Today, I had the best of intentions for this blog. Maternal moping would be a thing of the past: I would be funny! I would have perspective! I would mock myself and others, just like the old days!
I was going to tell you all about my adventures trying to get myself and my baby out of the house this week -- how on the first day, I tried to take her to Starbucks so I could get myself some variety of overpriced corporate autumn-themed poison in a cup, but when I tried to put her in her stroller she screamed so furiously that she actually turned seven shades of purple, causing me to eventually give up, bundle her into her sling, and take her on a conciliatory walk through the park with the dog. Who is sorely neglected, and who recently ate and promptly threw up a used band-aid.
And I was going to tell you how on my second attempt at getting out of the house, we actually made it into the stroller and onto the street and through the doors of Starbucks, at which point the child began wailing the wail of the abused, causing me to flee the joint too quickly and insodoing spill my coffee all over the outside of the stroller, after which point I found myself pushing a soggy stroller filled with screeching baby down the sidewalk behind a Very Important Lady who was walking while talking on her cell phone and who kept turning around to shoot me looks of disgust over her shoulder, all "how dare you mar my Very Important Cell Phone Call with the sound of your screeching baby", and I kept looking back at her all "um, yeah, so maybe if you weren't walking in the middle of the sidewalk SO VERY VERY SLOWLY I could go around you and then you would be rid of us for good, except that I am having so much goddamn fun moseying along, out in public, with this baby hyena I somehow birthed six weeks ago and I want to make this sweet peaceful outdoor bliss last as long as possible, so, hey, let's hang out. You wanna?"
And then I was going to tell you about how I, the husband, and the baby went to see "Running With Scissors" this morning through the Reel Moms program, I, of course, having temporarily abandoned my feminist rage (Why it called Reel MOMS? Why not Reel Parents?) in favor of having the opportunity to see a first-run movie, one of my favorite hobbies, for the first time in months.
Except that I can't tell you about this last one, because it didn't happen. Instead, I have to tell you about how I woke up with a sore breast, a fever, and chills, and how I called my doctor and she sent me to the ER, and I have fucking mastitis AGAIN. Me and breastfeeding? As Carrie Bradshaw once said: we're so over, we need a new word for over.
The other day, my daughter was crying. I know, news flash, right? Her little milk-stained face was red and scrunched up, her legs were kicking, her arms were flailing. Clearly, something was up, and she was gently and succinctly drawing my attention to the matter. The way communication between the two of us works thus far goes a little like this: she flips out; I run around like a crazy person warming bottles and checking diapers and thumping her on the back until something works and she quiets down, blinking, looking annoyed but placating, as if to say "it took you long enough, but i'll let it slide. AGAIN."
This time, none of the usual strategies seemed to be working. Hungry? No; she just ate. Poopy? No; her diaper was clean enough to eat off of. If you were totally gross, anyway. She seemed to be so uncomfortable and I wanted more than anything to make it better, if for no more honorable reason than I really wanted to go outside for the day's exciting pre-planned excursion down the street to Walgreens and am not yet confident enough in my parenting skills to deal with a screaming baby in public. But I digress.
In checking the baby's diaper, it occurred to me that it had been quite awhile since she had pooped. Hmmmm, I thought to myself. Do babies get constipated? I consulted my trusty crunchy-hippie Dr. Sears book and found that when a breastfed infant begins drinking formula, as ours has, she may suffer from a backed-up pooper during the early weeks of her diet change. (Actually, the book worded it more along the lines of "when a horrid nazi mom starts poisoning her child with faux-milk, her child will suffer great pains for all eternity" - but who's keeping track?)
Ok, so maybe the baby was constipated! I congratulated myself on the diagnosis: well done, mom. But now what? I laid the baby on my lap and looked at her. Her belly looked rounder than usual. I rubbed it. I put pressure on her abdomen, right below her belly button, and massaged downward. And then, like magic... poof! Or rather, "plplplplplplplplpplplplplp" -- the sweet music of a small explosion taking place in my child's pants. It was truly horrific: colorful in appearance, massive in size, ridiculous in smell. And I was delighted! The baby had been uncomfortable! And I helped fix it! With something other than a boob full of milk! Could it be??
And then I went to Trader Joe's for groceries the next day and the checkout guy made fun of me for buying so much frozen food and I was like "I just had a baby, yo" and he was all "Oh, congrats, sleeping through the night yet?" and I jumped across the counter and strangled him with the sum of my Exhaustion and Angst Made Real. Because, seriously. Who ASKS that?
Hey world! Cletus here. I'm one month old tomorrow. Raise the roof!
In honor of my first four weeks outside the womb, I've spent my time between poops preparing a series of haiku for your reading pleasure. I'm a baby of refined taste, and as such I support the arts. Please enjoy.
I.
MILK! All you can drink.
From the boob or the bottle,
I take it warmed, yo.
II.
Sleeping's for the weak.
When the stars shine, so shine I.
Diaper change? Mais oui.
III.
Crazy people, please --
I am SO the boss of you.
Goo goo ga. Peace out.
I'm not proud of this, but I feel I have to come clean: I've been watching The View.
I'm not talking about stumbling upon an episode or two while listlessly flipping channels. I'm not talking about viewing it as a spectacle through the discerning eye of feminist judgment. I'm talking about Watching It. Like, turning the dial to ABC at 10 AM, baby to breast, and settling in for the long haul. Please be kind. I have mastitis.
I'm not sure when this all started. I'm suspecting it was the arrival of Rosie O'Donnell as co-host. I used to watch the Rosie O'Donnell show, back when it was all the rage with closeted moms in the suburbs. I always liked how Rosie rocked her liberal politics while celebrating all things pop culture. I liked how she obsessed over her own reality show fandom and threw free toys at her audience members. Now, on The View, I find it amusing how she beats down that screechy harpy Elisabeth Hasselback with the sheer force of her eyes while carefully walking the line of palatable network-friendly lesbianism (yes, she can mention her partner and their children; no, she cannot participate in conversations about sex in a non-ironic way). I like the epic power struggle brewing between O'Donnell and batshit Barbara Walters. I like watching the commercials that play during the show and taking note of all the superkeen products that I, a mom at home on my couch on a Tuesday morning, should be buying: makeup, Mr. Clean, the services of a lawyer with a 1-800 number, formula.
Speaking of formula. I sense that it is in my future very, very soon. Did I mention the mastitis? That's a breast infection, bitches. Thursday night I walked home from a night of tivo'd Project Runway at J's house; by the time I got home, I was fighting nausea and a splitting headache. When I got up for Cletus' 4:00 AM feeding, I had a 101 degree fever, chills, and a throbbing red boob. We were already heading to the doctor the next morning due to Cletus' 48-hour Marathon of Screaming, Screaming, So Much Screaming, so while we were in her office I took advantage of the opportunity to whip out my breast in exchange for drugs. (You didn't know I rolled like that?) Now it's a couple days and several doses of antibiotics later, the fever is down but the boob is still pink and sore. In order to heal from the infection, I am supposed to somehow both "rest" and "nurse at least every two hours around the clock." I'm pumping instead of nursing because it hurts less and produces more. Perfect moms in chat rooms across the world, take note: I am no martyr. When my dreams start to include visions of me floating down the aisles of a softly-lit grocery store stocked entirely with formula and yogurt (?), I take note.
And I have also been watching Deal or No Deal. Again: my BOOB is INFECTED.
Today is my due date. Cletus the Fetus was supposed to be born on this very day. Instead, today I have a 3-week-old.
I don't have a lot of mom friends. In my copious free time between nursing the baby and, well, nursing the baby, I have been reading the archives of some of my favorite mom blogs, looking back to see how they were doing when their babies were nearing the one-month mark. "I've been feeling so much better," one blogger wrote. "My son is developing such a personality," another said. With few exceptions, the general consensus seemed to be: "this motherhood thing gets a little easier every day."
Well guess what, internets? Over here, at my house? Things are not getting any easier.
The baby is fussy. She cries and whimpers and makes little back-of-the-throat snorting sounds, and I don't know what any of them mean. The baby is hungry. She wants to nurse all the time. My nipples hurt. I feel like a bottomless milk jug, or a cow. The only way I can comfort her is to stick a boob in her mouth. That's all I know how to do; I have no bag of tricks. Our entire relationship is centered around her appetite. I don't enjoy breastfeeding. It doesn't make me feel close to my daughter. And I feel overwhelmingly guilty about it.
I am tired. The baby won't sleep when it's dark outside. Last night, she slept a total of about two hours. Which means I slept less than that. She will sleep in my arms or on my chest, but when I put her down her eyes pop open, her feet kick their way out of her swaddle, and the whimpering starts anew. During the day, however, I have to wrench her from a trance-like sleep every three hours so that she can drain my full-to-bursting breasts.
I am bored. I feel like all I do all day is nurse, prepare to nurse, clean up after nursing, and change diapers. I am sure that this is supposed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy and fulfilled, but it doesn't. I feel bored. I say mean things to my dog when she nips at my heels, even though I know she doesn't understand why we can't snuggle all day like we used to. I say mean things to my husband, even though I know he is just as tired as I am. I resent him when he leaves the house to go to work. And then I feel guilty. Again.
I am not depressed; I am disappointed. Blogger moms, throw me a bone. Am I the only one who has felt this way? Please don't tell me it's going to get better; I'm sure you're right. Just tell me what you did, or are doing, to get through the rough stuff with sense of humor intact.
Life with a new baby seems to be a balancing act: for every negative, there is a positive. For instance, I am a human milk machine. That there's a negative. Cletus is Hooked on Boob. She can't get enough. She needs a 12-step program. And if my boob is not in her mouth, she usually does not seem particularly interested in me. After I nurse her, when I'm trying to snuggle my nose into the folds of her neck or to chomp on her little perfect toes, she casts her eyes to the side and turns her head away, as if to say "Meh. Where's Dad?"But the positive side, of course? Is that my baby is not starving to death! She's getting plenty of milk, milk that only I can provide. Our visit to the pediatrician's office yesterday showed that Cletus has gained an ounce a day ever since I discovered my soulmate, the nipple shield. If things keep progressing in this manner, I feel confident that the way in which I will ultimately inevitably break the baby will NOT be malnutrition. Right now, I'll be honest with you: the main negative I'm experiencing -- and it's a biggie -- is the fact that I have not slept since the DAWN OF TIME. Every night, from about midnight to 5:00 AM, Cletus takes it upon herself to throw a little party. Her parties involve hourly feedings, significant poopage, and wide-eyed marveling at the glory of the darkened living room. She's a perfectly pleasant baby during these times; staying up all night seems to suit her just fine. Meanwhile, I use the hand that is not propping her head up to my breast to poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick, because sweetmercifuljesus this is wearing me out.We are trying everything we can to establish the difference between day and night in our household. During the day, we keep the apartment well-lit and noisy. We wake the baby every 3 hours or so to nurse. When she's awake, we try to stimulate her by talking, singing, performing one-act plays, krumping with wild abandon. She'll stay alert for a little while, but before long it's back to dreamland. Until nighttime rolls around, of course, and the lights go down and the house goes quiet and the baby starts rooting around for a pair of strappy sandals she can wear out for her evening on the town.It's way too early to even think about putting Cletus in her crib and letting her "cry it out." And keeping her awake all day most likely won't make any difference in her sleep schedule, short of getting her all cranky. Everything I've read seems to suggest that newborns often get their days and nights mixed up, and that they usually start to get their sleep patterns more normalized... after a "temporary phase" of a few months. And to that I say: a few MONTHS? A few months does not a temporary phase make. A few months is water torture.What, you ask, is the positive side to all this? Here's the best I can come up with:I'm not pregnant.Yes, I'm up with the baby all night every night. But am I dragging myself out of bed every hour on the hour to pee? No. Am I constantly 25 degrees hotter than everyone else on the planet, even when it's freezing outside? No. Are my internal organs being kicked and prodded from the inside? No. Am I lying on the couch, rendered all batshit from braxton hicks contractions, back pain, leg cramps, headaches? No, no, no and no. I have lost 20 of the 30 pounds I gained during pregnancy. I am currently dressed, albeit quite snugly, in my favorite pre-pregnancy pants and a skinny shirt. Two nights ago, with dinner, I had soft white cheese and a glass of wine. There are thick dark beers in my fridge and I can drink them if I want to. That whole going-into-labor thing? Already happened! Over and done! Not being pregnant is awesome.Oh, and also? There's a cute baby:
