Wanted
Punctuating his demand for “Boob, Yo!” with gang signs at the age of 7.5. Weeks.
Don’t tell anyone about his white musical teddy bear in the reflection of the TV. He’ll cry endlessly if his crib cred is blown.
Archive for March, 2007
Bring on the baby.
It wasn’t until a total of 5 - two sage femme, a resident, and the doctor on call for the night - hospital personnel were in the delivery room that I realized, in fact, no one would be speaking in English to me during my delivery at the Hertford British Hospital. This was a surprise and a rude awakening as I had become accustomed to communicating effectively (!) with my British OB and the British nurses on staff who took my weight and blood pressure before each appointment.
Perhaps ignorance is bliss, as according to my husband later, there was some panic about how long it was taking for Max to come out. That’s why I may have construed the doctor’s bedside manner as slightly rough as hell. The sage femmes called him in when I wasn’t progressing rapidly enough. When the bag of what appeared and sounded like gardening tools was thrown onto the table, and what turned out to be forceps emerged in all their dungeon, gimp, Pulp Fiction, “gonna get medieval on your ass” steely glory, I realized through my hot and bothered daze that this was bona fide, no-backs serious business. My husband took it all in, appearing slightly overwhelmed and in a different sort of daze - the translating, the encouraging, the asking what was going on, watching the woman with the hand on his wife’s belly talking to the woman with her hands between his wife’s legs who was consulting the doctor who crouched next to her under the white lights that shone down on his wife’s Hoo-Hoo, and also watching the young male resident who was witnessing childbirth for the first time as he stood back and watched the wife push and push some more with jaws dropping increasingly lower and lastly, trying to figure out what to do for the wife as she laid on her back with her legs wide open, pushing painfully a second or so out of sync with each of her contractions because the epidural was good that she couldn’t feel them. That was a run on sentence, appropriately, because that was a run on moment that felt like a lifetime.
Very shortly after the tools came out, the whole thing was over without my knowledge, punctuated by a something heavy being dropped onto my chest, dabbed with the sheet that covered me, then whisked away by one of the sage femme. I didn’t hear crying, screaming or any indication that I had given birth, come to think of it.
And it was over. And I was glad.
Max reappeared to me with forcep bruises on his face from the forceps but was otherwise healthy and nursing plentifully through the night.
We’ve been so enamored since then, that we’ve kept him up at night until about 1 or 2am - our bedtime. He wakes with us at 9am, and (and 3ish and 6ish for a minimum of an hour each time. So those faces he’s making in those photos above? He ain’t lyin. He’s sleep deprived, but still a happy baby, surprisingly, so I wasn’t aware. So enamored still was I that he wasn’t napping much either during the day - he’s my sidekick. My newborn was probably getting no more than 10-12 hours of sleep a day in these past couple of weeks, unless he passed out on me.
The truth is, I didn’t know and there really is a ‘no-backs’ policy as it turns out. Not having family around and not understanding my in-laws well, I’ve been winging motherhood, and gauging his wellbeing merely by the fact that he smiles, eats, and poops. I’ve never needed too much sleep, so I assumed that if I’m ok, he’s ok. As I randomly started reading books on how to keep a baby happy (er) to see what I’m missing in my sparse bag of tricks - as my baby is fairly calm and seemingly happy already - I stumbled upon some recommended sleeping hours for a child his age. A minimum of 12 hours at night, and approximately 7 hours a day in naps. !!!! I read further about sleep signs to look for - ones that I’ve ignored since he seems perfectly happy to stay awake with us - and have imposed upon him a somewhat loose sleep schedule which, as it turns out, he also seems to enjoy at all hours, except after his last night time feeding at 4 am.
Managing Max.
I laid next to him, listening to his crying for about 20 minutes. My attempt at naaping was a failure. One look into his watery, pleading eyes with the little quivering, downturned lips and I rise to pick him up. We spend so much time together that I sometimes think that he’s a little man. I forget that he’s just a tiny baby who isn’t able to make do for himself yet. Our lives have changed but so did his, from 9 months of warmth and protection in his own little world of My Belly to our overwhelming environment. Cold? Clothes? Socks? Wait for food and a change? Cold wipes on my ass, coochie coo and fingers and big people faces in my face? “What is this place,” he must think. “I’m so limited here.”
This is the first time that I haven’t picked him up immediately; that I tried to ignore him. Shame on me. He quieted instantly as I wrapped my arms around his thin body. In return, his little arms rose to embrace my neck and his chin rested contently on my shoulder. I breathe deep, taking in this slice of heaven in my arms. 2 minutes later, he begins his southward migration, grunting and banging his head into my collar bone, chest bone and Breasts(!)* as he clumsily tries to situate himself, best as he can with not-yet-developed muscles, in position for feeding. My little boy has initiative and determination. He sets his sights on something and goes barreling toward it. Isn’t he the Smartest?!” He ends up, again, with his head buried at the junction of my armpit and stomach, grunting, whimpering and breathing hard, from the effort, as his little arms and fists flap like wings and his legs and pajama covered feet flopped like trout on a hook. I watch his little, round butt wiggle, amused for a few seconds, and gave in to what could very well be the 20th feeding today. I’m thoroughly exhausted, despite the fact that he is so very easy to calm, and comfort. I’m just tired of the oh.so.constant cycle of feeding, burping, and sitting him upward to digest and not getting a thing done around the apartment.
But he is a calm child and I am so.grateful. My Husband and I have taken Max to lunches and dinners at loud restaurants with friends. When he wakes, he often lays in his stroller, fixing his deep eyes on the ceiling, or one of us. When he cries, I pick him up and he eats - from the bottle during those times - at the table with the rest of us. Or he sits in the crook of my arm and surveys the room.
These last few days, though, I’m a slave to his screeches. His favorite sleeping position has become somewhere - anywhere - on my body. Even through the night, I sit upright, holding him against me as he sleeps. During the day, my role evolves from Cow to Snack Bar. I can’t decide which. I’m both. Just 1 year ago, my stomach was flat and toned. Today it serves as my son’s My First Pillow.
I’m not really complaining. I still consider myself lucky. At this point though, he owns me. I am still unable to allow myself to let him continue to cry because I think that he must be upset about something, though he cannot articulate it. His world has been turned upside down. With that said, I accept the responsibility of articulating my love for him in a language that he understands: I can show him that I’ll never leave him stranded. That I’m always here for him. In the meantime, I look forward to us getting to one another better so that I may figure out how to manage our new relationship’s eratic feeding/sleeping behaviors without breaking both of our hearts.
See how I am?
Recalling a conversation with a friend (and with only one arm available, currently):
“What kind of mom do you think you’ll be?”
“Remember that movie ‘Hand that Rocks the Cradle” with Rebecca DeMornay? The playground scene where the little girl points out a boy who has been picking on her? And Peyton walks up to the kid, grabs him by the collar and threatens to kick his ass if he bothered her again?” (And she was wearing a skirt.)
I’d be the sweet, passive asthmatic mom in the movie (although she did soldier up in the end).
Just kidding.
I’d totally kick an 8 year old’s ass; twice in a day up and down the street if I have to. That is, until the teacher comes out with her yard monitor’s bell. It shouldn’t come down to me making a visit to the playground though. I hope that my son handles his own battles without coming home with lame excuses for the blood on tip of the shoe on his dominant foot and knuckles. All I want to know about is ‘what happened to the other guy.’