birth story: where's the baby?

While we were enduring an interminable hospital stay following the Cesarean, we met a host of medical characters, some of whose company we enjoyed and others that rather rubbed us the wrong way. One such character in the latter camp was a doctor among the Family Medicine staff at OHSU. He struck us both as a self-important, arrogant fellow, instructing us in infant care in a manner both condescending and overly didactic. He treated us as though we were from a lower class of Portlander. Perhaps it was my refusal to put clothes on (once you've suffered several days of labor under the care of dozens of midwives, nurses and anesthesiologists, you rather lose your modesty altogether) - or M's refusal to change his (we hardly planned on a multi-day stay and he could not bear to leave me)- whatever it was, this fellow seemed to deem us quite beneath him.

One day this doctor entered our room just as I was waking from a nap. M had taken X into his bed for the hours preceding and was cuddling and keeping him for me so that I might get some desperately needed rest. The doctor spritzed his hands with an antibacterial hand sanitizer, checked his pager and then turned to me, his eyes glancing wildly from my bed to the hospital-issue bassinet and back to my bed. Bewildered and alarmed, he exclaimed: "Where's the baby!?"

"Oh no! Where's the baby!?" Matt retorted, his wit as quick as lightening. M jumped up from the bed and shrugged in faux confusion, then promptly turned and retrieved the baby from behind him where he lay peacefully sleeping on the bed.

I burst into laughter, as did M, at our little joke. The punctilious doctor was not amused. "The baby should be in the bassinet!" he instructed us. I tried to explain to him our purpose in leaving him with M, but by this time the doctor had finished with us and our intolerable impudence. He made quick business of his visit and left in somewhat of a huff.

Needless to say, we transferred from the care of this good doctor to that of another a bit more caring. We never saw him again, nor do we hope to. But every now and again one of us will bellow in jest, "where's the baby?!" and we'll have another good laugh at his expense.

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Note: Since I failed to record my observations during and after the birth in real time, I hope to draft small reflections from time to time on various memories of my experience. Thus, the term "birth story" precedes the title of this post and is meant to indicate just such a reflection.

moving day

Today we travelled to Newberg to help T and L pack up and move into their new digs. It turns out M's father and his wife have decided to scrap small town living in favor of the true country experience. They've rented a modest, charming house on 300+ acres of farmland outside of Carlton -so secluded there's not another neighbor around for miles. The thinking is that they will get a taste of country living and thereby make their final decision as to whether or not they want to build on the 10 acres we purchased on their behalf a year and 1/2 ago. We've been waiting all this time for them to make a decision about what they'll do with the property and it seems as though the decision-making is being deferred yet again.

In any case, their new place is fantastic. The gardens are immense and stolid cows graze just over the fence in full view of the kitchen window. The bedrooms are small and neatly gabled and box beams hover overhead in the dark and sober living room. It is a real old farmhouse nestled in the heart of an idyllic pastureland. And if you look away in the distance, up on the verdant hillside, beneath the furthest stand of trees, you'll see the faintest outline of a gazebo that some historic personage erected for his picnicking pleasure. We can't wait to explore it ourselves.

I didn't do too much to help with the box schlepping and furniture hefting, given that I am not permitted to lift anything heavier than my baby for another few weeks yet. But I brought X, much to everyone's delight, and we all took turns cozying up with him.

It was a lovely day, but I admit upon arriving home I felt some measure of regret for tiring myself in that way. I didn't nap all day, as I should have, and we didn't arrive home until well past midnight. And I would pay for it to on Sunday when I needed to sleep half the day in order to recover. But I was glad to lend M to his father for the afternoon and it was fun to see the place were we will surely spend many fine afternoons this summer, enjoying a glass of wine under the arbor or wandering in the glade with our baby.

kind visitors

X and I hosted a couple of wonderful visitors today -my friend J and her adorable daughter D. Slothful and indolent as ever, I didn't bother changing out of my bathrobe to welcome them, but I knew that J would understand. She thoughtfully brought me some lunch and a ring-sling so that I can begin wearing X (it has been hard since most baby carriers hang quite low and my incision bothers me too much to permit it). But it was her own gentle, open-hearted, healing presence that I most appreciated.

She asked me to tell her my birth story, and I admit it is hard for me to dredge it all back up time and again. It is like picking the scab off a wound every time. But with each telling it becomes a little easier to speak of it and I come to accept what happened just a little bit more. J cried with me as I relayed the harsher bits and it felt good to share with someone so sympathetic. I know that she has struggled in her own way with the challenges of motherhood and just knowing that makes my burdens somehow easier to bear. I am thankful for friends like J.

82nd avenue find

In case you were wondering how big this guy's wheels are, they're 24 inches. This is one bad-ass Oldsmobile.

spring blooms

This evening we took a long stroll around the neighborhood. M wrangled X into the Ergo and I strapped on the camera with the new close-up lens and off we went to catch a little exercise and few pics of some bright, blossoming signs of spring. X seems to love the outdoors, or perhaps he just finds the cool, crisp air exhausting, because nearly every time we walk outside he promptly passes out and sleeps soundly until we arrive at home again. We wandered further afield than has been our habit since X arrived. It felt good to get out and moving, despite the fact that I am in still in a decent amount of pain. The flowers were magnificent and I cannot wait until the weather clears for good and another gorgeous Northwest summer settles in.

first public meltdown

My mother left this morning. I cried as I hugged her goodbye (I cry for anything these days). She was a most accommodating and respectful house guest and I will definitely miss watching her tenderly care for my baby boy, her grandson. But I confess I am glad to have some time alone with my son. While she was here, it felt like I was in a limbo-like state --no real routines were established -- and it was hard not to feel obligated to play the hostess.

And so, on my first morning alone with X, I decided we would walk up to Fred Meyer with the stroller and buy a birthday gift for a friend's daughter and a few other items. I didn't really need to go to the store per se, but having a destination and a goal made me feel like I had something important on my agenda -something I could feel proud of having accomplished when the day is done. It seemed like a very normal thing to do, and if there is anything I am craving these days it is to feel normal.

It took all of almost two hours to get him ready to go. This lengthy process involved feeding him repeatedly until he seemed full enough (during which he would get distracted, doze, wake, fuss, burp, etc.), hoping and praying he would fall asleep, thinking he was asleep and trying to sneak him into the car seat, and then him wailing in the car seat just as I was about to leave the house. Repeat process. Several times over.

Finally, we left the house and had an uneventful and pleasant walk to the store. But as soon as I found my way to the toy section and starting poking about X started in. His whimpering turned quickly to full-throated screams as I scrambled to get him out of the car seat and onto my shoulder. I hoped I could burp him quickly and he would settle down. But no. This was a baby emergency. He needed to eat - and pronto. I wrestled with the stroller and the baby and worked my way towards the store's restroom, all the while X kept up his squalling. Thankfully, the handicapped stall was vacant and so we settled in for a good, long afternoon of nursing, burping, diaper changing, and dozing in the comfort of the Fred Meyer toilet. Several times I attempted to leave the safety of my stall, but each time X would start up his wailing and I would retreat to my sanctuary under the glare of fluorescent lights. Since I had walked to the store, I couldn't well leave without calming him first since we had some ground to cover before we would be safe at home. Poor X. Poor me.

Thankfully, I did not meltdown, despite X's utter inability to cope. I counted it a miracle that I was able to keep it together and gamely deal with his changing moods sans tears. Eventually, I got him calmed and we walked home again in peace. I am now a little shy of solo adventures abroad, but I suspect that with time it will come to seem less scary.

Oh -and the worst of it was that I didn't get anything I had gone to the store to purchase, except a 24-pack of Play-Doh that I managed to pay for in between his crying jags. We cut our losses as soon as he quieted and headed home.

xavier smiles

fascination

X loves the twinkle of Christmas lights. We are the sort to leave them up all the year round -it just makes the home feel so festive, as though a party might start up at any minute. In the evenings we turn them on and watch X stare mesmerized at the reflection of them in the big picture windows. He does not seem quite so aware of his surroundings as he does when he is gazing on those sparkling lights. I consider putting some up above his changing table to give him a special treat every time he has to suffer the awful indignity of being diapered. I will ask M to dig a few extra strings out of the garage.

adventures abroad

It gets stifling being stuck at home with a little one, shuffling around the house in a dirty bathrobe (have to keep those breasts accessible) and watching your husband come and go with the same ease of those pre-baby days. But I have been so worn down from the days-long-birth and aftermath that it has been hard to manage anything except a walk around the neighborhood. But on this day, we determined we would hit the farmer's market in the morning (the first market of the season!) and later make our first attempt at a night on the town with a newborn baby.

The farmer's market was a breeze. X slept peacefully for the duration, swaddled and stuffed into the Ergo. We wandered around for hours and I breathed deep and relished my freedom. We purchased several essentials, but otherwise just loitered and people watched and sampled tasty treats and generally enjoyed the lovely morning. But our evening adventure was another story altogether.

M's father and my mother joined us. We decided on Laurelwood pub, having read that it was among the most child-friendly establishments in town. And indeed -from the looks of the patronage, it appeared that one had to have a child in order to get into the place. Nearly every table had a high-chair or booster seat holding some squalling, squirming baby or toddler or a couple of school-aged kids coloring furiously.

It was a busy Saturday night, so I opted to wait in the car and nurse X until a table opened up. He promptly began to wail uncontrollably (gas) while I burped him and tried to settle him in time to enjoy my dinner out. He would not be consoled. At my wits end and near tears, I struggled to calm my baby, meanwhile it was time for our party to take it's place at the table. My mother approached the car and I burst into tears and sobbed wretchedly that "I would just spend the evening waiting in the car" since X would not settle. She assured me there were plenty of children making a riot of noise and that no one would mind a screaming baby. But I minded. There was no way I was going to enjoy my dinner so long as I had to concern myself with this very angry child. And I so wanted to enjoy a night out like a normal person.

Finally, I wiped my frustrated tears away and tossed him over my shoulder and headed in to the restaurant, patting his back furiously and hoping like hell he would quiet down sooner than later. My mother promised to hold him if need be, but he finally dozed to sleep just as I took my seat (that rhythmic whacking sure does the trick?!?). I felt a fool for crying at the drop of the hat, but as I am reminded: "everything flows right now: blood, milk, and tears."

(To salvage X's reputation, I should note that we also went out to dinner with my mother on the following evening and he was a perfectly well-mannered gentleman all the while. You win some, you lose some I suppose).

claustrophobia

My mother has been here since last Sunday evening. In the aftermath of my ordeal, as I nursed a sore abdomen and ever-so-slowly regained my sea legs in the hospital, I took my mom up on her offer to come and assist me for a bit upon arriving home. I had originally planned to spend the majority of my immediate postpartum days at home alone. I had envisioned long, slow days, just me and the babe in bed, nursing and napping, skin on skin. I imagined wearing him close to me as we wandered around the neighborhood together and explored our new world. But after enduring major surgery, I wasn't certain my recovery would be swift and the thought of having someone to help around the house seemed suddenly more appealing.

And it is true: while she has been most helpful and I appreciate her presence in many respects, I cannot help but feel a little emotionally claustrophobic. I am not the sort to cry freely in front of others (who is?) -- it embarrasses me and I hate the thought of being pitied. Emotional displays embarrass others and forces them to hide their discomfort behind pithy words of sympathy that they often do not mean. It is just not something I care to endure. And so I find I am stuffing my emotions and willing them away at precisely this moment when I should be wallowing in them and giving them free reign.

Thankfully, I think my mother understands this about me. She is scheduled to leave on Tuesday. I will miss her willing hands -she has rocked X to sleep more than once while I desperately tried to catch some extra sleep or a quick shower. But I am also anxious to try my hand at this mothering thing on my own, to settle into routines with my baby boy, to loll around in bed just gazing and getting to know one another, to cry uncontrollably if that is what the moment demands.

two week review

Tomorrow X will celebrate his 2-week-old birthday. It is with a twinge of sadness and remorse that I watch him grow -something in me wants to keep him this small forever, even as I anticipate all the thrilling stages to come. I imagine having other children someday, if only to recapture these tender, wonderful days of getting to know my baby. On the other hand, he is so vulnerable and fragile, I wish he would hurry up and grow so I can stop worrying so obsessively about him. I feel that were he slightly more robust, my anxiety would subside.

Sometimes I lay and stare at his sweet, sleeping, oblivious face while tears stream down my own. I despair of the fact that I cannot protect him from this big and terrible world. He will face it on his own one day, and I will not be there to shelter him. He will be crushed a hundred times over, and I will be crushed right along with him. Somehow, it seems harder to watch someone you love go through the hurt of growing up than it was to go through it yourself. When I was pregnant, I looked forward to having children as an opportunity to live my life again vicariously, and I imagined all the joys: exploring the forests for the first time, going to school, ice cream and animals and birthday parties -I did not imagine the sorrows and the turmoil, the hurts and the disappointments. Now, awash in a rush of postpartum hormones, I look over my silent, sleeping son and sob uncontrollably for all the sadness that is to come.

careful what you wish for

I am learning that this mothering business is an exercise in adaptability --every day something small changes and there is no predicting from one day to the next what tomorrow will bring. Our first few nights at home were blissfully tranquil. X woke up twice to feed, but otherwise slept like a silent cherub beside me in the bed. I started wondering what all the fuss about sleepless nights was about, because if X kept up this pace I was bound to get plenty of rest. As I watched him sleeping soundly for hours and hours on end, I wondered (like a good paranoid mom) if he was getting enough to eat -if perhaps he wasn't sleeping too much. I google-searched endlessly about milk let-down (I have never felt it happen) and supply issues (I have yet to suffer engorgement). I wondered if I was adequate to my baby's needs.

But on night three -holy mother! -the child was awake all night, fussing and feeding intermittently. A friend guessed he was putting in the strange work necessary to increase my milk supply in the coming days -- and last night confirmed this for the truth. While X wasn't quite as needy or fussy, I woke around 5AM to find him whimpering and struggling to latch himself on in a side-lying position, his wee head wagging back and forth and his mouth working overtime like a little fish. Milk was pouring from my rock-hard breasts and soaking the bed linens. The poor little guy gasped and choked and didn't seem to know what to do with such bounty as he struggled to latch on to a painfully swollen nipple.

So, now I know about as much as I need to about milk let-down and engorgement and I am hoping and praying the kid is up to the task of consuming as much milk as he has created.

welcome little one

After three long and brutal days of labor, Xavier Shannon made his dramatic entrance into our hearts and lives, although not the way we had planned. A stubborn child with a mind of his own, he refused to turn around and make his way down in the natural way. And so, he arrived via scalpel and under the bright lights of an operating room with an army of surgeons attending, instead of in tranquil soothing waters with none but his mother's and father's faces to greet him. I fought for my life for a few perilous moments before I was permitted to hold and care for him, meanwhile he suckled furiously on his father's chest, eagerly awaiting our first meeting.

The story needs to be told in detail, but I am too busy catching up, catching my breathe, falling in love, nursing and sleeping and nursing again, and staring for hours into the wonderful eyes of my own little one. In time I will attend to the tale. Meanwhile, love reigns in our happy little home and X adjusts to his new life on the outside.

Xavier Shannon -- born 3/6/9 at 1:31 a.m. --7lbs 14 oz -- 19 3/4 inches