The Complaints Box

Every household should have one.  And it should be hung right on the door exiting the house, so as not to miss it while life whirls past.  There should be a complaint box because no one ever lets me complain about anything out loud...ever.

Apparently, it's forbidden once you have a baby.  Sounds odd, considering having a baby is tough work, consisting of giving selflessly of yourself 24/7 for...well...EVER.  There's no break to be had until you are resting comfortably on your satin pillow seven feet under ground.  You will always be a parent, always be worried, always be afraid of losing what you love most in the world.  For a OCD like myself, that's a recipe for a lot of sleepless nights.

I've been complaining a lot lately, almost indignant about the sore nipples, sagging skin, sleep deprivation, lack of communication with my spouse, my friends, or any adult, for that matter.  I complain for the greater good, for if I didn't vent my parental angst, I would simply explode like the ticking time bomb I have become.  Once that little person is born from you, you are born into a new person...one that is all at once in love, nurturing, motherly, compassionate, caring, exhausted, lonely, depressed, binge eating, cranky, bitchy, resentful and spiteful of the childless people of the world who get to sleep in and eat at fancy restaurants at 8:00 at night.  Lucky bastards.

Confusing?  You bet.  Having children is the best thing I have ever experienced in my life, and will no doubt continue to reward me throughout my life.  However, it seems that instantaneous gratitude comes with conditions.

Feeling Like a Million Bleahs

The sinking feeling of depression has set in yet again, as I anticipated it would.  I waited for it like I was waiting for a late bus.  No matter how much I hoped, I just knew in my gut there was no way to avoid post-partum depression.

I'm isolated with a baby, a toddler, and a husband who is preoccupied with the excitement/exhaustion of having a new addition to our already energetic family.  My friends have come and gone in limited quantity, and none are staying around this time...the second baby isn't the same.  People just don't think it's that big a deal, and it's definitely not the new experience that always had my heart racing with my first.  But without company, it has become lonely.  I'm looking around for me time and coming up woefully short.

There are some distinct differences with the depression this time around.  It's far less relentless, and it strikes at unpredictable times of the day and for no reason at all.  It's also less consistent than with my first round.  Instead of being a sob-fest of guilt and self-pity, it has manifested itself in a way that is indescribably horrible.

You see, I have these images of my kids being hurt.  My kids, my family, my life...being killed by various, nameless ghouls.  And not just killed, but murdered in ways I do not care to rethink.  It's pretty horrific, and always so unforgivingly graphic, almost cinematic in its clarity.  Sometimes I have to close my eyes tight and shake my head violently to get it out of my mind.  And sometimes, that just doesn't work.

When I mentioned it to my lactation nurse, she said that it was best if I stop watching the news, crime shows, reality crime shows, anything to do with kids being hurt, people being hurt, the world being in turmoil.

So in other words, that excludes all television, radio, print newspapers and/or magazines.  I might as well seal myself up in a bubble and send myself to the North Pole.

I realize that the images and daynightmares are all a part of my psyche trying to process the stress of having a newborn and a toddler and no down time at all.  There's also the stress of no paycheck for over a year, which seems to magnify when I pay the bills and realize we have to dip into our savings to pay Mastercard.

I spoke to my obgyn about it at my last visit.  As she was inspecting the c-section incision (which is healing nicely, thank you) I asked her if she thought I needed to see a therapist.  Surprisingly, she said no.  "I think that's normal."  She said without a hint of concern in her voice.  "I had a friend who had exactly the same thing happen."

The question that sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe is:  Is it better to be crying into my breast pump all day long for months?  Or to live in fear that something will take away everything I have? The saying goes, "The more you have, the more you have to lose."

I guess I have taken that a little too much to heart.

Compare and Contrast

I know your not supposed to compare kids.  But here's the skinny on the differences I've noticed between my two boys.

The baby screams when he's hungry, screams when he's being changed, screams when he's being dressed...but totally quiet and content when he's not.

He is also an eating machine.  I don't ever remember the tot eating as much as this baby does.  He eats every hour, if he can get away with it.  And he is constantly rooting, opening his mouth, sticking his tongue out.  He's on the hunt for anything he can possibly get in his stomach.  The lactation nurse suggested this might be gas, however.  This would explain the red-faced grunting.

He sleeps through anything.  With a toddler brother and his friends at the house, constantly screaming and yelling and banging their toys on everything, this baby has slept for hours on end through the noise.  It amazes us, since the tot used to wake up to me turning on my cel phone.

He sleeps without screaming for two hours before bedtime.  The tot used to scream his head off for at least two hours, sometimes more.  It drove my husband and I insane for at least two months.  There was no rhyme or reason to these fits...he just didn't like going to bed.  And when he woke up the next day, he was the happiest baby on the block.  It was Jekyll and Hyde baby with the tot.  With this baby, it's quiet, relaxing evenings.  He simply drifts off to sleep on most nights, unless there's an evil gas bubble lurking.

Other than that, they're both very cute, very boy, and both are keeping me running around like a maniac.  Partners in crime.  I'm doomed.

Potty Training the Tot

at 18 months, the kid went poop in the potty the other day, and I must say, I've never been this excited about poop before.

Here's the deal.  After his bath, he walked over to the potty and sat, which is not unusual since the husband has been trying to get him to sit every time they change his diaper.

When he was sitting, he said, "Poop.  Pooooop!"  Also, not a big shocker, since my husband has read him books about potty time and poop every time they've stepped foot in the bathroom.

When the boy stood up, my husband noticed something on his butt.  He thought, "Oh, crap, he has poo on his ass."

But when he looked at the potty, THERE IT WAS.  Yes, my son pooped in the potty.  All can rejoice the poop.

Breast Feeding the Second Time Around

NOT easy the second time around.  Everyone who told me it was...LIES, ALL LIES.  Or maybe it's me and my boobs.  With my first son, it was painful, but gradually so.  This time, it was excruciating right off the bat.  I was instructed to pump in lieu of feeding because of the incredible discomfort.  My first pump was an ounce of bright red blood.  Gross, to say the least.

I had blisters, abrasions, scabbed-over nipples...the first two weeks were brutal.  I decided not to mess around and go to my favorite lactation nurse again.  She took one look at the baby's mouth and suggested getting his frenulum snipped, just like his brother did.

Once we had the procedure done, (which was far more harrowing for me than for the baby) he seemed to latch on better, but still chomped me like he was in the Donner party.  My milk had come in full-force and was making him cough and gag from the let-down.  I was instructed by the nurse to pump six times a day, which made me tear up in anticipation of how much work it was going to be to get this baby some breast milk.

By "work" I mean pumping for 10 to 20 to 30 minutes, six times a day.  That's in addition to washing and sterilizing everything over and over again to avoid the dreaded MASTITIS.  Yes, I said MASTITIS.  And whenever I say it, or anyone else says it, I shiver with dread.  It's the breast feeding mom's equivalent of saying VOLDEMORT in Harry Potter books.

But here's the thing...pumping helps drain your milk, which helps prevent plugged ducts, which is a big reason women GET mastitis.  For that reason, and for the nourishment of my newborn, I will endlessly pump my poor, National Geographic looking boobs until I get this breast feeding down.

Losing the Pregnancy Weight...Again.

I was 172 before the birth.  12 days later and I'm at 147.  Today (4/10)  I weighed in at 145.  The all-you-can-stuff-in-your-face-before-passing-out breast feeding diet has begun!

There's a Newborn in the House

There's a newborn in the house, and he's waking up at 1, 3, and 5 a.m.  Sometimes he lets us sleep a good 4 hours uninterrupted, but then we had the tot to give us a wake-up call at 5:59 a.m.  Thoughtful boy.

Speaking of the tot, he's been acting a little off lately, which we have been mostly categorizing in the "TANTRUM" files.  It's been a daily thing, these annoying breakdowns, which I'm sure will pass eventually.  And if they don't, I'm moving to Finland.  They're pretty unbearable when you're nipples are sore and raw and you're post-partum hormones are making you want to punch and hug simultaneously.

I started noticing the strange change in his behavior about a week after we brought his brother home from Labor and Delivery.  At first, there was no change at all.  He seemed to be fine, just hanging out and doing his normal thing.  We both figured he was just waiting it out, seeing when this baby was going home to HIS mommy and daddy.

When the baby stayed, the tot started getting squealy.  He started crying at any given moment for what seemed like no reason at all.  He also started getting more tenacious, stubborn, and would hold his ground until it came to a showdown between parent and tot.  Tot usually loses, but I must admit to giving in on occasion.  What can I say?  I felt bad for the little man, dealing with this littler man invading his space.

The tot also started lying on the baby's pillows, saying, "Sleep...sleeeeep!"  He's also been trying to crawl into the baby's bassinet while saying the baby's name, which at first I thought was adorable.  Now, I think he may be trying to eat the baby.

But mostly, it's just the screaming fits of inconsolable crying that gets me down.  I know he's going through a change.  I also know he's 18  months.  People always complain about the "Terrible Twos."  But really, it's the terrible 1 1/2s you need to be concerned about.  Two is easy.  They can talk and communicate fairly well.  They understand consequence and reward in a somewhat cognitive way.  You can reason with a two year old, if you have the patience for it.

However, 1 1/2?  Not so much.  Add a newborn brother to the mix and you get an explosive combination of confused jealousy and uninhibited resentment.  Fun for all!

Birth Story Redux

I went to see the doc and she poked around in the nether-regions for a bit.  When she looked at me, there was a distinct crease in her brow.  "You're three centimeters." she said with concern.

Just two days before I had had a version, which was an attempt to turn the baby from transverse to engaged (head down in the cervix.)  My baby was not so cooperative, which may not bode so well for me when he's born if this is his attitude about life.

Now my baby was completely breech, which meant his feet were doing a Riverdance on my cervix and he was standing up inside me, using my insides as punching bags.  I could feel him moving all over the place all the time, never breaking for a moment.

And now my doctor was looking at me with concern, saying I was three centimeters dilated.  This was a problem, she said, because if I continued to have contractions, I could dilate further.  And if my water broke, the cord could slip out before the baby which would be a major concern.

So now I was worried.  After the version failed, the doctors hastily scheduled a cesarian for April 1st.  Yes, our baby was a planned April Fool's Day kid, forever to be joked, teased, tortured on his birthday.  And we CHOSE that date.  Sadistic parents.

But now my doctor was saying she wanted that baby out...now.  She wanted to schedule it for the following day, the 24th of March.  I asked for a day to schedule a sitter for our toddler, and she hesitantly agreed to make it the 25th.  Stress attacked my nervous system and I started tearing up from the impending freak out.

When I explained everything to my husband, he went into immediate planning mode, called several people and got things packed for the hospital.  We were ready to go within an hour.  Dealing with the idea of being cut open and having my organs shuffled around was weighing heavy on my mind, and the guilt of leaving my toddler overnight for the first time in his life was literally knifing me in the heart.  I felt like things were out of control and quickly spiraling towards crazy-town.

I slept fitfully that night, and the next morning I woke up with what felt like a stomach ache.  Perhaps I had stored all that stress inside and it was causing gastrointestinal distress, I thought.  But as the morning wore on, I felt twinges and pangs of pain that were unfamiliar.  During my pregnancy with my toddler, I didn't have a single Braxon-Hicks contraction, barely a twitch.  When the labor started, it hit like a wall of bricks.

This pregnancy I had felt Braxton-Hicks throughout the third trimester, although I hardly noticed it at first.  Now, I noticed it.  Boy howdy, did I notice it.  The contractions were steady, uncomfortable and predictable.  I remembered what my doctor had told me the day before...if the contractions were ten minutes apart or less, call Labor and Delivery and go in.

She had tried to get my c-section planned for two days after my last appointment, but the head of the department had shut her down, saying they had a policy about c-sections being performed only at 39 weeks or over.  I was just hitting 38 weeks, and although my doctor told me not to worry, the tone in her voice was not convincing.

Now I was contracting regularly...five minutes apart, to be exact.  My husband called Labor and Delivery and told them the situation.  My toddler was playing with his friend, who was visiting for the day.  No one could watch them right away, so I drove myself to the E.R. and prayed for clear roads.

The drive to the hospital was nothing short of white-knuckled and intense.  The pain of the contractions kept me alert to how easy it would be to drive into a light pole during a painful cramp.  The weather had turned nasty and the wind was throwing buckets of rain onto the car, making for a very dramatic scene.

I arrived at the parking lot and wobbled the two blocks to the E.R. waiting room.  Drenched and shivering from the cold, I told them I was in labor.  To their credit, they didn't wait for the baby to drop on the floor and whisked me away in a wheelchair to Labor and Delivery, where I was given only a minute to grasp the situation.

The doctor checked my cervix...four centimeters.  The contractions had become increasingly more and more intense as I lay on the bed.  Being the wimpy gal I am, I quickly asked for pain medication.

Doctors flew in and out of the room, nurses checked the baby's pulse, and everyone asked me the same question, "Is your husband coming?"

"Yes, he is.  And if he isn't here soon I will kill him."  I answered with a not-so-sincere laugh.

The reason everyone kept asking if my husband was coming was because they wanted to cut me...soon. And it wasn't a matter of if he showed up or not.  They were going to get the baby out within 30 minutes.

Husband showed up in the nick of time.  I was rushed into the O/R and given a series of shots in my back, a spinal tap, which numbed me from the chest down.  It was so odd, the sensation of no sensation.  At one point, I panicked because when I tried to cough, I couldn't.  The helplessness was overwhelming.

Once I was numbed up, my husband was allowed in.  He held my hand, told me it was ok, and not to be scared.  My fears were multiplying with the controlled chaos of the room.  Technicians and doctors were all around, shoving things in my IV, my nose, my mouth.  It was too much all at once, and at breakneck speed.

They finally cut, and within five minutes, baby boy was out and screaming his disapproval of the whole scene.  Two weeks early and totally unexpected, at 8 lbs, 13 oz, he had arrived.  Healthy, high apgar, and with a perfectly round head (thanks, c-section!)

A Version of a Version

I knew it. The baby is transverse. Sideways. I could tell because the kid kicks me all the live long day, and not gently.  He puts all his weight into it as if to say, "HEY, NO SLEEP FOR YOU, HUMAN INCUBATOR."  It has been a very bumpy ride so far.

I also knew when I would dare look in the full-length mirror without clothes and see that my belly looked like I had swallowed a chopping board.  It was very obvious this baby was either Stewie from Family Guy or transverse.

So the doctor took one look on the sonogram at my last appointment and officially declared it, and I said, "CALLED IT" rather loudly.  She laughed, and then paused uncomfortably before launching into her explanation as to why I should have this procedure that would correct the baby's position and land his head in my cervix.  A version.

A version requires me to actually go to Labor and Delivery and get a shot of medicine that will prevent contractions.  They insert an IV, which is always fun, and then give fluids to make sure I'm hydrated just in case I go into labor and have an emergency c-section.  Also fun.

When the medicine is given, the doctors take 15-20 minutes of the baby's heartbeat.  Then two doctors push on my lubed up belly.  One pushes toward my chest, and the other pushes toward my cervix.

When I asked people about the procedure, most online said, "Oh, it's not painful.  Just uncomfortable.  They gave me pain meds and an epidural"  I wasn't worried so much as curious when I got to the hospital to have it done.  I was so comfortable with the idea of the version that I didn't have my husband accompany me, just a good friend in case I needed her to call him for an emergency.

However, I didn't get pain meds.  Nor did I receive an epidural.  When the doctors started applying Herculean pressure onto my stomach, they squeezed out tears.  I'm here to say to all the online ladies that have had painless versions, MY VERSION HURT.

It hurt like a mother.  I couldn't imagine a worse pre-labor moment.  It was pain times ten.

I can't recommend the version for anyone with a pain threshold like mine, which is this:  I can handle pushing a 8 lb 3 oz baby out of my vagina.  That's how much a version hurt me.

And in the end, it didn't friggin' work.  The doctor tried...twice.  After the second attempt she looked at me and said, "It seems like he's pretty darn comfortable where he is.  Do you want to try a third time?"

To which I believe I said, "HELL no."

To add insult to injury, when they did a final sonogram to make sure the baby was ok, they found he had turned...to a complete breech position.  Basically, he went in the opposite direction, just to be spiteful.

Yeah, no more versions for me, thanks.

The Flu + Pink Eye + 8 Months Pregnant = ONE SEXY BEAST

The flu hit my house like a brick through a window.  There was no warning, no preventative medicine, no hope once it arrived.  My husband had it first, which I thought was a simple cold.  But suddenly, it morphed into a nasty, snot-filled, coughing, phlegm-coated hot mess.  I had coughing fits that required dozens upon dozens of pairs of underwear, due to the incontinence issue that has been plaguing me since my first born arrived.  I also sneezed quite frequently, which required a second dozen pairs of underwear.  Obviously, my hotness factor was out of control.

I was in the urgent care room with a doctor with the personality of a stale piece of bread.  He took a culture for strep, handed me a prescription for Robitussin with codine and shoved me out the door.  I immediately downed the cough syrup and felt the urge to hack up a lung crawl back into my throat.  That night I actually slept four hours straight.  A MIRACLE.

At three o'clock in the morning, I woke with a leaking face.  My eye was tearing up so badly it had actually gotten me out of a dead sleep.  Now at eight months, the only thing waking me up on a regular basis was the urge to pee or the baby practicing his Krav Maga on my internal organs.  A tearful eye?  This I had to check out.

I looked in the mirror, which I regretted immediately.  Puss, crust, watery tears...PINK EYE.  At this point, I looked to the heavens through a fuzzy eye and silently prayed for death.  Being sick for over a week, and now PINK EYE, quite possibly the most disgusting, least sexy of all the infections.

I was back in the urgent care room with the same stale piece of bread doctor.  He recognized me and pushed me out the door with another prescription with hardly a glance.  Not that I blame him...I was hideous.  If I were treating me, I would have looked away in disgust and poked me with a stick for good measure.

I went to work the next day and told my tale of woe to anyone who would listen, but there wasn't much sympathy to be had.  Nearly everyone and their families had suffered through the same flu and some were still trying to rid their house of it.  The pink eye just made them stay the Hell away.  The only solace I took was knowing there was no way this could get worse.

Then, a kid threw up on my shoes.