Crap Kills

Age:  3 weeks

I sat down the other day and tried to think of ways my life was different after having Brownie.  Sure, there were the obvious stand-outs, like my inability to sleep through the night and the fact that my breasts now leaked milk at odd intervals throughout the day but there were other things too.  Things I'd never thought to ask anyone, but I'd definitely remember to tell my new mom friends should the conversation arise. 

I'd have to mention the fact that with a baby, you will never ever get out of the house in "a rush".  One of the first times I ventured out with my little one, I was so overcome with preparing her diaper bag the right way, when it was completely packed I ended up too tired to embark on the journey after all and decided I'd simply send Daddy to Walgreens on his way home from work.  Hell, who needed pain meds anyway?  Suffering simply meant I was alive.

Between an extra set of clothes for Baby, at least one bottle (though I'd finally taken to breast feeding, my "supply" wasn't enough to keep her satisfied, so we always supplemented with formula), diaper(s) & wipes, a changing pad (you'd be surprised at some of the nice places that have the most disgusting bathrooms) and a thin blanket in case she grew cold, I could barely fit my own wallet and a set of car keys into the diaper bag.  Needless to say, the tote I lumbered around with the first three months played the dual role of supply source and an on-the-go weight lifting system for me. 

Then there was the fact that the vocabulary of a college educated woman could be so easily reduced to frequent mutterings of, "Wook at my wittle baby!" and "Is dat maw maw's big girl?!"  For days at a time, the most profound thing out of my mouth would be, "Somebody's got a stinky bum, don't they?  Yes they do!"  I was so intent on nurturing Brownie's sense of speech that I spoke nearly every thought I had aloud.  In my defense, once you come to grips with the fact that your primary audience doesn't know the difference between the words 'society' and 'snot', you begin to get a little lazy with conversation topics. 

If I can be honest though, realizing that I was now regularly using phrases like 'Stinky McStinkerton', 'toot', 'the boobie monster' and 'poop' was only slightly disappointing.  This, considering even before I was pregnant, I'd sometimes find myself slipping into the speech pattern of a college frat boy on jello shot night anyway. 

But all other things aside, if I were to think of the #1 way I'd changed, I'd have to note how consumed I instantly became with the bodily functions of another human being.  Shortly after coming home and  having established some semblance of a routine, Brownie threw me for yet another loop and simply refused to have a bowel movement. 

It may seem strange, but with a newborn, the frequency with which they spew forth (or in this case, poo forth) bodily fluids means that you've got a healthy kid on your hands.  Between 8 and 12 wet diapers a day?  You've got yourself a winner.  A solid burp that bounces off the walls?  That's a champ there.  And most importantly, a few dirty diapers are exactly what you want to whet your appetite for parenthood. 

I'd always thought I'd be the mom that simply refused to change the gross diapers.  I'd somehow train her to put them on hold until my husband got home from work.  But once she arrived, Baby taught me that that just wouldn't do.  She peed and pooped all over anything, sometimes trying my patience by peeing and pooping while I changed the previous diaper.  It was a game we liked to call, Look At Mommy Cry.

But out of the blue, sometime around 3 weeks old, the kid simply refused to empty the dump truck.  I first noticed late on a Tuesday afternoon.  Reviewing my notes from the day (a log I kept to record her feedings and diaper changes that has now evolved into the holy grail of Brownie-isms), I saw that the last time I'd changed a dirty diaper had been sometime around midnight earlier that day.  Confused, I scanned the sheet to see if she'd been eating any differently or if I'd skipped something.  Nothing about her intake had changed.  I ran into the kitchen with my findings to show the Hub. 

He solemnly looked over the sheet, having learned quickly that my post pregnancy neurotic fears were nothing to play with.  He shrugged his shoulders finally, "I don't know, babe.  She's ok though, I'm sure.  She's a baby, she'll go sooner or later."

Well that was scientific advice if I'd ever heard it.  I rolled my eyes and went to consult one of my numerous baby books.  They all maintained that babies my child's age, should still poop at least once a day (some going as often 6-8 times).  I crept back into our bedroom and over to the bassinet, looking down on Baby's napping form.  I squinted my eyes to see if I could somehow detect the rumble in her tummy that would signal an impending poop-age.  But there was nothing.  Depressed, but without any other options, I lay down and slept until her next feeding.  With each diaper, I grew increasingly more worried.  I'd begun to say silent prayers every time I had to change her, hoping against hope that I'd receive a "package". 

I managed to dream up a plethora of intestinal disorders that would've prevented my daughter from expelling waste and the multitude of horrendous treatment options that awaited us.  By the next evening, I was so worked up, even Hubby had furrowed his brow.  We called the nurse's hotline that was given to all patients at my pediatrician's office.  They counseled us to wait at least 3 days, citing a newborn's immature digestive system and the way in which they sometimes have erratic reactions to formula long after its introduction.  I wasn't put at ease though.  It didn't make sense, she'd gone from being a little poop machine to nothing at all. 

My worst fears had been realized, we broke her.

Laying in bed that night, I berated myself over and over in my head.  I tossed and turned, keeping the Big Guy from any sort of peaceful sleep he'd hoped to get before his long day at work.  We both poked at and rearranged pillow after pillow, trying to get comfortable.  All of a sudden, we heard a rustle of fabric.  I sat up quickly (irritating my incision) and looked at Brownie.  She'd pulled up her legs and lay in the fetal position in her sleep.  With a soft squirt (a sound effect she makes to this day) and a cartoon-like splat, I heard music to my ears.  I wasn't the only one in heaven either.  I looked around and saw my husband smiling with relief.  Much like her father, my kid has a way of letting others know when its bathroom time.

I thanked God for small blessings and rose happily to change the most beautiful dirty diaper I'd ever seen.

Until next time...

Grasping at Straws

Age:  2 weeks


The day my mother was set to leave, clouds hovered ominously overhead and all of outside took on a murky gray hue that I noticed whenever I'd dare peek out the windows. I'd always thought the world would come to an end without her being here to guide me, and now I saw that it was.

It's not that I'd forgotten the time was coming. We both knew she had to go.  It was obvious she was trying to prepare me as the last few days had been peppered with comments like, "Brittni, you're doing that so well," and "Look how positively the baby's responding to you," in tones too cheery to be real. Oddly, I waffled between angry resentment at how sure she seemed of me and a co-dependent hopefulness that she'd stay for just a bit longer all at the same time.

My poor mother was treading softly with her manic depressive daughter and doing her best to make sure I had at least an ounce of self-confidence in my parenting abilities before her departure.  Needless to say, she was fighting one losing battle.

Any ground I'd gained was lost as I felt my own mom loosening her hold on me as she readied to head back home. Little things I'd begun to make a habit of - writing down Baby's feedings and washing bottles while she napped, for example - were forgotten as I fumbled around the house suppressing waves of panic that would well up from time to time. I resorted to the state of dependent idiocy I'd assumed after I was first released from the hospital. True, I hadn't ventured that far from it in the past 14 days anyway, but I had made some leeway and I could slowly see my hard work being undone.

After an annoying number of heartfelt sit-downs the day before where Queen Mother would sincerely try to offer her most encouraging words, Saturday rolled in with neither of us in much of a talkative mood. I flip flopped between following around behind her and making sure she had everything packed, to hiding in my bedroom and ignoring her offers of assistance with the baby. But I wasn't the only maniac, there were a few times I caught her sniffling in the bathroom in an effort to keep tears from me.

Breakfast found the two of us silently spooning through bowls of Frosted Flakes. Brownie, in her newborn wisdom, was kind enough to be calm this morning as she sat blinking between Mom and me, clearly trying to figure out who was the biggest lunatic.

Queen Mother and my husband (who'd had to go into work at the last minute) didn't want me driving to the airport that morning - everyone seemed to think I was two steps away from driving off a cliff - so when the doorbell rang, my heart stopped. My cousin, who'd been appointed the new chauffeur, stood on the porch waiting. Instead of unlocking the door, my feet turned to lead and I simply sat on the couch and waited for mom to answer it.

With a head nod that said he was used to our dramatic episodes, he began to take mom's bags out to the car. She sat next to me and patted my shoulder with one hand while stroking Baby's face with the other. I continued holding Brownie stiffly and didn't look into my mother's eyes. She stuttered an inarticulate goodbye and waited awkwardly for me to respond. In my head, I screamed at her that I was still extremely unprepared for the task at hand and that I needed her help. Motherhood was nothing, so far, like I thought it would be and I was very afraid at what was expected of me. But between a dry tongue and the lump in my throat, none of that came out. So I sat, while she hugged me and looked away when she walked to the door.

At the click of the lock, Brownie furrowed her brow and looked at me sternly, disappointed in my behavior. I sighed and continued to stare out of the window. Moments later, the house alarm beeped as the Big Guy entered. He walked over and took in my blank eyes and rumpled clothing, "I guess I just missed your mom, huh?"

I nodded.

"Why don't you let me take the baby and you relax for a bit," he said tentatively.

I shrugged and handed over my child. I lumbered up to the master bathroom and turned on hot water in the shower. I stood amidst the steam letting my braids become heavier and heavier as they soaked up water from the overhead stream. Running a hand across my face, I felt overwhelmed. Minutes passed and before long, the steam had begun to lessen and the hot spray had turned lukewarm. In the distance, I could hear a faint wail.

I rinsed my face and peered out of the fogged glass just in time to see my husband walk into the bathroom with Brownie crying in his arms.

"What's the matter," I asked.

"Oh nothing," he said, attempting to get her into a more comfortable position, "I think she's just tired."

I watched as she continued to squirm, her cries bouncing off of the high ceiling.

"You know, sweetie," he began again, "I know you're really upset, but I think you're gonna find you're more okay than you think you are."

"I doubt it," I replied.

He moved the baby away from his ear where'd he sat her upright, "What?"

"Nothing," I said over the noise.

He tried to talk over her, "I mean, once you get into the swing of things, it's gonna be no problem."

I watched Brownie fidget in his arms and said nothing.

"Today, just let me work with the baby and you relax for a while, and then tonight we'll order Chinese or something."

My daughter screamed on while he sat on the edge of the tub, oblivious to her shrieking.

"Do you want me to help with her?" I asked finally.

He drummed her back unsuccessfully, "Huh?"

"I said..." I looked at him fumbling. "Babe, you can't pat her like that, she doesn't like it."

"Oh," he said uncomfortably, "ok."

"Know what," I said, turning off the faucet, "I'll take her."

He tried to adjust her blanket, "No, sweetie, you don't have to do that.  This is your 'me time'."

Brownie let out another scream, testing her lungs.

"It's no big deal," I said, wrapping a towel around me quickly. "Just give her to me."

I hugged the squirming mass to my damp chest and rubbed in circles starting at her lower back moving up to her neck and back again. She didn't stop crying altogether but she quieted a bit.

"Geez," Hubs said massaging his temples, "at least one of us is good at this."

I looked back at the baby as she studied me in return. I didn't know if "good" was the right word, but suffice it to say, I'd bought my ticket, might as well buckle up for the ride. I exhaled.  Clearly the mommy rollercoaster was just getting started.



Until next time...

Music to My Ears

I'd hate to make it sound like my earliest experiences with Baby were all bad.  It's true, I found myself in a bit of a funk as the baby blues hung on longer than expected, but I enjoyed learning about my daughter.  She and I were a very peculiar pair in the beginning.  She seemed quite leery of me and, truth be told, I was deathly afraid of her.  It took a while before we developed that easy relationship parents and their children have.  I can say, though, that we had fun getting through those growing pains. 

In fact, one particularly amusing night as we sat looking at one another in the wee hours of the morn', she and I composed this little diddy.  It's called the "In the Days of Brownie" and is sung to the tune of "12 Days of Christmas". 

In the Days of Brownie

In the days since Brown-ie was born, my baby's given to me...

Twelve sleepless nights

Eleven half-filled bottles

Ten fits of screaming

Nine poopie diapers

Eight friends a-visiting

Seven calls to mom

Six peed-on nightgowns

Five off-key lullabies

Four self-help books

Three possible hemorhoids

Two aching boobs

and the cutest kid to ever smile at me!

Until next time...

Dr. Jekyll

Age: 8 days


I'd managed to make it a whopping 8 days without injuring my child too dramatically and before I knew it, my mom and I had set off for Brownie's very first doctor's appointment.

I'd relied heavily on my mother in the days I'd been home and assumed she would guide me through this process as she'd done everything else since my release from the hospital. Before we left home, she sensibly encouraged me to write down questions I had in case I got to the office and forgot my concerns. For the most part, she'd answered every one I'd had so far, but to be certain, I decided to double check with the doctor.

With my hormone-o-meter still reaching dangerously close to Psycho levels, I was anxious to hear the doctor's thoughts about how I measured up as a parent in these early days. Perhaps she'd grade me on my progress and send me home with ways to improve? I was more than open to any suggestions a qualified professional could offer.

Walking into the nondescript brick building, I noticed, with a grimace, several watery eyed, sneezing children playing with a puzzle in the middle of the floor. I clutched Baby's car seat to me as she slept and tried to blow the germy air back onto the little urchins before it could reach my child. Thankfully, after checking in, the receptionist pointed us toward the Well Child area - a separate waiting room for children that weren't sick - and I sighed with relief.

You'd have never seen a black woman so happy to be segregated.

In almost no time, we were called back to the exam room to meet with a nurse. She instructed me to undress Baby for a routine weigh-in. I slowly slipped my napping daughter into my arms, attempting to disrobe her with little fuss. Much to my chagrin, the nurse seemed to care very little about my efforts. As she looked for instruments to set aside, she went through the cabinets that lined the walls, slamming doors and closing drawers without any thought to my precious cargo's dream state. I was highly annoyed. My mother, no help at all, still hadn't looked up from her magazine.

Needless to say, Brownie awoke and had become slightly agitated that she was naked in front of strangers. I hugged her in a blanket to my chest, cooing softly in her ear, as the nurse walked us down the hallway to a scale. When I lay her down on the cold surface, she screamed in protest. I jumped to pick her back up. The nurse held a hand out politely, "She's fine. It's just a little startling. Let me get this weight first."

My baby girl sent telepathic signals my way, beckoning me forward. I bit my nails until the nurse nodded her head signaling me to pick Brownie up. I practically ran back into the exam room. Once there, I watched while the nurse checked baby's temperature - a task I enjoyed even less than Brownie (Would you like someone hunting around your nether regions that you'd never met?!) - before departing to fetch the doctor. I tried to console my shivering little girl as best as possible. All the while, my mom patted me on the back whispering soothing words into my ear.

The doctor arrived - a young, attractive woman that had pleasantly eased my fears when I interviewed her a few weeks before Brownie's birth - and took the baby from my arms, gently, while inquiring how our time had been since the birth. Distracted, I gave her a half-hearted summary of Brownie's feedings and poop routine. She checked my baby's joints, looked in her ears and nose and basically gave her a once-over before handing her back.

She asked if we had any questions and I had my mother pull out the small notebook I'd brought along. Patting the baby's back, I looked at my first concern. Brownie had had hiccups occasionally since she'd been home and her entire body seemed to shake with the effort it took to release each hiccup. My mother suggested water and I wanted to confirm that was best.

"No," said the doctor, "we don't use water anymore."

I frowned. Medical Science, point number one; Mother of Mine, point zero. The doctor went into an explanation about how the human body is made up of so much water and how it’s now thought that ingesting any at such an early age does nothing to promote growth, blah, blah, blah. My mother laughed and said something about how times had really changed. I tightened my eyes and leveled a glance her way. She seemed awfully nonchalant seeing as how she'd just learned her advice was bad.

I looked at my next question, about Brownie's sleep position. My mother had mentioned she'd had my brother and I sleeping on our stomachs from the time we were born and we loved it. I wanted to see if it still made sense. The doctor, again, shook her head citing the higher probability of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome with babies that slept on their stomachs.

I sucked my breath in, horrified. My mother was trying to kill my child.

They continued to chat back and forth jovially, discussing updates in modern medicine over the past 30 years, both oblivious to my increasing discomfort. A tiny part of my brain wondered whether I was being overly emotional and irrational but what happened next assured me that I wasn't.

The doctor went over with us how one of Brownie's hormone levels seemed to be “off” in the report she'd gotten from the hospital where we delivered. In addition to a Hepatitis vaccine Brownie would be given that day, they wanted her to give blood so that they could analyze her levels again. She assured me that these things happen somewhat regularly and the likelihood that something was wrong was really very low but it was a routine precaution she had to take. And then, without so much as a pause, she smiled and walked out the door calling for a nurse.

Where was the kind and considerate professional that had gone over her resume with me not even two months ago? This woman in her place was a cruel and vicious tyrant. I wanted to scream at her and plead for another way.

My eyes bulged and I panicked. Two shots?! That couldn't be right, this was just a little baby! Sensing my alarm, Brownie fidgeted in my arms. My mother hugged me and tried to calm me. I leaned into her, breathing deeply. Then I remembered this was just a monster in my mother's shell. This was the woman that had tried to drown my child's hiccups and then suffocate her in her sleep! I pulled away robotically.

The nurse charged in, carrying two syringes on a sterile metal tray. I lay the baby down - once again howling at the cold air - and watched the first prick. My cheeks warmed and my eyes flooded. The nurse turned briefly to hand me a tissue as I sobbed incoherently into my mother's shoulder. Next, my baby girl's little bicep was tied with a rubber belt and a needle slid into her tiny vein. At this, I had to sit to keep from fainting. I wondered what type of torture chamber I'd brought my daughter into. She was only 8 days old, there couldn't be this much pain in her world!

We barely made it out of the office with Brownie dressed. As soon as the nurse was done, I hastily threw my baby's clothes on and fled from the room. We waited in the parking lot, our cries jerky and deep. Between my worn and beaten exterior (my maternity clothes hung on my transitioning body sadly) and Baby's irritated screams, we probably looked like a very troubled, homeless mother & daughter pair.

Finally, my own mom departed the building, jingling my car keys with each step. "What took you so long," I almost screamed.

"I made your next appointment, sweetie," she said casually, unlocking the doors.

Another appointment? With these people?! I knew then that She was on their side. I rubbed my daughter's hand on the way home, plotting our next move. If my mother thought I'd expose my child to another round of cruelty like we'd just experienced, she'd lost her mind.

I caught a glimpse of my wild eyed expression in the rear view mirror and nodded to myself - clearly, I was the only sane one among us.

Until next time...

On The Job Training

Age:  4 days

Here I was, less than one week into the new gig and I was thrown out of the only secure and controlled environment I knew.  I was discharged from the hospital a mere four days after my c-section and they nearly had to put me out kicking and screaming.

Contrary to my husband, who was so elated I'd been released he was just about doing back flips, I was an emotional wreck.  On edge and highly hormonal, I was practically a mute while everyone around me prepared for the baby's departure.  My father had driven the 12 hour journey alone (my mother having flown down the day after Brownie was born) especially so that he could escort his 2nd grandchild home for the first time.  Everyone was excited.  Bags were hastily packed and treats from the nursery staff were distributed (extra diapers, body suits, wipes, etc.) while I sat numbly holding the baby in the hospital bed.  My nurses spoke cheerily with my family while I looked down at Brownie's sleeping form.

Before I knew it, I felt a tap on my shoulder, "Well, honey, time to go."

I looked up as one of the hospital staff held out his hand to help me into the awaiting wheelchair I had to use to exit the building.  My mom, dad & the Big Guy all stood around waiting for me to cheer, it seemed, but all I wanted to do was cry. 

I wondered if it would be possible to throw myself down on the ground and twist my ankle without hurting the baby, thus granting us at least an extra night or two of supervised help.  I've never been a great choreographer though, and since I couldn't work out the moves quickly enough in my head, I simply sighed and got up.

When we arrived at the house, my husband helped me inside and up the stairs (the surgery had taken a bigger toll on my body than I'd initially imagined it would) before quickly leaving me alone as he went and retrieved the rest of the bags.  I held Brownie tentatively and showed her the nursery.  She appeared highly unimpressed. 

Completely inexperienced with children of any age, it's an understatement of epic proportions to say that I was unsure of how to behave around my newborn daughter.  While other moms I'd spoken to exclaimed of how naturally motherhood had come to them after the birth of their children, I was still waiting for a book of instructions from God.  I'd relied heavily on the suggestions of the nurses while in the hospital and was still uneasy about the protocol for caring for my child.  And it didn't help that she seemed less than thrilled with her prize from the parent lottery.

Frankly, since she'd popped out, Brownie had maintained the countenance of a Catholic school nun - somber, skeptical, and wholly unenthusiastic.  I was quite positive that she was as unsure of my mothering abilities as I was.  I couldn't blame her disappointment.

My afternoon homecoming was relatively uneventful.  I spoke when spoken to, ate when someone threw food at me and greeted our well-intentioned visitors with obligatory smiles.  My mother chimed in occasionally warning me not to go up and down the stairs too often (so as not to complicate my recovery), my husband patted my back when his friends came over and showed them how well "we'd" done and my father intermittently made funny noises at the baby to see if she'd respond. 

For the most part though, the kid slept and I tried my best to appear calm.

Afternoon soon gave way to night, and as I'd feared, Baby and I were on our own.  Oh sure, as my mom & dad retired to the guest room, they told me to wake them if I needed anything and Hubby said he'd get up if I wanted help but I knew that this first night was a test.  Brownie would be judging me on how well I responded under pressure and if I cracked, she'd remember it forever.

My husband and I put the baby down around 9 pm in the bassinet we'd chosen to keep next to our bed.  I lay wide awake watching for movement as the Big Guy snored next to me.  No more than an hour had passed before I saw her kicking to be let out of the swaddling (a wrapping technique that's said to soothe babies).  I jumped up and grabbed her, fleeing from the master bedroom.  I feared that if she woke her father, he might see that I was unable to calm my own child.

Back in her nursery, I fumbled awkwardly while trying to change her.  Her little legs seemed so fragile in my hands and she squirmed uncomfortably with each of my missteps.  Finally, I finished and plopped into the rocking chair as I prepared to feed her.  Breastfeeding I'd found, like so many of my other assumptions, was nowhere near as simple as it seemed.  I'd had hands-on instruction with staff in the hospital when it came time to feed her and even then, I only "got it" 70% of the time. 

I willed myself to correctly feed my child.  I lay her in front of me, adjusted my nightgown and waited.  Brownie wiggled and groaned.  I tried to sit the way I remembered myself sitting in the hospital bed, partially reclined but still erect, and clasped her to me again.  Angrily, she let out a quick squeal.

In the months since, she's perfected this face.

No, no no, I screamed at myself, this isn't right.

I tried for fifteen minutes, repositioning us and re-starting, but nothing seemed to fall into place.  What kind of mother couldn't even feed her child?  With tears in my eyes, I walked over to her dresser and popped the top on one of the bottles that we'd left there as a back-up.  As my daughter sucked hungrily, I admitted defeat. 

Her feeding lasted nearly 30 minutes and afterward she became uncomfortable again, so instead of retreating to the master bedroom, I rocked her slowly hoping to calm her.  She'd fall into intervals of extreme agitation where she'd cry irritably and brief periods of fitful sleep.  I watched her warily, awaiting each bout of tears like a frightened child expecting a spanking.  Hours passed and the cycle continued, each time her crying seeming more and more uncontrollable.

I waited for my parents or my husband to come and check on me, surely they could hear this chaos, but the only other sounds I heard were of the house settling overnight.  I slept for only 10 minutes at a time when she'd calm down occasionally, but I always awoke with a start fearing I'd let her fall from my arms and out of the rocking chair.  I cried with her on and off and apologized profusely for my uselessness.

After one particularly loud session, I finally paced the floor with her, stopping in the room we use as an office.  There, I sat on the daybed and looked at her tear-stained face. 

"I know that you know that I can't do this," I choked.  "And I really am very sorry." 

She hiccupped in response.

"I promise I can try to get better but I really don't know how long that's gonna take," I admitted. 

She tightened her eyes and began whining again.

I pulled back the comforter from the bed and lay her down next to a long pillow.  I propped myself up on her other side.  I looked groggily at the computer screen and noted the 4:47am reading at the bottom.  Lying next to her, something my husband and I said we never wanted to do (we were too nervous to trust ourselves sleeping next to her tiny form), I rubbed her hair.  I couldn't remember more than 2 or 3 nursery rhymes so eventually, I resorted to singing old sitcom theme songs. 

She quieted down some and I kept singing until I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I turned anxiously and was surprised to see my husband fully dressed.  I looked back, terrified, and found the baby sleeping soundly in the crook of my arm, apparently we'd both fallen asleep. 

The Big Guy looked at me, smiling sweetly, "Aw, she looks so cute, doesn't she?  You guys have a good night in here?"

I suppressed the urge that welled up in me to karate chop his throat and simply walked out of the room, taking the baby to her grandmother.  I asked my fully-rested parents if they wouldn't mind watching her for a while so I could take a short nap.  With a soft goodbye to my husband as he trotted off to work, I walked back into my bedroom, my eyes welling up. 

Neurotically, as I drifted off, I wondered again what I'd gotten myself into.

Until next time...

Go!: Labor Pt. 3

Gestational Age: 40 weeks

Part 1

Part 2

Wednesday's remaining hours seemed to go by in brief spurts. I'd wake from a short nap and a nurse would come in to check my blood pressure. I'd go back to sleep and before I knew it someone else was in to readjust the baby monitors on my belly. I'd drift off again and hear my husband whispering on his cell to assorted long distance family members detailing my progress and mood. All in all, it was a rather boring evening and we both looked forward to what the next day would bring.

7am

Before long, it was the butt crack of dawn on Thursday and a Midwife had arrived to consult with me on how she believed our day would go. Since their initial round of drugs (a Cervadil insertion that softens the cervix) hadn't done anything to get labor progressing throughout the night, I would now begin a Pitocin drip that would stimulate contractions and get the baby ready to head out. The contractions would now be forced to come regularly and would, consequently, become more severe.

I squeezed my husband's hand and prepped myself for some heavy duty baby pain.

10am

While watching an A Different World re-run I began to complain to the Big Guy about how my stomach seemed to be balling up in knots every so often. It felt similar to spasms I've had in the past after doing too many sit-ups at one time. (Needless to say I hadn't had that sensation in a long, long time but I recalled it nonetheless.) Though not the worst pain in the world, I'd definitely had more comfortable moments and I started paying closer attention to the duration and frequency.

We continued to watch television and periodically talked to the baby in my belly, assuring her we were ready for her arrival and that she should feel free to "move on down" the yellow brick road.

12pm

I'd just updated my Facebook status - what am I, if not faithful to my internet family - and ordered the Big Guy to re-fluff the 20 pillows I had behind my back when a nurse came in with a clipboard. She informed me that, if I chose, I could now opt for an epidural.

That's it, I thought, that's the worst I'll have to endure? I quickly thought back over the past 5 hours and tried to remember if I'd had any earth-shattering contractions I may have forgotten. Surely it wasn't supposed to be this simple.

I debated confessing to her that I wasn't exactly in excruciating pain yet. But, alas, I've never been one to turn down a free mood enhancer so I happily signed away all liability and allowed her to send for the anesthesiologist.

1pm

Dr. Feel Good arrived in no time. Though there was never a question of me wanting to endure a natural labor and delivery, seeing the equipment the doctor would use to numb my body was a little nerve-racking. But I sucked up any dis-ease I felt and motioned for the Hubby to help me sit up. He quickly obliged and then relaxed when I banished him to the rocking chair across the room. Needles have never been my husband's 'thing' and since I knew it was more important to have him around once the pushing started, I didn't want him passing out too early.

I curled my back and steadied myself on a pillow as a smiling nurse stood in front of me holding my shoulders. With the anesthesiologist calmly explaining each step, I was numbed and then had the catheter inserted into my back. As it seemed with everything lately, my imagination had made it much bigger than it actually was. I've honestly undergone worst pain with procedures I've volunteered for. It really wasn't that bad.

In no time at all I was urging my husband to, "Go ahead, pinch my leg!" The sensation was indescribable. I felt like my body was floating underwater and that my head had come unattached all together. Everything that touched me below the belly seemed to be a million miles away and whenever I was prodded, only the slightest tingles managed to get through my hazy outer layer.

If epidurals ever become available on the black market, you'll know that's the day I become a junkie.

4:15pm

After a while, I tired of the fun of my new pain-free body and wondered when the real magic would happen. I was regularly being checked for further dilation and though I'd reached 7cm, none of the medical staff seemed to be reacting with any real urgency when it came to preparing for the baby. They were more interested, it seemed, with monitoring my blood pressure again.

Through no fault of my own, my pressure was edging back up into ranges higher than was normal. Even though I thought I was completely relaxed, my body seemed to be screaming that it wasn't.

At 5pm a Midwife came in to talk to me about the possibility of a cesarean section. I assured her that wouldn't be necessary and asked if it wouldn't be okay to just wait a little bit longer for the baby to move on her own. I was given a two hour limit.

The possibility of major surgery did nothing to calm my mood and soon my blood pressure had reached its highest levels yet.  I could see the worry in my husband's eyes and though I was working on hiding it myself, I knew he could sense I was upset. 

The second hand on the clock seemed to thunder with each tick and I mentally reached out to the baby to please show herself sooner rather than later.  Suddenly, the room phone rang and I jumped.  I realized how silent we'd become as we'd both zoned out. 

I picked up quickly unenthusiastically.  It was two of my best girlfriends and my cousin.  Somehow I'd forgotten they planned to visit me that evening. They were already at the hospital and wanted to check on the room number.  I sent them my way and no sooner had I put the phone down than my door opened and a somber looking nurse stepped across the threshold.  She explained that I'd labored for nearly 12 hours and that the staff wanted to wait no longer.  It was imperative they begin to prep me for surgery.

I didn't bother to look at my husband, I mumbled an ok and in no time, a frenzy of activity seemed to take place.  A flurry of white rushed into the room and medical staff I hadn't met before began suiting up in paper-thin operating garb.  New monitors were brought in and my readings on the existing equipment was jotted down onto a chart.  I knew this sort of thing had to happen everyday, but it didn't happen to me and the fact that I'd had no time to process the magnitude of my situation had my adrenaline rushing.

I inhaled slowly and tried to clear my head but there was another knock at the door.  In with two big grins came my friends.  With no more than a second's look around the room though, their smiles quickly fell and seeing their discomfort I lost my cool. 

Heavy tears fell from my eyes as I tried to muster a laugh, "I must look pretty bad, huh?"

One spoke up.  "What's all this?  What's going on?"

"C-section," I said.  "They're gonna take the baby.  It'll be quick though.  I'll be back in a little bit."

They frowned slightly and stood to the side as I was wheeled from the room.  My husband had to wait to come into the operating room because I needed to be further medicated and the room had to be sterile.  Being alone, for just those few minutes, seemed like an eternity.  But before I knew it, the doctor was checking for any sensation in my legs and telling me that we were ready to begin.

My husband appeared out of thin air, a surgical mask covering most of his face.  He patted my shoulder and kept his eyes glued to the blue sheet shielding the surgeon's area.  My body was pushed and pulled and even though I couldn't feel any pain, a heavy pressure soon settled over my chest and I lost my breath. 

Soon, I heard a clear shout, "Looks like we've got a baby girl.  Time:  7:37pm.  Congratulations."  There was more movement as doctors shifted in place and brought over additional instruments.  Everyone went on with their job. 

I wanted to smile or speak but I waited to hear some confirmation of the arrival from my daughter.  I expected a soft whine or even a scream of acknowledgement, but there was nothing.  A male nurse grabbed the baby and walked swiftly to the back of the room. 

I urged my husband to go and check and her.  "Go see why she's so quiet," I said quickly.

Minutes passed without sound.  I waited for someone to look at me and say something but there was nothing.  I bit my lip and tightened my eyes.  Do something, baby girl, I thought.

Suddenly, a loud, high pitched yell.

It was only then I realized I'd been holding my breath.  The Big Guy rushed back to my side.  "She's ok," he smiled.  "Just taking everything in, I guess."

The nurse brought my baby to me.  A large pair of dark, doe-like eyes stared at me thoughtfully.  I beamed.  Other than the initial yell, the baby had gone silent again but now that I knew she was alright, nothing else mattered.  I kissed my Brownie's cheek and allowed the staff to take her to be examined. 

I closed my eyes and said a quick, silent prayer of thanks.  Lord knows I'd better be thankful now because pretty soon I was gonna need as much help as I could get.  Now the real fun began, I was a mom.

Until next time...

Get Set: Labor Pt. 2

Gestational Age: 39 weeks, 6 days

Part 1

That's right.  I cried. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Though my Piscean fluidity prevails in most situations, most of my friends will tell you, I'm a planner at heart. I like to know what to expect so that I'm able to weigh all of the possible outcomes. I had prepared myself thoroughly, by then, for all of the ways I might naturally go into labor. Driving alone on my way home and I feel a contraction - covered. Out at dinner with the hubby and my water breaks - no big deal. Middle of the night and my back erupts into painful spasms - I'm ready! But this? Some nurse telling me to go to the hospital and she was going to kickstart my labor - well, that just wasn't part of the plan.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one shocked. My poor husband, who only at the last minute had decided to come to this appointment with me because he didn't have any early morning meetings, had gone completely white. No small feat as his smooth complexion rivals the color of some of the tastiest chocolate bars sold at your local convenience store. As I composed myself and readjusted the paper sheet that covered all of my lady parts, he grabbed his cellphone and simply walked out of the room.

I wiped my eyes, completely embarrassed, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do this."

The nurse looked at me and laughed, "It's ok, I work with pregnant women everyday. You're only the first one to cry this morning." She quickly briefed me on what would happen when I went over to the hospital and assured me I was in no danger. She simply wanted to jumpstart the inevitable so that nothing got out of control.

As she left me to get re-dressed, my husband entered the room and walked over to me.

"I'm okay," I said before he could question me, "it just caught me off guard."

I knew that the most important thing to do at that point was to get ahold of myself. If I lost it, my husband would soon follow and when he tried to pull me back from the brink of my neuroses (while he teetered on the edge himself) things could get pretty squirrelly.

He cupped my face in his hands and stared deeply into my eyes. "We're going to have a baby."

I looked around, "Yep. I noticed."

"This is a beautiful fact of life and we're going to be fine," he said stoically.

I nodded.

"You are a strong and capable vessel and..."

"Wait," I frowned, "are you quoting the book?"

Months ago, I'd purchased something of a Soon-to-be-Daddy-How-To book for my husband. He'd read it dutifully and it had come in handy in the past when he had a hard time figuring out why I was so moody or guessing at what I was going through that particular month. Clearly, he'd already read ahead to the Labor and Delivery chapter.

"I love you and I love our baby," he said attempting to force a calm presence while still stroking my temples.

"Honey," I grimaced.

He swallowed, "Yes, love."

"You're hurting my face."

He stepped back mechanically and I massaged my jaw line. "Well," I said matter of factly, "might as well get the party started. I guess after you take me to the hospital you'll need to go back home and get the bag."

He nodded his understanding.

"You should probably sweep in the kitchen and wipe down the bathroom countertops too now that I think about it," I went on.

With the initial shock out of the way, I was able to objectively look at the situation. "You might want to run by the grocery store and pick up a few things too. We'll have guests in the next couple of days, and they'll need to eat, I suppose."

Absentmindedly I continued ticking off my mental to-do list as he sat silently. I slid into my boots and we got ready to walk to the hospital (across the street), I was finally in somewhat of a relaxed mood, even somewhat looking forward to getting things going.

"Hey," I said as an afterthought, "where'd you go when you left the room? You get sick on me, big boy?"

"No," he replied, "I had to call your mother."

I stopped dead in my tracks, as a car waited patiently at the Stop sign up ahead. "You had to call who's mother?"

He looked at me confused.

"Tell me you didn't call mom," I pleaded.

"We're about to have a baby, I'm not supposed to call your mother," he asked incredulously.

Queen Mother is the best, most supportive mother in the world. She's definitely who you’d want in your corner to fight for you or speak on your behalf. She's loving, compassionate and the most stable person I know. That is, of course, unless you're one of her children. My mom loses any idea of what rational behavior is when it comes to my brother and I. She's emotional and dramatic to the point of psychosis when it comes to us and I couldn't imagine how she must've taken my husband's announcement.

Sighing, I quickly pulled out my cell as we approached the entrance to the Women's Hospital. The phone hadn't emitted a full ring before my mom picked up, her voice thick from crying. "Are you alright," she wailed.

I tried to sound as upbeat as possible, "Mother, I'm having a baby not a heart attack. Of course I'm fine."

She dissolved into sobs, "I can't believe I'm not down there. What kind of mother am I?"

I laughed, "You're a perfect one, mom. You're 800 miles away, you couldn't stay down here and just wait for the baby to come. You have to work."

She cried louder.

My mom had planned to come stay for two weeks after the baby arrived and with a job in Education and the school year just having started back after the holiday break, she wasn't able to come any earlier. We both knew that, and it had already been discussed that when I went into labor, she'd get on the first reasonable flight and get down as soon as possible. She wouldn't have to take any extra time off of work, and I'd still get my two weeks with her.

"Mommy, c'mon on," I said, "I'm fine, really. Today's Wednesday, you can get down here on Friday or Saturday and me and the baby will be here to greet you."

"My daughter has her first daughter and I'm not there to support her," she mumbled to herself.

"Look," I directed, "go into your office and start looking for flights, I'm sure you'll find something."

I could hear her choking back more tears, "Mmm hmm."

"Mom, do that for me ok?" I tried to keep her focused, "You are at work, right?"

"Kinda," she said.

"What does that mean," I questioned.

"I'm in the closet."

I tightened my eyes, "You're in what closet?"

"The janitor's closet," she said softly, "when [Hubby] called I got a little lightheaded and I needed a place to take a breath."

You put my mother in the janitor's closet! I mouthed angrily at my husband. I don't believe you!

"Ok," I said patiently, "well let's take a few more breaths together, and then let's get out of the closet, mom. People might start to talk."

I stabilized my mother, chastised my husband and managed to get myself checked in within the next 45 minutes. By 10am that Wednesday morning, I was hooked up and hog tied to 3 or 4 machines next to a very nice bed in a private room of the hospital overlooking a spacious parking deck. I sent the Big Guy home to tend to a few matters at the house (and pick up the elusive hospital bag) and finally had a few moments to myself.

Though my rational mind knew that this day was coming I was still very anxious about how things would progress. A very kind team of nurses continued to check on me for the next few hours. My blood pressure was stabilized for the time being, but since I was so close to my due date anyway, the doctors maintained the induction should still take place. They'd watch me overnight and if nothing happened naturally, I'd be drugged into the start of my labor.

The funniest thing I found after arriving at the hospital was that I'd actually been having contractions for the past week. The nurse showed me how to watch the intensity and frequency on a machine next to my bed.

"That's so strange," she said. "You haven't felt any of these?"

I had though, I told her. But I'd tricked myself into thinking they were normal pregnancy pains. I'd been so uncomfortable throughout the course of my pregnancy, I'd taught myself that anything that hurt was natural and I didn't bring it up to my husband because I didn't want to sound whiny. The nurse just laughed and told me that whiny or not, if they got any closer together I should alert the staff and ask for pain meds. She then left and suggested I rest seeing as I might have a hectic night/morning ahead of me.

I thanked her and lay back absorbing the sterile hospital room. It was nice enough; clean and they'd added decor that almost mimicked home (if you liked floral drapes and overly cushy benches). It wasn't so scary after all. But it still seemed surreal that I was there - I was going to be a mom. In the quiet of the maternity wing, I smiled to myself.

Now that things were settled and I was composed, everything would be fine, I told myself. The rest, I could handle. That's what I thought, anyway, as I drifted off to dreamland anxiously awaiting my baby girl.



To be continued next time...