Parental Rites of Passage

I have a feeling there are many, many parental rites of passage, but I experienced a few this week, including projectile vomit in the face. Also, an exploded diaper at the bus stop on a chilly, windy day when the baby is particularly reluctant to be stripped naked. Ah, and four hours in public of alternating soothing-the-baby and crying-as-soon-as-Mom-puts-me-back-in-the-car-seat-so-we-can-go-home.

Now. Regarding the disastrous diaper change. Ah, yes. I see many of you parents reminiscing... and perhaps flinching. That, or giggling, because it's funnier in retrospect, right?

So. I decided one innocent afternoon to change Amelia's diaper. It was, after all, poofed up like a sponge which has just absorbed tons of liquid. I put Amelia down on the changing pad. She makes a face. Why, Momma, why? Why must you put me down?

Now, I must tell you that so far I'd been feeling pretty smug because I haven't had any diaper disasters yet. I felt that I was super smart for getting out the new diaper, opening it up, and putting it underneath Amelia's bottom before removing the soiled diaper. This had already prevented many a mishap. WELL NOW. This time, I do this same thing. Clean diaper is out and READY for any surprise onslaughts of waste matter.

Upon opening the old diaper, I find, to my surprise, that it is full only of pee. No fecal matter in sight. Well, that's strange, I think. After all, she's been a fairly regular poop machine since she got out of the meconium stage. A nice beautiful bowel movement every few hours. In retrospect, I should have recognized the suspicious lack of poo in Amelia's diaper as a red flag, and I should have immediately refastened the diaper on her little bum and waited in a nuclear bunker until the aerial assault had ended.

Alas, I was not so wise. Dutifully, I wipe. And I go to pull out the old diaper from between Amelia's bum and the new diaper I'd placed. ... But when I pull out the old diaper, the new one comes with it. Oh, well that's no problem, I'll just put it right b---

The following scene plays in slow motion when I think back on it. I suddenly see a growing liquidy blob of something the color of Dijon mustard emerging from the baby's output end. It took me a few milliseconds to realize what this meant, and by then it was too late.

There was a squirt sound like the sort when you're trying to get ketchup out of the bottle onto a hamburger. And then liquidy blobs stream up into the air in a beautiful Newtonian arc of doom. Splat.

I was suddenly a disgusting piece of modern art... splatters of thick Dijon mustard "paint" dispersed all over my lap and my arms and my shirt.

In shock, I yell, "Yauugh! Yuck!" Then, pulling out a wipe, I burst into laughter, thinking it was over. I was wrong.

There was soon another beautiful arc flying through the air--this time it was a continuous stream of amber pee... and yes, it was following the laws of physics with grace. "Eeep!" I take the wipe in my hand and lop it on top of Amelia's down there nether regions. Although this saved my face, it just redirected the urine downward. And soon Amelia was wriggling in a large puddle of her own poo and pee. Oh, and that fresh diaper was now completely useless, having also been turned into a sopping wet piece of modern art.

After wiping off my urine-covered hand, I desperately rummage for a new diaper, and try to open it up, but alas, I was too slow and didn't get it out in time for an encore of fecal matter.

I reach for the wipes. I needed to get the baby out of the poop-pee puddle. I pull the wipe--and to my horror, it was the last wipe in the box. NOOOOOOOOO!!! "BECCA!" I scream. "Please get me those wipes!" Eep, eep, eep! "Baby, please, no more!" Amelia looks up at me with an adorable face... the epitome of innocence. Who, me? What did I do?

Getting to Know You...

It sometimes surprises me that Amelia is a little person, a little individual, a little personality--and already. It's becoming more and more apparent that she wants to know exactly what is going on. In fact, that was the very first thing I remember about her.

Right when she first came out, even before she really got out her first successful cries, she was trying to open her eyes. She cried and cried, and once her eyes were open, she shut up for a bit and looked around.

I said hello. (I think I called her a conehead.) She arched her back and craned to look up towards my voice. It was strange. There is a little tiny person deliberately looking at me... or at least trying to look at me. Who knows how much she could see with all the vernix in her still developing eyes.

Who are you? You sound like my mom. Where am I? What is going on? Also, I am hungry. Her cries were clear demands. And then after the demands, I started to hear frustration. Why can't I lift myself up, dang it? I'm trying to turn towards those voices, but I just can't seem to... Argh! Ugh, no one told me eating would be difficult, aughh!

I'm not sure what tipped off our nurses, but I remember more than one of them commenting that Amelia was particularly strong-willed and independent. She likes to be in control of her own fate, methinks.

Fast forward a few weeks.

Ah, tummy time. When we put her on her belly, she gets frustrated. Plainly, she is upset by how helpless she is tummy down. I can just see the enraged little thought bubble-clouds emerging from her ears... I... can't... lift... my... HEAD! AUGH! I... can't... SEE! I... can't... MOVE! This is accompanied by both distressed wailing and effortful grunting as she strains to move. She digs her feet into the ground and pushes... and actually, she does inch herself forward--or sideways.

We're not sure this determination is the safest quality to possess right now, though. Last night she nearly launched herself out of James' arms down onto the cold, hard floor... And then she did it again in the early a.m. hours as she resisted leaving the warm, cozy blanket on her way to a dreaded diaper change. We may need to superglue a helmet to her head to protect those precious Griffin-Dilts brains she inevitably inherited.

Another curiosity... I can tell her vision is improving. She loves to look at lights and things. She loves to look out windows and stare at light fixtures. Perhaps not coincidentally, at about the same time she began exhibiting interest in lights, she also began to get fussy after hanging about in the same spot for too long.

It's true! If we stay in the same spot and bounce or rock her, she gets furious and starts to scream. BUT as soon as we pick her up and walk around, she calms down. And, all too often, she starts screaming again once we sit back down. My theory? She likes to see the light-shadow landscape move around her as we walk. I think we may need to invest in a string of blinky Christmas lights.

Love and phascinating photons,
Jenna and Amelia the Photonophile

The Cry of the Pterodactyl

Amelia is still cute. And she is acting pretty much like a typical baby. And growing pretty quickly. Woohoo!

I am getting better at deciphering the meaning of her cries... but, to be honest, the only one I'm ever really sure that it means what I think it means sounds like this: "WAAAAHHHHHUUURRRRRR! UNGH! UNGH! YAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGG! UNNNNGH! YEEEEAAAAHHUUURRRRRAAAAAA!" It is usually accompanied by frantic squirming and kicking. And a telltale grimace, demonstrated by the anonymous small child below.

I know what this cry means because, well, I make these sounds sometimes. (And that face.) Those sounds mean "I need to poop! Really, really bad! And it hurts!"

I, however, only make those sounds when I'm actually constipated, but I was surprised to learn that Amelia makes these sounds before every bowel movement, despite a complete lack of constipation. I suppose I've forgotten a lot about the crash course I took (Life 100: Human Body Operations) immediately after birth, but apparently one of the first things every tiny human has to learn is how to use the gastrointestinal system. I assumed that having a bowel movement is one of those things that come effortlessly, but Amelia has reminded me that, to the contrary, it takes a lot of energy at first.

I have become quite familiar with this cry over the past few weeks. A few times each night, I wake up to hear her grunting, grunting, squirming, grunting...  but she doesn't quite wake up. She will carry on for 1-20 minutes, before finally, a poosplosion. A very loud one.* ... And another, and another, and another... She finally ends the finale with a sigh of contentment and a smile. Oh, and sometimes an encore.

Another cry I've come to understand is the hungry cry... either that, or the "Dang it, I just want to suck on something" cry. I haven't yet figured out how to distinguish between them solely based on the sound alone. I can usually figure out when she's actually hungry when she starts spitting out any offered fingers with an indignant outcry... If I could translate that indignant cry into English, it would go like this: "A finger!? What is this trash!? I demand MILK!"

So I obligingly pull out a sore bazoonga. And take a deep breath and timidly offer the dang thing to her. Aaaand then she ferociously zeroes in on said bazoonga and clamps down with vigor. Ayayay, that is often exquisitely painful. It's getting better, I think.

Of all the sounds our tiny Pterodactyl makes, the following is my favorite. She makes it most often when she's in REM sleep and it is sometimes even accompanied by a smile. It sounds like a laugh or a giggle... "Heheheheheh!" In fact, it sounds a little like the sort of giggle Elmer Fudd makes. The best is when she happens to "giggle" after James or I have said something funny... or mockable.

I love that pseudo-laugh. It almost compensates for all the less enjoyable noises she makes.

Love and dirty diapers,
Jenna and Amelia

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*Yesterday at church, this happened during a particularly quiet moment. It was... uh, cute. Heh. And James tells me he heard an at-home upstairs poosplosion from all the way downstairs. I think the door was closed, too. It occurs to me that perhaps all babies have loud bowel movements... and that I probably did as a baby as well. This may shed light on how I received the family nickname Jennifart... I've had it as long as I can remember. :)

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly... Nursing Tales from a Tired Momma

Little Amelia is slowly, but surely, putting on some chubs. She's still tiny, but I think she's getting chubby little cheeks which can reveal cute little dimples if she smiles. The kid is definitely getting enough noms.

Amelia is also becoming increasingly alert. She is awake for hours every day, with wide, wide eyes. I'm not sure how much information those eyes are sending to her brain, but it certainly looks like she's checking everything out carefully. It also seems like she is particularly interested in faces... and, when it comes to faces, she is particularly interested in eyes. So although I've heard it takes a while for a baby to start looking you in the eye, it certainly seems like Amelia is doing so already. The pediatrician thought so too.

Oh, and the smiles! Amelia is practicing to become a master smiler.* As is typical for a newborn, she smiles most when she's in REM sleep or when she's barely awake. She is, however, beginning to smile more frequently when she's wide awake... and the smiles last longer. Oh, and she smiles more often while eating and when I stroke her face. I'm so excited for when she starts smiling socially.

Now for the bad part... She's been pretty fussy for the last few days... It's like she's always awake. And all she wants to do is suck on something or nurse. Unfortunately, James is not lactating. Darn. I'm pretty durned tiredddd.

The ugly? My poor, poor ladies. While our troubles getting milk from the mom boob to the baby stomach are over, we haven't quite perfected the nursing-without-hurting-mum part. I think part of the problem is that I'm making tons and tons of milk. The lactation consultant said it's pretty normal to be hurting some if I have an abundant milk supply.

The even uglier? Because Amelia has been demanding to be nursed ALL the time for the last few days, my brain thinks I should make even MORE milk... (Nooo! No more prolactin! For Lucy's sake, stoooop!) Which means I am painfully uber full. And I leak very much lots. And sometimes spray. (Pew, pew! Milk lasers!) Ugh. Gross.**

So yeah. Them breasts are hurtin'. If it gets much worse I may start hallucinating a mouthful of shark teeth in little Amelia's mouth. She already attacks the nipples like a predator diving in to enjoy the first scrumptious bite of its prey. Her lunge for the nipple very clearly communicates the MINE and the GIMME DAT concept. I can't help but yell out (almost) every time the kid latches on.

When she gets bored or tired while eating, instead of gently letting go, she clamps down. Hard. (OW, OW, OW!***) So I desperately try to break the vacuum seal by sticking my finger in between her gums, but that's easier said than done. And then once my tenders are finally free (hallelujah!)... Well, Amelia wakes up, blinks around for a bit, and then cries for the nipple again. Ugh.

Wo is me! Anyway, more good news... The lactation consultants are ever full of helpful advice. PLUS they figure things'll get better pretty soon. ... Whenever pretty soon is. Heh.

Love and lactose,

Jenna and Amelia "Pterodactyl" Dilts :)

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*Now, I know some of you will tell me "It's just gas." Well, I have news for you. Researchers don't think it's gas. MYTH BUSTED. (Yes, we've been watching lots of Mythbusters lately.) Question: do you smile when you have gas? Uh huh. I thought so. Me neither. Instead of smiling, I curl up in the fetal position and moan and rock back and forth. Okay, so if it isn't gas, what is it? It's a neurological reflex. (Maybe it's just because I'm neuroscience junkie, but it seems so much more awesome and personable that the smile is neurological rather than gastrointestinal.) She may not be smiling at you, but she's definitely smiling for the express purpose of smiling--to practice and get really good at it... and, well, let's be honest, it's probably also a survival mechanism. Don't lie. You know your newborn's smile makes you melt inside and want to feed it and keep it safe. Instead of smother it when it screams for the kajillionth time in the night for no discernible reason that you can find. Fun fact: newborns will smile most when drowsy or during REM sleep.

**I still occasionally have moments where, after writing something, I think, "Seriously... Am I scarring for life some poor unsuspecting guys out there?" This was one of those moments. I'm sorry. And also not sorry. You boys should theoretically be getting married and having babies someday anyway. And then you'll get to witness some variation of the drama of pregnancy, labor, delivery, nursing and BEYOND! Aren't you excited?!

***I may have to reconsider my dislike for pacifiers. I didn't want to give her one for several reasons, but there may come a point when I decide enough is enough and get one for her. Besides pacifiers generally being filthy, dirty luxury passenger liners for germs, I figure the infant mouth has a purpose and should be available for that purpose. I want that kid to vocalize whenever she needs to instead of muffledly wailing "MMMMPFFF! URRRRR!" And eventually, I do actually want her to use her mouth to explore... within reason, of course. I'm not going to let her taste pointy knives or tacks or very small swallowable objects (even if they're not sharp!). Ah. There's the neuroscience junkie in me again. Use those neurons or lose 'em, baby.

Falling in Love with Someone Who Doesn't Do Anything (Except Eat, Sleep, Poop and Pee)

Right when Amelia was born, they put her straight onto my chest. I looked down at the squirmy, noisy, small purple monster and wondered about that instant maternal love you hear so much about. I didn't notice any yet. I figured that was okay, though, since 1) she hadn't been here very long, 2) I'd just been through a pretty traumatic ordeal, and 3) my patriarchal blessing seems to indicate we'll eventually like each other lots.

In any case, I certainly was not in the least bit amnesic about the horrors of the recent pregnancy and labor. I thought, Well, I still don't want millions of babies. And I still am I not at all eager to get pregnant again. Or deliver another baby.

By the end of the first day, however, I wasn't wondering about that maternal love. Somehow, it very subtly appeared. Before I knew it, I found my exhausted self blearily staring in adoration at a sleeping baby. And stroking her face lovingly. And cooing softly about how much I love her.

I thought, Yeesh. This makes no sense whatsoever. There is no logical reason to like this creature. It caused me many months of misery and, just recently, an acutely painful experience. It bites my nipples and makes them split and bleed. It keeps me up at night. It doesn't really do anything except eat, sleep, poop, and pee. Why I do I love this thing?

Well, I do. I think she is the most gorgeous baby ever. Or at least she would be if she wasn't yellow. I imagine that if she were in the peak of health, then she'd be the most gorgeous baby ever. I keep meaning to ask my friend Jackie how attractive Amelia actually is. I think I can trust Jackie to tell me bluntly if she looks more like a freaky alien than a cute baby. (This is purely driven by the more scientisty part of my brain.)

I'm sure my maternal adoration is partly the result of oxytocin, endorphins, and dopamine and all those wonderful things. And all those things are pretty predictable, I guess. I'm curious, though, about where all those are coming from in James' brain. He, too, is hopelessly smitten.

Anyway, ta-ta for now,
Jenna and Amelia

Part Three: Postpartum

Well. I suppose the only ooey gooey details I'll be sharing now are just details about breastfeeding. (Oh no! I'm using the word nipple!) I'd tell you to leave the blog if that bothers you, but I've decided instead to implore you to get over it. Breastfeeding is teh awesome.

Breastfeeding

I might as well start this off with the breastfeeding saga, I guess. Amelia started exhibiting feeding cues about ten minutes after birth. So clearly the urge to eat was there... the skills to eat, however, were not there. Sure, she'd open her mouth wide, but she somehow just could not find the nipple. I'd try to aim it in into her mouth, but she'd take her tiny, uncoordinated fist and bat my hand away. And then flail around desperately looking for the source of noms and making anticipatory sounds.

I knew a lot of the basics involved in breastfeeding, but I was still somewhat at a loss. Sure, I knew that a good latch was not supposed to hurt, but even squishing the nipple into a "nipple sandwich" so it fit better in Amelia's tiny mouth seemed to be of limited help. It still didn't feel good. She might get a latch of some sort, but most of the time it was the kind of latch that required me to immediately break suction and start all over again.

The nurses helped us a bit... it helped to have two more hands besides mine to help guide her mouth to my nipple... and keep rogue limbs out of the way. However, it turns out nipplefinding was not the only problem.

Once the elusive nipple was found and introduced into her mouth, Amelia would thrust it out forcefully with her tongue, and then get furious and shocked to find that the newly caught nipple had escaped already... and after all that hard work just finding the darned thing.

Man, Amelia and I struggled and struggled. The first night was definitely very hard. I am told that many early babies have trouble with breastfeeding... I was comforted many times that our ordeal was mostly Amelia's fault, and not mine. Have you ever tried to waltz with a horrible dancer? Imagine doing pivots with that dancer. Wooo-ee! You fear for your life. And your feet. It is in such a manner that I feared for the welfare of my delicate nipples.

The nurses helped sooooo much. Although I was doing well enough to go home pretty much immediately, I decided to stay in the hospital long enough to get the hang of the whole feeding baby thing. I am so glad I did. One thing they had us do was "suck training" with our finger. We'd let her suck on our finger and we'd try to teach her how to suck correctly by pushing her tongue down. This was supposed to stop tongue thrusting.

At some point, they tested her blood sugar to make sure she was getting enough noms, but it was low. Neither James nor I remember having been told that little tidbit of information at this point, but I think that this was why they began teaching me alternate ways to get noms into the baby's belly.

They sent a lactation consultant to help me. She of course gave me more very useful advice on breastfeeding, but she also taught me how to hand-express colostrum/ milk onto a spoon. James would then spoonfeed her.

She took about 14 drops of colostrum for the first spoonfeeding. This was supposedly plenty for the first feeding. It seemed that she liked it... it was like magic ambrosia or something. I felt better, because now Amelia was certainly not starving to death. I also felt better because... well, who doesn't feel better when their kid isn't screaming his or her head off? The whole feeling-better-about-feeding thing wore off pretty quickly...

The next time Amelia got hungry was particularly traumatic. First we tried the whole breastfeeding ballet thing again, intricate nipple-mouth choreography and all. It wasn't long before Amelia was really upset and crying miserably.

It got to where she was crying continuously without pausing to close her mouth... Which was a problem because I had put the nipple completely in her mouth. Nipples are pretty inefficient feeding devices unless the baby latches on and starts sucking. If she'd just closed her mouth and sucked, she could probably have eaten right then, but she was so mad and didn't seem to notice just how close her quarry was. I'd shove the nipple in deeper, but all that did was muffle her cries. Lame.

Well. That's what the spoon is for, right? I started hand-expressing colostrum again, but soon it was obvious that this time, 14 drops wasn't going to cut it. And getting a mere two or three drops at a time was definitely not okay in Amelia's book. Theoretically I could have kept hand-expressing, but... it took me about 30 seconds to get just a few drops. Oh noes!

The nurse brought a breast pump and taught me how to use it. Man, using a breast pump for the first time is... strange. It's like having two see-through vacuum hoses on your nipples (your oh-so-sensitive nipples, oh my), vacuuming rhythmically. And magically, little yellowish-white streams of liquid drip into an attached container. Weird.

Using the pump, I eventually got about 7 mL of colostrum. Woo! I make lots of milk! Now to get the stuff inside that wailing thing in James' lap over there. We sucked it into a syringe, attached the syringe to very thin and very long plastic tubing, taped the tube onto James' finger, and stuck the finger into Amelia's mouth. Then James would push milk in when she was sucking. This made for a very happy Amelia. (MMMM MALK!) To our surprise, she drank all 7 mL. Oh. She was HONGRYYY.

Next time I made 11 mL. Then 14 mL. Then 35 mL. And she drank it ALL. (In the style of Hyperbole and a Half: DRINK ALL THE MILK!) We began to doubt the commonly held belief that newborn baby stomachs only held a few teaspoons.

At some point in the middle of the second night, a nurse came to check Amelia's glucose again. The nurse mourned aloud that if Amelia's glucose level was low again, she'd probably have to go to the NICU. I'd been pretty sleepy, but this instantly got my attention. I think the nurse had assumed we'd already been informed that her first glucose level had been low, and subsequently informed the potential for treatment in the NICU if it stayed low. We hadn't heard this, however, so we were surprised to hear this. I'm glad neither James nor I are particularly anxious people, because I could see this causing panic in some parents. Pretty soon though, we heard the nurse exclaim with joy--the glucose was back up and Amelia did not have to move to the NICU. Hooray!

Of course I continued to try to get Amelia to learn how to feed at the breast without getting upset and angry. Poor baby. She was definitely getting better each time, but she wasn't getting better quickly enough to survive off of the nutrient-filled boob alone. I'm convinced she liked James better than she liked me for a little while because James' finger gave milk easily and plentifully, while my breasts seemed to enjoy withholding it from her. To make matters worse, I smelled like milk... how tantalizing. And frustrating when you're starving, yes?

Anyway, after two days in the hospital, I decided we were getting the hang of this breastfeeding thing, so we went home. We rented a breast pump ($2 per day!) to take home to aid us as Amelia worked on developing mad eating skills.

The first night at home, however, was rough. I guess she was really, really hungry and thus more impatient than usual. And it took about half an hour to get the milk out of my breasts and into a syringe and into her belly. Now, you try calming an angry, very hungry baby without noms for that long. She was so upset. James and I slept horribly that night.

At about 4 am, I tried to feed her again, but to my horror, when I pumped, there was much less than had been coming out each time beforehand. The ladies felt full, but they certainly weren't acting like it. And my breasts were so sore; my nipples were, cracked, bleeding, and bruised. I felt awful. I kept trying desperately to feed her (or at least calm her) for the next two hours. Finally, at about 6 am, I broke down and started sobbing myself. Amelia finally passed out (possibly from exhaustion)  at 6:30 or so. I called the on-call lactation consultant, who promised to come visit us at home at 10 am. Then I, too, passed out from exhaustion.

The lactation consultant did come and she helped us out a bit. It was reassuring to hear her reaffirm that I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was doing everything I could, and I was doing it right... furthermore, my milk was already coming in plentifully. Amelia eventually got a pretty good latch and was able to finally fill her little belly. Then we both passed out again.

And guess what? By that evening, we pretty much had the whole breastfeeding thing figured out. She was still pretty tense during feedings, but she has now started getting all limp and contented as soon as that boob gets out. Success!

Jaundice

Amelia came out with awful bruising all over her head. Poor baby. She probably had the most torturous headache ever for at least the first day of life. Within a day or so after birth, Amelia started turning yellow. We have been told that the bruises probably contributed to the development of jaundice. (Bilirubin is one of the byproducts made when your body breaks down old, dead red blood cells. It turns your skin and the whites of your eyes yellow when your liver doesn't process it quickly enough.) It also probably didn't help that Amelia was two weeks early, as this may have meant her liver wasn't quite developed enough to process everything.

Well... guess what we're supposed to do to help Amelia's jaundice get better? Breastfeed. Give her lots and lots and MORE LOTS of breastmilk... I think the idea is to flush out the bilirubin. So, yeah. No pressure. It's not like breastfeeding was stressful in the first place...

But then Amelia would start sleeping lots. And she wouldn't wake up to eat. We'd poke her. Wiggle a milky nipple in her face... Face paint her with breast milk... Yeah. The kid would be completely conked out. So we'd let her sleep. Apparently, jaundiced babies get super lethargic and sleep lots.

The nurse, though, strongly admonished us to wake her up somehow, because if she doesn't wake up to eat, then she won't eat enough to help the jaundice go away, and then the jaundice would get worse, and then horrible things could happen. Like damage to the nervous system.

Ugh. Okay. Gotcha. Get that baby out of her blissful coma. So basically, to wake her up, we'd often have to do all the things she hates until she got annoyed enough to wake up. Let's strip you naked! Expose you to cold air! Poke, poke! Change your diaper! Oop, cold stethoscope on your chest! Poke you with a cold, wet rag!

Anyway, we've been going to the pediatrician every two days for a jaundice and weight check. On Friday, she was already gaining weight again and was less yellow. Her bilirubin was still high, but she had a negative Coombs test. (That's good.) She was also feeding frequently. Oh, and producing waste frequently.

(Speaking of which, holy cow, this baby has a talent for making poop and pee. They told us that, for a particular day, Amelia should be making x number of wet diapers and y number of soiled diapers. In reality, she produces greater than 2x wet diapers and greater than 2y soiled diapers. She is already such an overachiever! She should get extra credit for that or something.)

Today Amelia's bilirubin was slightly higher than it was on Friday, but she's been doing so well otherwise that they'll just have us keep an eye on her yellowness until her well baby visit next week. Woot!

Mom's Recovery

I am doing wonderfully. I have so much freaking energy, it's amazing. Remember how I mused a few times about how strange it is to actually have energy now that my thyroiditis and depression/ anxiety are well managed? Yes, it's official. I still feel amazing now that I'm not pregnant and incessantly nauseous. (I can stuff my face as much as I want now. Yusssss.)

It's been wonderful. I definitely wasn't expecting the burst of energy right after the birth. I've been able to do all the errands and such that I was too tired to do beforehand. I've actually had energy to get up and clean stuff. I look outside on a nice day and think, "Huh. I should go on a walk." And then I actually do. It's amazing!

Except for that one night where I broke down crying after unsuccessfully breastfeeding for two and a half hours, I sleep well. Sure, it's not continuous sleep, but I do feel rested in the mornings. Overall, I'm getting enough, I think. Amelia doesn't really cry at night. Of course, she makes some noises and wiggles a bit in the night when she wants noms, but I get up and feed her in time to prevent a furious crying frenzy.

In the hospital, they kept asking how my pain level was. Even hours after delivery, I'd blink and think, "What pain? I feel perfect." And this is true. I have zero back pain. I feel full of vitality. At first, I definitely noticed that all my muscles were very fatigued after labor, but I wouldn't say they hurt. It just kind of felt like I'd had a full-body workout.

The only thing that is a little annoying is the presence of stitches in the down there nether regions. Oh, and sore nipples. But I usually have to consciously search my body for pain to find those pains. Sure, the pain is there, but I hardly think about it. It might as well not be there. (Maybe these don't seem like a big deal to me after having a pain disorder for years. I don't know.)

I went to church today. People thought I was super hardcore or crazy or something. I don't think they quite understood how ill I'd been for the last nine months. I mean seriously, I can't think of a good reason why I shouldn't have gone to church today; I feel so much better now than I did throughout pregnancy, and I went to church while pregnant. Whatever.

Oh. Also, I am skinny again. I think I'm the same size as I was pre-pregnancy (or perhaps skinnier?), only squishier.

Love and rice krispie treats,
Jenna and Amelia

Part Two: Labor and Delivery

As a reminder, I'm sharing all the ooey gooey details. I figure if it's worth being embarrassed about, it's probably worth remembering and talking about. Anyway.

If you don't think you can handle all the blood and guts, here's a summary: We went to the hospital to be induced because my water had broken. They started me on Pitocin and I started having contractions. Turns out Pterodactyl was facing the wrong way, so I was in back labor. The back pain eventually got so bad that it hurt almost as much in between the contractions as it did during a contraction... so constant extreme pain. So I got an epidural. After the epidural, I finished dilating pretty quickly, pushed for a while, and out came Amelia. Tada! I think I was in labor for a total of seven hours.

Now for the ooey gooey details. Those with weak stomachs may now leave the blog.

Labor

Once in the delivery room, they hooked me up to an IV system and a continuous fetal monitor. There was also a contraction-o-meter sort of thing. Cervical check was 3-4 cm and mostly effaced. Woo! I was disappointed when I threw up everything I had eaten that morning just after the IV was placed. Surely I needed the energy contained in what was coming back up. Surely.

It took a while before I actually got any Pitocin, though, because they had to have two people verify that I really was supposed to be getting some. Gugh. They also told me that, unfortunately, the contractions you get with Pitocin are harder and much more painful than natural ones... but with only the same efficacy in dilating the cervix as natural ones. So basically normal contractions with bonus pain! (Yay?)

This was a discouraging fact which I tried to ignore. I did not get any pain medication; my options were pretty limited given the Harrington rods I have installed on my spine. I had already consulted with an anesthesiologist, who told me that an epidural had only a 10% chance of working.

They started me out with just a little, and pretty soon I was having some real contractions, though they were certainly manageable. They hurt mostly in my lower back, like menstrual cramps. Really devilish menstrual cramps. I explored different positions that might be helpful... standing, sitting, hands and knees, side-lying, rocking back and forth on the ball...

They kept slowly increasing the dose. My contractions started coming more frequently. They were pretty long, lasting on average about 90 seconds, and always feeling murderous in the lower back. My main coping thought: So what if this hurts. I can do anything for a freaking ninety seconds. I also found eventually that rocking back and forth in the jacuzzi tub with warm water was helpful, but that ended up making me way too flushed and hot and otherwise uncomfortable. And I threw up again. I got out and spent more time rocking back and forth on my hands and knees and such.

Up through about this point, I mostly found James to be annoying. Far too many wise cracks and he was way too results-oriented for me. And really, the most annoying part was that he seemed happier every time I had a contraction. He's just too results-oriented for me, I suppose.

I found it far preferable for him to occupy himself by posting live updates on Facebook and playing video games. It was also okay for him to sit and watch the printout from the contraction-o-meter... But it wasn't all that helpful when he came over and tried to give me encouraging comments. I think my response to these was mostly "shut up, go away", but I'm not confident he heard me because I was concentrating more on the contractions than enunciation. It may have just sounded like "shup gaway". (James: Hmm... She might have said that... but I ignored it so thoroughly that I don't even remember it.)

Of course, things started escalating in intensity. Remember that the main thought I kept telling myself during the contractions was: So what if this hurts. I can do anything for a freaking ninety seconds. To my horror, I felt the pain in between the contractions start to approach the pain level of the actual contractions, which of course, were also increasing in intensity. So the next time the thought I can do anything for ninety seconds popped into my head, I thought, Yes, but this definitely isn't just ninety seconds any more. This is painful ALL the time.

At this point I started liking James a lot more, because the midwife showed him how pressing my hips up and out of the way helped relieve a little of the back labor pain. So I was able to keep going some, but it was getting harder and harder to relax in between contractions. It was also getting harder to maintain movement during the worst of it. I was getting extraordinarily fatigued.

I requested some sort of pain medication. They gave me some IV Fentanyl. It was helpful... but it seemed like it only numbed the pain a little, and hardly lasted all that long. (Ah. I checked on the Interwebs. IV Fentanyl has a halflife of 2.5 minutes... That explains why I thought the effect had worn off completely 15 minutes later.)

At the midwife's urging, I tried a new pain management tactic... vocalization... also known as primal scream therapy. (This is the part that traumatized my little sister, who spent the entire labor observing from the back corner.) Man, I screamed and cried as loudly and as pathetically as I could. It was at this point I realized that although my contraction back pain was now an 8.5/10 on the pain scale (10 is reserved for more unimaginable pain), my non-contraction back pain was a formidable 7/10. And screaming was only doing so much for me.

I think my energy disappeared in an instant. It seemed like one minute I was capable of rocking back and forth during the contractions, and another I wasn't. I stopped moving so much and just moaned. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts all the time. Too exhausted. Not enough energy to stay on hands and knees.

They had me try the jacuzzi tub again, but I got out almost as soon as I got in. No. Birth ball? Oh no. I'll just lay here nearly immobile and moaning for a while.

I requested an epidural. If I'm too tired to move, I am definitely too tired to keep this up without more pain management. I chose to pretend I hadn't heard about the whole 90% chance an epidural wouldn't work. They checked my cervix. 8 cm.

The anesthesiologist showed up within five minutes. To our surprise, he looked at my back and said, "Oh yeah, I can definitely do this." Dude, where were you when that other anesthesiologist guy was examining my spine?

They had me keep completely still for three minutes while he put it in. I had two contractions at this point, both 9/10 on the pain scale, but I was now at a constant 8.5 anyway. Keeping still pretty much just involved letting the pain wash over me. Apparently this was pretty impressive. I don't think the midwife or the nurses had ever thought me a wimp, but in any case, this pretty much sealed the impression that I was a non-wimp.

The epidural, thankfully, did work. My legs started to go numb. Of course, the epidural did not take away all the pain. It felt much better, though, and the only real struggle was the super uncomfortable (almost painful) intense pressure from baby moving further down the pelvis and... butting her head against my tailbone, which, unlike many of my bones, is immobile after having been tethered in place by a couple titanium rods. BUT. The contractions were all of a sudden quite discernible in magnitude from the background pain and pressure.

Ah. I can do anything for ninety seconds. I can also definitely "relax" now. And guess what relaxing did?

They put in a urethral catheter (standard procedure with epidurals, apparently). But when they checked to see if it was in place correctly, they discovered that despite being at 8 cm only minutes before, I was now completely dilated. Also, I felt like pushing. So, they took out the catheter, and the pushing phase began.

I think I pushed for about half an hour. I started out on my side, but the midwife commented that she knew of a position that is often more helpful for pushing out occiput posterior babies. We switched to that one, and then she really started moving down the birth canal. Woot! They offered me a mirror to watch, but... I didn't think seeing my "progress" would be helpful for me. Soon I could touch her head.

Push! James was right there watching in fascination. I suppose I might as well have had a mirror, because I could definitely tell how close I was by how excited his face and "Oh! Oh! OH!"s got. Happier and more high-pitched James exclamations equals more and more of baby's head visible. Gotcha.

And then, during the last push, James' "oh" got really long, really loud, and really excited... "Ohhhh! OHHHHHH! OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" And then her head was out. One more push and the rest of her followed. Let me tell you, that is a VERY strange sensation. Baby bodies are kind of irregular in shape. And I could definitely feel all those little bumps and limbs as she slithered out. (I think at the last minute she flipped her face the right way, so she came out with her face down. Gee, I wish that had happened much earlier in labor.)

And then there was a flailing, vernixy, purpleish conehead plopped on my chest. My first words to her were something like, "Hello, my little conehead!" Poor kid was so bruised all over her head. She totally was trying to scream, but at first it was just lots of angry, angry air forcefully expunged from her lungs. Eventually, though, her vocal cords kicked in and she made lots of noise.

With the baby on my chest, I pushed out the placenta. Apparently it was ginormicous. It was as big as the baby. They asked me if I wanted to take it home. No, thanks. They also asked me if I wanted to eat it or something. (Some people do that, I'm told.)

I shook my head. "I'd only eat that thing in revenge." That evil thing made me sick the whole time. True, it kept the baby alive for a while, but it also made my pregnancy nasty. Take it away! Don't touch it! It's evil! Okay, okay. I do owe it some gratitude. It definitely did a good job keeping Amelia healthy.

Well, since labor was over, the midwife started to sew up the perineal tearing. I had hoped to avoid that, but being sewn up wasn't too bad. After the labor pain, this sharp needley and pulling pain was nothing. (Although, it was more pokey and pulley...)

Anyway, I guess I can describe the rest of the hospital stay in a separate post. You may anticipate an epic part three, but it won't be as exciting or as dramatic as this one. That's okay. The next one will have more baby details.

Labor definitely did not go at all as I had imagined it would. And I seriously had thought my expectations were pretty wide. I felt like, eh, all these things could happen. And all of those things are okay.

I expected to give birth in the birth center, or at the very least start laboring there and then move over to the hospital if needed, but never did I imagine that I would have to be induced and start out in the hospital... at least not until 41 weeks or so. I also didn't expect back labor. Heck, I didn't expect my water to break first, nor did I expect to this to occur precisely on the day I told Amelia to get out. I didn't expect I would get an epidural, but then I expected a break in between contractions. I also didn't expect that an epidural would work if I did get one.

So I guess what I should have expected was... the unexpected! 

Stay tuned for part three!

Jenna and Amelia