The Early Days: The Fourth Trimester

Within the first 48 hours of being home from the hospital with my newborn, I called my dear friend from my hometown, Beth. I'm pretty sure Beth would like to have kids one day, so what I told her now feels selfish, but I really needed to confide in someone. "It's (sob) so (sob, pause for emphasis)... HAAAAAAAAAAARD...." I went on to attempt to put into words what a smack in the face having a newborn had been so far. I did mention, I'm sure, that he was an exceedingly cute infant, and I did love him, but damn! I was miserable. Why?





I think there are four primary things that make those first days at home exceedingly difficult -- regardless if you have a colicky baby (God bless you, if you do) or an easy baby. Even in the midst of my new mother crisis, I paused every so often to realize with amazement that our boy as a good baby. I can't even fathom how people with colicky babies manage to get through it. I think they should wear a special badge, have premium parking spots, be allowed first in any line, and so forth for having lived through the colic days and made it to the Other Side. Really.





Here are those four things that make the first days (or first three to five months) so difficult, in my opinion:

1. Recovery from childbirth and/or surgery. Maybe you've read The Good Earth or have heard about how women used to give birth while working in the fields and then resume their work right after. These women must be made of something I'm not. I wasn't even allowed to flex my calf muscle to drive a car for a week after surgery, doctor's orders. Seriously, surgery or no, recovery from getting that child outta you, especially after carrying your baby around for nine months, earns some well-deserved exhaustion. Not all of us make good patients or do well in "recovery mode," especially if we like to be up and active and around the house. Of course, going on and coming off of the drugs in the hospital and at home takes its toll. I was starting to see how someone could easily become addicted to pain killers, though I am glad I escaped that fate. Don't think I didn't notice how a little Mother's Helper took the edge off around 4:00 when I was dying for my husband to come home and take over. (And I know not everyone always has the luxury of a husband coming home to take over... I am very humbled by how single or pseudo-single parents do it!)






2. Hormones. So, in addition to physical exhaustion and possible recovery from surgery, "Hello, hormones!" I've already told you about the roller coaster ride on which I found myself. While I expected to be happy, and found glimmers of happiness, I generally spent a lot of time crying. I'd say "scattered showers" was an accurate description. It didn't take much... Granted, a lot of it was due to exhaustion as well as hormones, but my outbursts were so unpredictable and unlike me. At my wedding, when my husband broke down into tears while reading his vows, I got a little misty, but it felt so surreal. Contrast that to my hormonal post-partum self: My uncle, who has no children and had to ask friends what to get someone when they have a baby, sent a large package of diapers as a gift. When my mom (his sister) showed me what he had given us, I wept. "That... is... the... nicest... thing (sniff!)... anyone... has... ever... done!" Sheesh. I was a blubbering mess.



3. Sleep deprivation. I see why sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. I am so amazed and impressed with what the human body does during pregnancy by producing a child. On the other hand, I am disgusted how this human design treats a hormonal, recovering post-partum woman by giving her an infant that sleeps all day and cries all night. Or sleeps very sporadically -- not enough to cobble into "quality chunks" of sleep for Mom or Dad. After "going to bed," -- a funny concept in those first days when, every time I started to drift off to Slumberland, cries would erupt from my baby -- and spending more of the night awake and nursing my child than asleep, I was a bitter, zombie-like shell of a person. In the morning, up pops my husband, gazing into the co-sleeper beside the bed. "Isn't he just the cutest?" he cooed, all chipper and reasonably well-rested. I glared at him through cracked eyes. "What?!" he asked, defensively. I replied, "Yes. He is cute. But he'd be a lot cuter to me right now if I hadn't been feeding him and trying to put him to bed all night instead of sleeping."





And then there are those miraculous times when I'd get a good chunk, say three or four consecutive hours, of sleep and I'd feel a whole hell of a lot better about life in general. I remember listening to my friend Jane, who had a baby about the same time I did. She was also in a state of misery on her new motherhood experiences after a night or three of terrible sleep. I could see so much of my poor-sleep self in her.... It was hard for either of us to see how we were going to make it through the day, much less all of motherhood, on poor-sleep days. When we got poor sleep, both of us were convinced we needed an anti-depressant. Then, when we got a reasonable amount (relative to parents of newborns), we thought we'd be fine. Suffice it to say, I completely "get" why sleep maintenance medications are frequently prescribed with anti-depressants. I work with children in a mental-health capacity, and I now find myself very interested in the quality of sleep children are getting when they have difficulty with emotions, behavior or learning.






4. Major culture shock to life with a baby (a.k.a. Baby Shock). I was talking with a mother the other day about her life pre-kids. She worked, she had an agenda, she went about her day with purpose, checking things off her to-do list, and that was pleasing to her. She and I both had a lot of adjusting to do once Baby came.





It's too bad you can't gradually live with your baby. Say, start out with an hour, then send him back to a womb-like place for safe keeping, then work up to two hours, then back, and so forth. While certainly I had a purpose with Baby R around, I didn't realize how challenging it would be for me to put aside my own to-do list, filled with all the things I hope to get accomplished with this "maternity leave break." Funny! Used to flitting about the house all day pre-baby, I now had to sit for long stretches (hours at a time) to nurse my son. There was no real agenda anymore; any notion of a plan I had could easily vanish into thin air if there was a diaper emergency or a feeding problem or a baby who either slept or didn't sleep. I never appreciated my mother and mother-in-law more, because when they left, our household pretty much fell apart. I certainly couldn't both a) take naps and b) clean up or get things ready while the baby slept; if the choice had to be made, eventually I realized the Person Who Wanted to Stay Sane should go to bed, already! Thank God for those kind people who come bearing meals, because otherwise it would've been some slapdash bowl of cereal or sandwich for dinner every night for five to six months. I have stacks and stacks of baby and parenting magazines that I meant to read in my "spare time" during maternity leave, still unread.





One of my first nights home, the baby was asleep and I joined my mom, husband and brother-in-law for a meal at the dining room table, where we typically ate. I was so hungry. As soon as I sat down, though, Baby R began crying, and it became clear that it was dinner time for him, too. Being new at breastfeeding, I decided to set up camp at a tray table in the family room and leave my family to dine without fear of being flashed. I assured everyone, tiredly, that it was fine. I got Baby R all set up for him to eat, but try as I might, I couldn't figure out how to lean over my plate and eat while I nursed. (This skill came later.) I sat there, hungry, tired and trying to please at least one of us, while listening to the laughter and conversation from the dining room. Baby R was with me, but I felt so... alone. I missed my old life, the one where I got to sit at the dining room table with my family and actually eat when I was hungry.





For those of you who are experiencing this, it's true that things do get better. I'm not posting this to be a Debbie Downer, but what I really needed when I was going through this was to know that someone else felt this way, too. I needed validation. That's why I am being so frank about my experiences -- so that if you feel or felt this way, you can know that you are not (or were not) alone.

Yes, those are zombie-swirls in my bloodshot eyes.

In Defense of Modern Medicine

C-sections get a bad rap. I remember reading in magazines and childbirth books about having a Caesarian section, or C-section, and thinking it sounded horrible, and much unlike what childbirth should be. It is not sold as a desirable option. Critics contend that doctors like to perform these “births,” if you will, because it is easy money, it makes for an easy delivery, and it helps them to avoid the dreaded malpractice lawsuit.

Talking to friends, I have heard their stories of how disappointed they were when their long labors were punctuated by the doctor’s decision to wheel them off to a surgery room to perform a C-section. It sounds like there is a sense of mourning that came with their birthing experience. And, after all that labor and assuming you were going to deliver a baby like women have for thousands of years, I am sure that change of plans is hard to swallow. That wasn’t part of their “Birthing Vision.”

In my case, my C-section was scheduled. Oh, I tried to avoid having a C-section, though the thought of scheduling my baby’s birth date (since I am, by nature, a planner) was right up my alley. “Hmmm, what’s that saying about a Wednesday’s Child?... Well, let's see, if we have the baby on a Friday, my mom only has to take one day off work and then we’ll have her for the weekend, too…” What's not to love about picking your child's day and date of birth?

The reason for my scheduled C-section was that my baby was sitting comfortably in the breech position, meaning he was sitting upright, head below (or between?) my lungs and feet near my bladder (that I believe).

I explored alternatives, such as going to a chiropractor and having them do some sort of trickery to get my baby to flip. In the end, I didn't think this idea was so prudent. So I opted to have an “external version” a few weeks before, which is a polite way of saying “Pregnant Lady Torture,” since that’s basically what it is. The doctors (two OBGYNs, in my case) pushed on my abdomen (externally) and tried to physically turn the baby from the outside. Better from the outside than from the inside, I’ll bet you are thinking. I suppose. It was excruciating. Afterwards, the nurse let me know that I did well, considering the muscle relaxant given to me hadn’t had time to take effect yet (!), so I felt much pain. However, despite those 60 seconds of extreme discomfort, our baby wasn’t going anywhere. So, I feigned disappointment that now we would have to select a date – a week prior to the baby’s due date – to pull him out of me. What? I don’t have to go days or even weeks beyond my due date to wait for my labor to start? Or, better yet, I don’t have to even go into labor!? Where do I sign up!?

Some people like to speak of their labor as their War Story, their Badge of Honor. If I had a Labor Story, I sure would, too. Right on! Tell me about how many hours, the blood, the sweat, the tears, the yelling at your husband for getting you into this in the first place. I saw enough videos in Lamaze class to know that birthing ain’t easy and it ain’t fun, and if anyone says it is, they probably had an epidural or some other really good drugs, or they are extremely masochistic. I can know this without having to go through it.

I like to think I got away with such an easy child-birthing set-up because I have suffered at the whims of my body (or my free will, at times) in other ways. First, there were the teeth pulled from my mouth, and then the many years of orthodontics. This includes the piece of metal referred to as an “appliance” (how domestic-like) that was also much like a device of torture and ridicule, since it created a speech impediment while I wore it. When I turned 18, I got a tattoo (but it is small, so I almost considered leaving this off the list). Then, in college, I passed kidney stones, which has often been compared to the pain of childbirth. That was pain unimaginable. I also had appendicitis following childbirth. And who knows what is in store for me hereafter.

This I can tell you: Having a C-section was a piece of cake. Step 1: Get your epidural or spinal. Step 2: Have your OBGYN/surgeon make an incision and Step 3: Pull the baby out. Very quick and relatively easy. Sure, the recovery from a C-section sucks, but so does the recovery from vaginal delivery, I hear. Either way, you have to heal. Either way, there is lots of blood involved. Either way, you almost always get your baby at the end.

I can also say this: C-sections save lives. They spare mothers from unnecessary (now unnecessary, in our age of modern medicine) suffering. They save babies from extra stress and possible umbilical cord strangulation and whatever other horrible things can happen when a baby stays in a birth canal for too long or labor does not progress as it should.

I would have my C-section a million times over. Since having my baby and telling my story, I have had women say, “Oh, but I bet you were disappointed that you didn’t get to go through labor and deliver that way…” in a pitying tone. Ha! While it is easy to nod and agree, for me, I am perfectly happy never really knowing the agony of labor (and I hear they do call it “labor” for a reason). I’m okay with having a scar where I have a scar instead of where ever else I could have a scar. And I’m pretty sure I am just as much a woman – or, rather, a mother – as those who delivered the traditional way.