The Earring

One of the two reasons I hesitated to have children is because of my marriage. My husband and I met in 1997 and married five years later. For four years afterwards, we were happy. We disagreed on everything from what temperature to set the thermostat on to how many times one is allowed to hit the snooze button on the alarm, but I recall only 4, maybe five, real arguments. We usually made nice within the next few hours, so all in all, things were well. In public, we joked about disagreements, but I also used to say, "We don't have a house or kids; there's just not much to fight about yet." I was only joking in part, because I really believed that kids could be the end of our happy marriage. Why add kids to a marriage? "If it ain't broke, don't fix it," you know?

The first month of Rain's life, I thought I had made a self-fulfilling prophecy. A lack of sleep tears down a person's physical and mental health like few things can, and it wasn't long before we both felt snippy and burned out. Forget about any cuddling, either. Not only are most new moms too sleepy to think about it, doctors declare a 6-week (sometimes longer) moratorium on intimacy after labor. My life had totally changed, and the reality of that slammed into me the day Tim returned to work. On days when Rain was hysterical with tears, knowing Tim was at work communicating with other adults, sipping a cup of coffee, and blissfully unaware of my troubles, made me a little bitter. I idealized what his work day must be like, because I figured anything was better than sitting at home with a wailing baby. The despair made me less than excited about being a good wife.

When Rain was three weeks old, we decided to institute a weekly date, which we still do today. This flicker of love every Friday kept hope alive for me. For the two hours we were together, it reminded me that, yes, the man I loved enough to marry is still the same man. It was hard to see that during the day when everything was buried under diaper changes, bottles, and hectic bedtimes.

So, the other day I lost a silver earring. It was a beautiful earring Tim bought me one Christmas. I was sure I had accidentally vacuumed it up, so I was determined to empty the vacuum cleaner bag and hunt for it. While Tim watched Rain, I went to our back porch to empty the bag. I didn't have the heart to tell him what I was searching for in particular, all I said was, "I lost something, and I think it's in the bag." I went outside, spread the contents of the bag out, and searched. Immediately, mosquitoes began trying to bite me. It has rained here for months now, and mosquitoes are everywhere. We have to run inside our front door when we come home to keep them from flying in. Anyway, they were all over me. To add to the horror, I brushed into a spider web, and two large spiders hung above the back door, waiting for my re-entry. I squirted the mosquitoes with bug spray, but still they came. After fifteen minutes, I went inside, sweaty, red, exhausted, and defeated. I had been flailing my arms around the whole time to protect myself and had barely been able to look for the earring. I admitted to Tim I had lost an earring he had given me, and I took a shower.

And Tim? Well, Tim put on a pair of jeans. He slipped on a long-sleeved shirt. When I saw him again, he was spraying himself with bug repellent. He stepped on to the back porch, got on his knees, and slowly went through all the vacuum cleaner debris. As I held Rain and watched him carefully filter through all the trash, well, let's just say there isn't anybody else I'd rather be in all this craziness with.

Big Girls Don't Cry

Rain had an appointment yesterday for a round of shots (four, to be exact). I was feeling lucky, because I happened to have a doctor's appointment at the same time across town. No, I didn't plan it this way, but since Tim had a half day off at work, we figured it would be fine. This meant, though, that Tim would have to deal with the needles and crying by himself. I felt a little guilty but relieved. I've heard that parents cry (or worse) when their babies get immunized, and I didn't want to know how I'd react. Lately, as now you know, my body has run amuck and can not be trusted.

Rain's appointment was at 9:15, and mine was at 9:30. By all reason, she should have been done long before I ever got home. Well, here's a Law of Parenthood for ya: pediatricians' offices tend to, as they say, move slower than molasses going uphill in winter. I mean, when I go to my regular doctor's office, I wait 10-15 minutes, and rarely, sometimes thirty. I don't know if it's because pediatricians overbook, parents are always late, or the doctors simply need more time with the kids, but whatever the reason, your child can have another birthday pass while you sit in a waiting room.

Anyway, so my appointment was at 9:30. When I left the doctor's office at around 10:20, I called Tim to ask how Rain did with her shots. She hadn't taken them yet, and Tim was keen on me coming to help. "But I'm at least 20 or 25 minutes away," I said. "I doubt I'll make it." Tim insisted, so I drove to the doctor's office. When I arrived, a nurse shuttled me to Rain's room. There she was, calmly sitting on Tim's lap while her pediatrician explained the immunizations she still hadn't received. I was dismayed, but not surprised. When he left the room, I fed Rain and tried not to show any agitation. I didn't want her to sense what was coming and start crying before anything had gone down.

A nurse came in and pulled out four needles. Tim held Rain, and the nurse prepped her thigh. I wanted to look away, but that would've made me feel like a bigger coward. I watched Rain's face as the needle pricked her. She didn't seem to realize what had happened at first, but by the time the second needle was inserted, her face was contorted.

"Don't worry, baby, you're doing great!" I said, trying to sound as if we were actually having a good time. She began to cry, and I thought, "Please, please, just be mad. Don't cry as if I'm hurting you, just be mad." Rain's face turned red, and she cried in a way that said, "Ow! That hurts! Quit it!" At least, however, she didn't cry as if emotionally injured. I could take an angry or a hurt cry, but not a whimper like, "Why are you doing this to me? What did I do?"

Shots 3 and 4 came quickly, and afterwards, the nurse and then Tim cuddled her. She quieted immediately and sucked peacefully on her pacifier. Last night, she slept more than usual, and cried a strange, tired cry, but no one can say she was less than brave. Toss out the frills and pink--mommy's proud of her tough girl.

Breast vs. Bottle: Smackdown (Part 3)

I told Tim that breastfeeding babies are, in one respect, like bad high school dates: they're only interested in one thing, and it isn't mommy's brain. But as funny as it is to watch Rain nurse (at times, she uses her arms to completely hide my breast and her face, so I say, "Would you like me to leave you two alone?"), that isn't the funniest thing about breastfeeding.

The most uncomfortable, and often hilariously humiliating, thing about breastfeeding is that I'm not the plant manager. For the first time in my life, I'm not in control of one of my bodily functions. What I'm saying is, milk can come of it's own accord. When I was pregnant, I was told by my childbirth instructor that moms can release milk (a process called "letdown") just by hearing a baby cry (not just her own, either), thinking of her baby, or for no obvious reason at all. Know what I did with that bit of information? I put it in the "Sucker" pile. I thought, "Only a total wuss would spill milk at the drop of a hat." I figured those moms were the kind of women who had always wanted to be moms and probably played house until they were ten. One thing I was sure of, a person who's told a child before, "I have a hole in my heart where love should be," would never be capable of squirty milk, no matter how many babies cried. I thought I was exempt.

The week after Rain was born, I was sitting alone in my bedroom. I was setting up pillows on my bed to get comfortable so I could feed her. She was lying quietly on the floor in the next room, and Tim was going to bring her to me. I had already taken everything off and was mentally scheduling things I needed to do later. Suddenly, Rain began to cry. Without a thought about it or even a warning sign ... well (*blush*) ... let's just say milk came out--sort of launched out, actually, in a rocket kind of way.

I had never seen anything like it. I was mortified. I thought, "I can practically feed her from here!" I grabbed a washcloth to clean up, unable to deny the evidence that my body would never be exactly like it was before pregnancy. After a moment, I laughed. What else could I do?

Rain wears an outfit that says, "I cry over spilt milk." Me, too, honey.

Flee!

Rain did something today (twice) that has me shaking in me boots. She screamed. Not like a baby screams, but like a toddler might (with a real voice, not baby cries). They were short but piercing. It shocked me the first time, and I thought I must have misheard. When she did it a second time, well matey, she sent shivers down me spine, arr!

Breast vs. Bottle: Smackdown (Part 2)

So, which is easier: breastfeeding or using formula? It all depends on what you consider problematic. For instance, if money is no object, than formula is the easy choice. For those of you without kids and blissfully unaware of the ridiculous price of formula, be ready to shell out $20-$30 for a can when you need it. If a woman hates the idea of nursing in public or bottling her milk, again, formula is the way to go.

The best thing about breastfeeding is that it's basically free. I said "basically" because if you buy an electric pump ($120) and breast pads ($5 per box every few weeks), you will spend money but not much. Not only that, it's easy. A breastfeeding mom always has fresh food at the right temp for her kiddo, you know? If she's out running errands and realizes her baby's used all the bottles, no big deal. It's obviously convenient once you learn how to do it.

There is the catch, however. Though breasfeeding is natural, it's in no way instinctive. What I mean is, the first 2-4 weeks of breastfeeding is a nightmare for most women. It is easy not to get the technique right (yes, there is technique involved) and pay the price with sore (in extreme cases, even bleeding) breasts. It's not as simple as just showing the kid a breast and saying, "Here. Drink up." Remember, babies are just as inexperienced as moms are. They don't know how to drink without causing pain, and their eagerness to drink now doesn't help either.

To be honest, when I was single, I laughed at the idea of a "lactation consultant." I thought, "Wild animals breastfeed all the time; how hard can it be to learn?" But, consider the factors involved: a nervous mom, a stressful dad (he's not sure how to help), a crying baby, and a lack of sleep all around. Trust me, tears will flow. The despair of not doing it just right can quickly add to a mom's feeling of inadequacy. Worse, past generations were taught that formula was best for babies. Consequently, most of my generation was formula-fed, so we never learned how to breastfeed. For those MTBs wanting to breastfeed, be prepared for lectures from your mom or grandma with questions like, "Are you SURE she's eating enough?" and "If you give her formula, she won't cry like she does. What's wrong with giving her some?" I've gotten close to a snide, "Do you want to raise this kid or what?" when the topic comes up. I constantly had to defend myself for the first 6 weeks of Rain's life.

Eventually, though, people can see that, yes, your baby is growing like all other babies. She may have gotten chubby slower than her formula-fed counterparts, but she's putting on weight just as she should. So to those MTBs out there wanting to breastfeed: persevere. You will get it right. It will become so easy that you'll eventually be able to do it while doing almost anything else ... like read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (loved it, by the way). Don't let breastfeeding hurt. Call a consultant, read up on technique, call a friend--do whatever it takes to be comfortable. Some day soon, you'll be able to look down and see your baby happily drinking away while making the funniest faces you'll be glad you never missed.

Next time (and my last word on the subject for now): Rocket Breasts (The Absolute Funniest Thing About Breastfeeding).

Breast vs. Bottle: Smackdown (Part 1)

I'm sure mother-to-bes (MTBs) and the plain curious want to know the skinny on breastfeeding (OK, if you don't, just file this info under "In Case I'm Ever on Jeopardy"). So, what's better: formula or breastfeeding?

Let me just say, this question starts some heated debates with some moms. Me? Not so much. I see the benefits of both. Since I decided to breastfeed Rain, let me tell you what it's really like. Let's begin with the social aspect:

First of all, you must accept a hard truth about American culture: breasts can be bared in magazines, movies, beaches, and books, and enlarged on billboards, T-shirts, and in L.A., BUT people get weirded out when a mom tries to use them for what they were actually intended for. Strange, no? This makes things uneasy when I go out in public. I feel pressured to pump milk and bring it in a bottle rather than deal with the stares, painfully averted eyes, and outright lectures (I'll explain next time).

Let me make this clear: I don't whip out my breasts for the world to see to make a point. I'm not a militant breastfeeder or something. I discreetly put a blanket over me & Rain when I nurse her. The thing is, I still get uncomfortable looks, so I tend to feed Rain in the bathroom at restaurants, for instance. Lately, though, this has gotten on my nerves and not just because bathrooms are unsanitary. I mean, everywhere else in the world, people just don't make a big deal out of a woman nursing. In fact, some places don't care if a woman is discreet about it or not. Why should a woman feel ashamed for using her breasts for what they were designed for?

Really, I've gone to great lengths to bring pumped milk in bottles when I go out as not to offend anybody, but is this fair? I've had people say, "Just bring a few bottles when we go out, so you don't have to worry about it." OK, no problem, I'll just let my dairymaid know I'll need an extra pail. Um, I get up at 3 a.m. as it is to pump milk. Throughout the day, I can try to sneak off while Rain's napping and pump 1 or 2 more (rare), but that's it. I'm not a Borden factory. Expressing milk takes a minimum of 20 minutes, and that's for a few ounces.

So, what am I getting at? When moms nurse, people should respect that. Smile, and politely go about your business. Breastmilk, very few people will dispute, is nutritionally the best thing to give a baby (this doesn't make formula bad, so don't send me hate mail). The next time someone sees a nursing mom and gets huffy, he or she should just remember that the mother in question isn't trying to make a statement, be rude, or make anyone uncomfortable; she's just doing what she thinks is best for her baby.

What Did You Say?

Maybe it was the Look Who's Talking movies or all the 3-month-old babies playing newborns on TV, but somehow I'd developed the idea that, at the very least, babies coo and gurgle right out of the womb. Not so, says Life.

Quickly I realized that Rain only communicated one way and one way only: crying. Of course I expected her to cry when she was displeased, but I didn't think that to express anything else she would just stare--even cats purr, you know?

Doesn't seem like a big deal, does it?

Well, imagine you have a demanding client at work. The most demanding client. This client expects you to provide her every need promptly and with a smile. If you claim to be too tired to meet her expectations or you don't understand what she wants, she will punish you immediately with cries so loud the police come (I'm not kidding; more on that later). She only communicates with you by yelling. Besides that, she remains silent. Now, how long would it be before you longed for any sound besides a yell? Exactly.

One day when Rain was about 5 weeks old, I put on Beatles music for her entertainment. I left her on her floor blanket to get something from the kitchen. When I was halfway to the kitchen, I heard it. I knew immediately it had to come from her, but had I imagined it? I danced back to where she was, and as she stared at one of her overhead toys, she did it again: she made a short cooing sound and stopped. I grabbed my camera and recorded a few more sounds before she fell silent again. I picked her up and told her right away how very happy I was, and if she could do a bit of chatting every day, well, it would mean a lot. I kissed her chubby cheeks so she would know how proud she made me, John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

The DL on PD

I never thought much about postpartum depression before I became pregnant. It was one of the many things I had mentally filed under Review Later. But well into my second trimester, I asked my mother one day if she had felt sad at all after she had me or any of my siblings. Sure, she probably regretted all of us when we turned a sassy fifteen, but what about before then?

"Yes," Mom said. "For a few weeks after delivery I felt what they call the 'Baby Blues.' Your grandma had the same thing for a few months." I was surprised since neither had ever mentioned it. True, I hadn't ever asked, but still, this information would've been valuable, I don't know, SIX MONTHS AGO.

I thought about it for a while. I decided that there was no way I could tell if I would have the blues or full-blown postpartum depression, so I might as well accept that I was a candidate. Several times I told Tim, "If I seem frustrated and cry all the time after the baby's born ... well, just keep encouraging me. Go overboard with the praise and help out a lot, and maybe I'll be OK." I didn't know what else to say, except that I was worried about it.

Now that our baby is 7 weeks old, I feel I can say that, no, I don't have PD, but I had a tough case of the blues. Most days Tim came home from work those first few weeks (and some days, still) to find me crying. Why? Simple frustration. See, when someone does well, let's say at the office, he is praised by his coworkers, and his boss may reward him with a good raise at the end of the year. The cause and effect of hard work is clear. But with a baby, there is no praise. There is no, "Hey, good job on that last diaper change--you really have the hang of it!" or "Wow, I can't believe you carried me for an hour while I screamed. You really took one for the team!" A newborn simply won't verbally reward a person like she has been used to all her life. I have to tell myself constantly that I'm not a bad mother or a failure, especially when Rain's crying.

Perfect example: today (actually, it's 5 a.m., so yesterday) Rain, for no reason I could tell, cried for 4 hours. She calmed down for 10-15 minutes 2-3 times during, but cried from 3 p.m. to almost 7 p.m. I did everything (changed her, burped her, fed her, showed her toys, took her for a walk, etc.), but nothing would soothe her. It got to the point I pulled out the thermometer to check if she had a fever. Because she's a baby, I had to take her rectal temperature. To teach me not to intrude on her personal space again, during the reading she pooped. It turned out she didn't have a fever, go figure.

At 7:00 or so, Rain stopped crying. Just like that. Stopped. There I was, on the couch with earplugs on, and she just stopped crying. I ask you, how was I supposed to feel as a mom? How could anyone feel like anything but a failure who had no control over the situation?

Yes, I can understand how easily moms can go from unhappy to depression in a short time. But, for me, the sadness passed within minutes after Rain settled down. Tim came home, held the baby, and comforted me. As I've told Tim time and again, I don't know how single parents make it. If I didn't have his and my family's support, who knows what I'd be thinking?

Tales from the Crib Side

I can't emphasize enough to you the dark that is the first two weeks of a newborn's life at night. During the day, it's all cuddles. When there was a diaper change, my husband or I would say, "Oh, look: a poopy diaper! What a healthy girl we have (*kiss*)." At 4 a.m., though, neither of us spoke past a sort of whimpering. With red eyes and sore bosoms (mine, not Tim's--more on that later), I thought, "This baby is going to kill us." Talk about LOW. We'd wake up the next morning, not having slept but a few sporadic hours, exhausted only to have to do it all over again. The worst part is some other parents told us tales of sleepless nights lasting until a child was two or older. Would this cycle of screaming, eating, & diaper changing go on for another two years? That thought alone made me cry.

All day I kept my parenting books strapped to my heart as I desperately searched for a way to make Rain sleep. I read technique after technique, but none of them seemed quite right for our particular kid. All the while, we kept at least one thing certain: during the day, Rain would stay in a lit room, and at night, we turned off the lights. This may seem trivial, but a lot of parents cart their babies off to a dark, silent room for naps. My sister, however, had instructed me to let Rain nap (which didn't happen much or for long) in a lit room (I always tried to use natural lighting plus a lamp) with an average noise level (no silent cells). Somehow we hoped this would teach the baby the difference between night and day. It was our only hope, since the last book we read kept pushing a 3-hour cycle (eat, play, sleep) which totally failed with Rain (who demanded food every 2 hours).

One night during the second week, I awoke to Rain's crying. I checked the clock, something I do often now: she had slept almost 4 hours straight! As pitiful as this minor success would seem to non-parents, to me it was a nugget of pure gold in an endless mine of nightly despair.

Yes, Please

A baby swing? Yes, please.

A nightlight? Yes, please.
A musical mobile? Yes, please.

A tiny lamp? Yes, please.

A baby carrier? Why, sure ...

There is no item too expensive, no object too unsightly (and many baby products are), no item too bulky or ridiculous that we weren't willing to buy (or at least consider ... then buy) to give us a few more minutes of sleep. We're about to add a white noise maker to our arsenal today, in fact. Perhaps it will add flare to the star maker already in her crib ...

The first two weeks of our baby's life, I cried at night. I mean, I cried. The more the baby cried, the more I cried. She wanted to eat every two hours, day and night, and didn't think much of taking naps. When she did nap, an immature part of me wanted to wake her up and say, "How do you like it? Huh? Huh?"

Yes, I'm not proud of my entry to motherhood, but until you've had a screaming baby kicking in your arms at 3 a.m. who has gas trapped in her belly but doesn't know it so insists on eating more which will only make her spit up--while your upstairs neighbor paces the floor--you don't know what you're capable of feeling.

My husband, who is the most calm person I have ever known, didn't fare much better. He'd start out strong early in the evening, but by 2 a.m., with work looming in a few hours, the smiles would fade. One night I found him in a chair in the the living room, rocking the baby. She was asleep, but I could tell he had broken himself to get there. All he could say was, "We had it out. I just let her cry."

It's the kind of pitiful scene where you want to hold up your parenting class certificates and say, "See, Baby? We're qualified, I tell you. Just let us use these techniques we've learned, and I'm sure we'll all be happier." Did we wish we could've thought of another way to make things easier?

Yes, please.

Welcome & The Breakdown

For those of you who've already experienced the first half of this mayhem, welcome back. For those of you just joining, disregard the previous statement. <*awkward silence*>

So.

The day my husband and I brought Rain, our new daughter, home from the hospital, I had my first lesson in parenting. See, I had read the parenting books, subscribed to the magazines, perused the websites, listened to the familial advice, taken the parenting classes--oh, I'd done it all. With these tools in hand, I'd carefully devised a mental list of WILL NOTS (a list of rules that under no circumstances, under no pressure, would we break):

1. No pacifiers. Pacifiers are disgusting, and no baby should have one.

2. No formula. Breastmilk is best, so breastmilk it is.

3. No babies in my bed--that's what cribs are for.

For nine months I coddled my list of WILL NOTS, nurturing them and keeping them close to my heart. They were reasonable, I thought, and clearly in the best interest of the baby.

But babies, unfortunately, are like military commanders in secret foreign camps: with the simplest of techniques, they're able to extract exactly what they want while simultaneously crushing your spirit. See, most of us can go without food for a while, and having to change the time of day we eat or the amount is a nuisance, but not soul-damaging. Other basic needs, like shelter and water, also stay relatively the same after a baby comes home. So what is the one thing that is necessary, critical, and therefore, the most efficient way to break a person down?

Sleep. This, my friends, is the way a baby quickly disposes of your defenses and neatly crumples your list of WILL NOTS. Sure, my husband & I had heard other parents laugh and say, "Get all the sleep you can before the baby comes," but we didn't realize they were laughing from pity.

Rain is now 6 weeks old, and by Week 1, my husband and I, both reasonable, law-abiding people, were willing to do anything short of drugging her (though the idea was tossed around) to get more sleep. Our baby is what people politely call "challenging," "active," and "alert." These are code words for taskmaster. Tim & I love our baby, so we accepted our roles as underlings and promptly set about finding ways to soothe her. And so began our journey of finding just the right tool, regardless of price, to keep her dreaming for even a few minutes longer. Plug the baby with a pacifier and grab your bags, kids--we're going shopping.