I’m Not Special Anymore

I was at the hospital a few days ago for some tests, and as I was waiting for the elevator, I realized something devastating. I’m not special anymore. When I was nine months pregnant, everyone got out of my way. They held doors. People smiled at me. Now, I’m invisible again. I felt much this way after my wedding… I have used up all my specialness. No one will ever fete me again.

I wonder if this is why that woman who had twent-one chidlren had twenty-one children? She just wanted to feel special all the time.

Merry Merry!

This year for Christmas I would like eight hours of uninterrupted sleep… Ok. I’d settle for four.

Happy holidays!

Wide Load

Yesterday I looked in the mirror sideways (with clothes on; I’m no glutton for punishment) and I thought, hey, that’s not too bad. Two weeks into motherhood and I look pretty normal. Then I turned to the front–whoa! That’s where all that weight is being stored, sideways! I am so WIDE! How did it happen???

I had a boyfriend once (not a particularly nice one) who said of a gal that she was so fat she needed back-up bells. That’s me right now. Beep-beep-beep!!!

Playing Favorites

We’re getting the hang of breastfeeding one milk-sprayed session at a time. She’s getting enough so that we can feed less expressed milk, but not enough that we can just do the breast milk. Mainly, this is because she only likes one boob. Funnily enough, her father prefers the other. Perhaps they made a pact, “OK, you can do this breastfeeding thing, but only on that boob. the other one’s mine.”

My lactation consultant said it’s actually quite common for babies to prefer one breast to the other. So strange. It’s like preferring this Starbucks on the right side of the street to that other Starbucks on the left. Except in this case, both Starbucks have the same crummy barista.

What to Share

If you’ve been reading my posts, you know that I’ve had some issues with breastfeeding. My daughter and I are remedial breastfeeders. We have a remedial breastfeeding group now.

And you know what? I don’t really need everyone to know that. I don’t need to share with every family member. I don’t need anyone to hang around and watch me fail at breastfeeding, or excel at pumping out a bunch of milk from my sad, rock-hard boobs. But some people have shared with some other people, and now I’m having obligatory conversations with family members (and worse, in-laws) about how unsuccessful my breastfeeding is.

What is it about pregnancy and post-partum states that makes it OK for people to ask about my weight gain, my perineum, and my breasts? Oh, but they do. After my husband spilled every gory detail to his mother, I said to him, “honey, would you like to have a conversation about your penis with MY mom?”

He got the point.

It’s

seven in the morning, and I have slept one half hour. The baby won’t stop crying. Neither can I.

Milk, Milk, Everywhere

After breastfeeding this afternoon, I found a huge milk stain on my outer thigh. How in all-that-is-holy did it get there? And then I found another by my BUTT. What, does it migrate through the air before it finds a place to settle down and wet? I swear I have done five loads of laundry since yesterday. This is getting ridiculous.

I just keep telling myself: you’ll get the hang of this, you’ll get the hang of this… and if you don’t we’ll cover the furniture with plastic.

My Turn

Once upon a time I used to hear stories like this: “when my son went off to kindergarten, I cried and cried!” “At her first booster shot I cried more than she did!” “When he got his first scrape, I cried so much I think it hurt me more than it hurt him!” and I would roll my eyes WAY into the back of my head and think, oh please. Get a life.

Today, lovely Kaiser called to tell me that the blood drawn after my daughter’s birth had been smeared or something, and we would have to come back to the hospital to have her Newborn Screening Test done again. So, on the way to the Lactation Center, we stopped at the lab. After I handed over my paperwork, the technician grabbed my daughter’s heel and applied a device that went CLACK! Blood began dripping onto her blanket.

No one told me that they have to practically cut her heel off to do this crazy test. As the tech squeezed fat drops of blood my daughter’s blood onto a sheet of paper, I leaned over her screaming red face and placed my lips to her forehead. And I cried.

A Heart-Shaped Tongue

It turns out that my otherwise perfect child has something amiss with her tongue. The shape is too “heart” and she has problems with dexterity. Which means–oh, you guessed it–she can’t latch-on. Actually, she doesn’t even try. She just swings her balled-up fist at me like a baseball bat and yanks her head away from my breast as if my milk smells of liver pate. It’s quite insulting, really.

We have gone to the lactation experts and they have forced me into a breast shield and onto a breast pump. I actually quite like the pump, as it makes a very satisfying about of milk come out of me. If only it didn’t add another humiliating and time-consuming thing for me to do during the day (and night).

I realize all of this is in service to my baby’s health, and I want her to be healthy and happy, but it is so emotionally devastating. I feel I am being robbed of the bonding that is suposed to happen during breastfeeding, I feel my baby is rejecting me (though I know she is not) and I can’t stop feeling sad about these feelings. I’m crying several times a day, and though I suppose that’s not entirely unusual, all the crying makes me feel one more horrible thing: like a failure.

Just Missed Pearl Harbor Day

So, I guess it’s OK that the labor took over 30 hours… since it meant her being born on December 8th, a good friend’s birthday, and not the Day That Will Live in Infamy. That wouldn’t have been as cute.

Meet Kara. More when I’ve had a little sleep. Just a little…