own. Very marsupial.

[2] Speaking of which, we are now taking advice on whether to use organic formula and if so, which brand. Anyone?

This photo has nothing to do with this post but, you know, shark baby!

---

[1] Pretty much the best baby-wearing gear we own. Very marsupial.

le birth story

First, thank you all so much for all the cheers and kind words on the last post and your warm welcome of baby Ezra's arrival. The last few days have been a total whirlwind – of boobs and babies and teeny tiny fingernails that are sharp as knives and jaundice and phototherapy spa lights and then, mostly more boobs (mine) and pinchy gums (his). Much more on all of that to come.

The tag on this hat says "infant." Because Baby Gap is full of liars.

This post is long and light on witty sarcasm, entertaining links and my usual banter. Because you guys, I have human life to sustain! So, for what it’s worth, here in a nutshell, is <wait for it> THE BIRTH STORY.

Sunday, 3:00 pm – 9:00 pm

Sarah to C: this feels…different

C to Sarah: you seriously think you’re going into labor?

<Collective panic and disbelief>

Around 3 on Sunday afternoon, I began to notice some pretty intense lower back pain. It was rhythmic, in a pattern, sometimes a bit of a scattered pattern, but a pattern nonetheless. C thought I was crazy. Going into labor 12 days before my due date? No way. So we went about our day.

I ran errands and went grocery shopping and started cooking – C’s sister and her boyfriend were coming for dinner. I made this and this and C roasted a chicken. And during it all, starting around 4, I began to keep track of the frequency of what were increasingly becoming like, you know, real contractions.

By the time they showed up to dinner, things were picking up in intensity and let’s just be honest: I was pretty sure this was it. The pain was quickly ratcheting up. C remained in denial while we wined and dined our guests and I kept a firm eye on the clock. 5-1-1 totally ingrained in my brain.

Sunday, 9:00 pm – 11:30 pm

Finally, around 9 pm, they left and I casually mentioned to C that we might want to consider packing our hospital bag. We hastily took pictures of my bump – capture the moment! – and threw some random and totally uncoordinated clothing, the Sunday New York Times, two pears and a bag of almonds (?) into our already packed hospital bag. Like I said, collective panic.

I decided I would just give the on-call OB a ring and you know, have a little heart to heart. She said this was probably it but of course couldn’t know for sure without examining me. She said I was more than welcome to stay home for as long as I was comfortable – barring any of the scary stuff (blood, etc.) and since I’m group B strep negative – and could check back in with her in an hour or so. Not wanting to jump the gun on hospital admission, I decided to see if I could ride things out.

This was when things started to get pretty dicey. The contractions were definitely every five minutes and the pain rhymed with… excruciating. I got down on all fours and tried to breathe through it. I threw myself over an exercise ball and tried to breathe through it. I grabbed C’s hand in agony and cursed my way through it. I took a hot shower. Mostly, I just tried to stay relaxed. In between contractions I was a completely sane and rational person, I was packing up snacks for the hospital, hanging out with the dog, responding to work emails. But during the contractions? It was like I’d had a lobotomy. I was in a trance. A totally altered state. I could not speak nor be spoken to. It might have been enchanting if you know, I didn’t feel like I was dying.

Sunday, 11:30 pm ish

My water didn’t break, but something about this just started to get a bit too real. The pain, the frequency (was that seriously 3 minutes between contractions? Good lord). So we tidied up the house, took a nice long gander at the nursery - <imagine a total mind trip as we envision putting a BABY, our baby, in there> - and booked it to the hospital.

Did I mention it was snowing?

Sunday, 11:30 pm – 2:30 am

By the time we got to the hospital, I was about 3.5 centimeters dilated. So we just started walking. Up and down the hall, past the nurses’ station and back again. Every 3 minutes or so, I would – please take a moment to put on your visualization caps because, I promise you, this looked insane – drop to my hands and knees, in the middle of the hallway, and start breathing deeply while C put his hands on my lower back. About a minute later, I would get up, back to my usual self, and keep walking. I looked, in a word, like a maniac.

By 2:30 am I hadn’t progressed any further and the nurses and doctors suggested I go back home – that I’d be more comfortable there, I could be in my own bed (let’s take a moment to laugh hysterically at the idea that I could sleep through any of this), take a shower in my own shower, eat my own food (nauseating). So despite my better judgment, we returned home. For approximately 30 seconds.

Sunday, 4 am onward

After going home, indulging in suffering through a hot shower, one of us taking a nap (not it!) and screaming obscenities at the dog when she tried to lick my face during a contraction (I’m so sorry, Luna), I begged C to drive us back to the hospital – a harrowing 10 minute ride during which I may have broken several of his fingers.

Back at the hospital, I was congratulated on being 4 cm dilated <curtsy> and we were admitted to a room. Before this, my birth plan had been pretty simple: healthy baby, healthy mama. Those were the goals. Would I prefer to avoid medical interventions like epidurals and c-sections? Absolutely. Had I had the requisite conversation with my doctor and the nurses about taking natural measures to avoid all that? You betcha.

Here’s what happened when I reached 5 cm dilated:

GIVE ME AN EPIDURAL WHERE THE FUCK IS THE EPIDURAL WHAT ON EARTH ARE WE WAITING FOR FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

I cannot adequately articulate the depth of the pain. I think I’m a strong person, but I’m also not sure that I don’t have an unusually low threshold for pain. This pain was deep – it was burning, it was relentless, it was overwhelming and all consuming in its intensity. It left me breathless. Not that I didn’t expect labor to be painful – even toe curling – but this, this was other worldly.

The epidural took more than 45 minutes to place in my back. Apparently I am blessed with “shallow vertebrae” and need more back fat. I was not amused.

But I can say without hesitation, the epidural was the best decision I ever made. I still felt my contractions, I still felt my legs and my feet. But it was so much more manageable. I could doze a little bit, have a conversation, breathe. At some point during this time, my water broke, my parents arrived and C ate a cheeseburger. Maybe even in that order.

Monday, about 3 pm

And then, just like that – or rather 24 hours after I first began to believe I was in labor – it was time to push. So with each contraction, I pushed. C would count to ten as he and the nurse held my knees and I pulled back my legs, bearing down as hard as I could, 3 times with each contraction, holding all the air in like an Olympic swimmer. Despite everyone’s repeated praise and admiration about my tremendous pushing abilities, it took eons (approximately) for the baby’s head to clear my pelvic bone. At a certain point, much to everyone’s amusement, I apparently began screaming demands like just pull him out of me! I don’t care! Just pull him out of me! JUST GRAB HIS EVERLOVING HEAD AND YANK HIM THE HELL OUT.

And then, after an hour and twenty minutes, at approximately 4:26 pm, there he was. Dropped immediately on my chest like a fetal pup[1] – red and eyes closed and fussing and oh my god he is peeing all over me and I do not care[2].

After that they delivered the placenta – that was less fun than I might have imagined, just saying – and proceeded to <gulp> stitch me up. At which point I was informed that I had a third degree (with fourth being the worst – which must mean, apparently that they basically just cut off your legs?) laceration and was essentially going to have stitches from my ankles to my elbows. And those stitches? ALSO less fun than I might have imagined. More on that harrowing adventure in another post.

But for now, that’s where I’ll call it a day.

This post has been brought to you by the Medela hands free freestyle pump, the Obamacare that paid for it and some ridiculous pink hands free bra that has a stylish 90s front zipper but is also totally amazing and OH MY GOD ALL I DO IS PUMP, FEED, PUMP, FEED, PUMP, FEED.

Not me, but totally could be.

<End Scene>.

---

[1] We had asked for immediate skin to skin contact (check) and delayed cord cutting (check).

[2] It’s entirely possible that I did not shower for more than 24 hours after my new born son peed all over my chest. That is love, people. Love and being totally preoccupied with someone else’s needs that are not my own. It’s also disgusting.