Crying is baby’s way of communicating. Baby’s eardrum-piercing, patience-testing way of communicating.
Experts say that parents get to know their child’s sounds, eventually distinguishing a hunger wail from a boredom cry. After a full six weeks getting to know my new baby, I can assure you this is true. I am now fluent in newborn — and this is the language my baby speaks.
The Wet Diaper
Sound: Sudden and distressed. The same sound I used to make when I’d wake up hungover and discover all the drunken texts I’d sent the night before. Reason: Needs a new diaper for the 17th time today.
The Meh
Sound: Dismal sobs. The melancholy of a Morrissey song meets the sad mime in a snooty French film. Reason: General malaise. Just felt like crying.
The Red Eye
Sound: Frustrated bleats. A sickly goat. Reason: Eye is goopy and cannot open it. Or eyes are closed and forgot to open them, making the world a dark and scary place.
The Albatross (aka The Rime of the Ancient Momminer)
Sound: Squawks that grow incrementally louder and more forceful in their refusal to be ignored. Plus the burden of knowing that you are cursed and everyone in earshot hates you. Reason: Wants to be held; needs to hang from your neck.
The Duran Duran
Sound: Raspy, panicked yips, like a rabid woodland creature. Hungry like the wolf. Reason: Nipple NOW.
The Dick Cheney
Sound: Part movie villain cackle, part power saw. Reason: No reason. Just wants to break you.
The End of the World as We Know It
Sound: Brassy and shrill. The wail of a fire engine that starts small and builds to a traffic-stopping scream. Accompanied by: A purple face. Tiny fists of fury. Inconsolable rage. Reason: It’s too cold. Now it’s too hot. The car seat strap is too snug. The sunbeam is too close. A sock fell off. Basically it’s the worst day ever.
I have a baby now, and he’s like Ohio weather. Unpredictable. Mercurial. Sometimes stormy, sometimes sunshiny, sometimes both at the same time. Also — and this is the most important part — he is different every day. Every. Damn. Day.
Just look at what a difference two weeks makes!
From baby jerky to baby fat.
He was such a little squishy bean at the hospital. But now I wake up and look down into his brown-grey eyes and never know what I’m going to see there.
Squishface at the hospital.
Actual human child at home.
So I’ve been taking a zillion photos. I’ve been searing everything into my memory — every cuddle, every cry. And I’ve been tracking baby’s daily activities on a fancy phone app, which gives me a stupid amount of data and graphs that I will never use.
Here’s how Everest is growing up so far:
Age in weeks: 2
Weight at birth: 7 pounds, 1 ounce
Current weight: 7 pounds, 12 ounces
Diapers changed: 166
Times I’ve been peed on: 11
Times I’ve been shat on: 3
Total feedings: 231
Time spent feeding: 80 hours, 48 minutes (I just have to draw attention to this part right here, because WOW. Breastfeeding is literally my full-time job right now.)
Shirts stained by spit up: 4
Days I’ve forgotten to shower: 4
Meltdowns, baby: 3
Meltdowns, me: Countless
Sleepless nights: Many
Cuddles: Endless
I can’t wait to see what the next two weeks bring.
Tears dribbled into my oxygen mask, and that’s what I focused on, more than the dull tugging of surgical tools in my belly or the dry sandpaper in my throat. Just the tears sliding down my face, pooling under the plastic, becoming little clouds underneath the dome of the mask.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I had a birth plan. My baby’s delivery was going to be natural. Drug-free. A blissful hippie love-fest. I wanted the lights to be dim, with faux flickering candles on the bedside table. I had lavender oil for relaxation. I made a special mix of music designed to inspire and encourage.
My hospital digs. Note the cassette player.
Everything went awry the day before, during what was supposed to be a routine OB appointment. The doctor hooked a belt to my belly and attached it to a machine, which spit out a long scroll of paper with jagged lines. The doctor ran her finger along the scroll and pointed to the dips in between the tall peaks, where the baby’s heartbeat looked erratic. Labor needed to be induced immediately, she said, and I cried. I desperately wanted my body to start labor the old-fashioned way — on its own — and I already felt like my baby’s birth was spinning out of my control.
At the hospital I was given a dose of Cytotec, a stomach ulcer drug that is also used to ripen the cervix for labor. It’s the same drug that I was given last year during my miscarriage, when my body refused to let go of the non-viable fetus.
Nurses also wanted to give me Pitocin, a synthetic form of a naturally occurring hormone, which induces strong contractions. I’ve read about the some of the adverse effects of Pitocin on newborns, so I wanted to hold off on that medicine unless it was absolutely necessary.
Hospital food.
In the movies, a woman in labor walks around and breathes heavily through the contractions. She stretches on a yoga ball or squats in a bathtub. She has the freedom of movement. That’s how I wanted it too.
In reality, I was hooked to machines. There were two belts on my belly — one monitor for the baby’s heartbeat, one to measure my contractions. I had an IV of fluids, and a heartbeat monitor on my fingertip. A blood pressure cuff on my right arm inflated every 15 minutes. At some point, as night stretched into the long, bleary hours of early morning, a nurse strapped an oxygen mask to my face.
As the contractions came, I lay on the hospital bed and took every punch. Whenever I moved, the monitors slipped from my belly and the beeping from the machines grew loud and the nurses ran into the room and shifted my body into awkward positions and told me to be still. So I tried to quiet my body and imagined I was back at the ashram in India. I chanted with every blip on the monitor and pretended I was somewhere beyond the searing pain, even as my vision grew blurry and white along the edges.
I don’t remember what time it was when I asked for the epidural, only that I was too broken to continue.
I originally wanted to avoid the epidural, not so much because of the drug itself, but because I was scared of not feeling. I wanted to know when I was pushing. I wanted to experience my body presenting the baby to the world. And I think in a different situation I could have done without the epidural. But I walked into the hospital 16 hours earlier with an already listless spirit, and I couldn’t summon enough resolve to go on without help. The relief from the shot was almost immediate.
So that happened.
Everything was slow and lonely until it wasn’t anymore. Then everything moved very fast. The waves of contractions crashed quicker now, and the monitor on my belly displayed peaks like the Himalayas. Underneath my contractions, there was a canyon for every mountain — a dramatic dip of the baby’s heartbeat. As my contractions grew more powerful, his heartbeat decelerated for longer and more substantial periods. When his heartbeat slowed for more than two minutes, my doctor stood at the foot of my labor bed and said I needed to have an emergency Cesarean section. They prepared me for surgery.
During pregnancy, I researched a lot of things about birth — but not once did I read anything about C-sections, because I wasn’t going to have one. So I was unprepared for the things that followed: The blue curtain draped a few inches from my face. The tables wheeled to each side of me, my arms stretched out and strapped down in a crucifixion pose. The peculiar feeling of having my belly split open and rearranged, as though I was a fish getting filleted.
My husband was seated next to my head, and he smoothed the hair back from my forehead. My throat was achingly dry, and my nose was stuffy. Tears rolled down my face and pooled inside the rim of my oxygen mask. “You’re doing great,” my husband said. “I’m so proud of you.” And then we heard a baby cry, bold and strong.
I’ve heard a lot of birth stories, and people always talk about the moment they saw their baby for the first time or the first touch of skin on skin. For me, I will always remember the brassy sound of my baby’s first cry, slicing through the cold, white air of the operating room. Robbed of all my other senses — hands strapped down, nose clogged, a curtain blocking my view — that noise was how I first connected with my child, and it was golden and it was perfect.
“It’s a boy!” one of the doctors shouted. “Ten fingers, ten toes!” said another. I cried, my husband cried, and my heart no longer fit inside of me.
Someone brought the baby to my head and laid him next to my face. I nuzzled him with my cheek, and I felt like an animal — a cat rubbing her kitten — before he was swept away to a recovery room. It would be another hour before I would touch Everest again.
Behind the curtain. (My husband took this photo, as my hands were still strapped to tables.)
He came into the world so unexpectedly, the very opposite of my plan. No flickering candles, mood music, soothing smells; all bright lights, big noise, chaos and speed. But it was surprisingly perfect, an entrance that was totally Everest, just the way it was supposed to be.
The cashier at Trader Joe’s nodded her head toward my pregnant belly. “When are you due?”
“Last week.”
“My goodness!” she stopped scanning my groceries, her hand paused above a can of split pea soup. “You’re overdue? What are you doing here?”
“I need food.”
I guess the cashier assumed what most everybody does — right around that magical due date, there’s a gush of water, some contractions and pushing, a poop-splosion, and then TA-DAH! A baby comes out.
Is that a watermelon in your uterus? Or are you just happy to see me?
But my due date has come and gone, and still no baby. No contractions. No labor. No crowning. What I do have is growing anxiety and a whole lot of time to waste. And it’s so frustrating, these in-between days. On the one hand, my own life is on hold while I wait for this new life to begin. At the same time, I still need to take care of business. Fill my afternoons. Buy food.
It’s actually more of a mental challenge than a physical one, and it’s way more difficult than I expected. It’s like reaching the end of a marathon and finding that someone has moved the finish line. Every time I inch closer, the line is moved again. There’s no end in sight.
My friends can’t win either. Every day I receive thoughtful, well-intentioned texts, messages and phone calls about the status of the baby, and it makes me grouchy. With every “Where’s the baby?” and “Have you had that baby yet?” the subtext feels more like, “You’re doing pregnancy all wrong. What’s the matter with you?” But when I don’t receive inquiries, that makes me grumpy too, because then I feel isolated and sad, like I’m marooned on the Island of Misfit Pregnant Ladies.
Trust me, I’ve tried all the tricks. Bouncing on the birth ball. Sex. Spicy food. Squats. Garlic pizza. Hot baths. Hula hoop. Curry. Nipple stimulation. Evening primrose oil. Acupressure. Weird yoga moves. Walking. So much walking.
I am trying so hard, and I really thought there would already be a baby in my arms by now. So when someone casually says, “You should have that baby already,” I want to start throwing punches. Really? GREAT IDEA. After 40 weeks of pregnancy, I wasn’t sure what I should do next. But maybe I should HAVE THE BABY! Why didn’t I think of that? I was just hanging on to an extra 35 pounds in 112-degree heat for the hell of it.
HAVE THE BABY? You have the baby.
Yup.
It’s nothing personal. I’m a little on edge.
I’m just ready. I’ve packed and re-packed my hospital bag. The house is clean, and the fridge is stocked. I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be. This part feels like the last few days at a job I’ve already quit — there’s nothing more I can do here. I’m just watching the clock, wasting hours. It’s time for the next phase to begin.
Let’s do this, baby.
Lemon is bored too.
P.S. On a good note that is completely unrelated to my pregnancy, I’m thrilled to see my name among the finalists here. It’s a nice reminder that I have a life outside of watching “House” and waiting to go into labor.
My due date is about 30 days away. But instead of organizing the nursery or preparing other things for baby, I can’t stop lavishing attention on my dog.
I’ve always loved my dog, of course. Lemon is a six-year-old, double-dapple dachshund, born blind, deaf and full of sass. People say she’s lucky I adopted her; I think the opposite is true. I’m grateful that of all the dogs in all the world, this wriggly, cuddly, brave pup found her way into my home. She teaches me what it means to be confident and true.
MUCH HIKE. SUCH DOG.
Lately, though, my dog love has been particularly strong. After my husband leaves for work, I grab the dog from her bed and pull her into mine. There I prop myself up on pillows, writing and working on my computer, while she burrows against my legs in the place where the backs of my knees form a right angle. (Or on top of my legs. Or sprawled across my lap.)
I find it difficult to pull myself away from her, and I only do it if I must — like if I need groceries or have a doctor’s appointment. Our regular walks have gotten longer, and they feel more leisurely and special.
SNUGGLING SO HARD.
My phone has 1,196 photos on it right now, and I’d say the bulk of them are of her silly, furry face. Sometimes I also shoot video — Lemon walking down the stairs, tearing the fluff from a stuffed gorilla, kicking and snoring in her sleep. Really compelling stuff.
LOOK AT HER LITTLE FURRY FACE!
My husband has this theory that I’m chock full of mommy hormones right now. He thinks with no baby here yet, all of my maternal instincts have been concentrated into a big laser beam of love, directed right at this fur-child.
My doula believes there’s a part of me that must know my relationship with Lemon is about to change, so I’m trying to get all my snuggling in now while I still have time and attention to spare.
I think it’s something else entirely — I’m scared.
I’m scared I’ll be a bad mother. This is my first child, and I haven’t spent much time around babies, so I’m not sure I know how to be a parent. This is something that goes way beyond creating a nap schedule or knowing how to change a diaper.
It’s an enormous responsibility to shelter and nourish a child; to love him and keep him safe; to educate him and teach him to be compassionate, ethical and respectful. How do I know if I have the capacity for that? How can anyone be certain?
In college I had this Giga Pet, which required regular (electronic) feeding, activity and loving. One night I got particularly smashed and awoke from my drunken stupor with the Giga Pet wedged underneath my body, the angel of death on the screen. It was horrifying. And it only takes one traumatic robot death to make you wonder how you’ll fare as a real-life parent.
I’m scared I won’t bond with him. I worry that I’ll give birth, and I won’t feel the things that mothers are supposed to feel.
Yes, this baby was desired. My husband and I wanted him, we planned for him, and we spent a long time trying to conceive him. But simply wanting something doesn’t eliminate the fear that comes along with it.
What happens if I bring this child home, and I don’t like him? What if that part of me is missing? It must happen.
I’m scared my baby won’t love me. That must happen sometimes too.
Maybe I should have gotten a Corgi. I know Corgis like me.
I’m not certain birth will alleviate any of my worries — all of these emotions will probably exist in the shadows, live and loaded, for many years to come.
I expected that pregnancy would come with a lot of physical changes, the rise of a belly, the heaviness of my breasts, the cravings, the fluctuation in energy. What I didn’t expect was how much emotion and anxiety would also swell inside my body. The self-doubt, the compound of past damage, the feeling that I’m walking on the edge of a slippery cliff.
So now I wait for my human child to arrive. I continue to wonder how we’ll feel about each other. And I focus my affection on a creature that never fails to return my love — my dog, mom’s best friend.
Here’s how everything else is going this week:
Baby: Is enormous. I’m afraid the next ultrasound will show the Michelin man.
Has anyone seen my beach ball?
My body: Is a wonderland.
Or a constellation.
How do you prepare for a baby? You planet.
Eating: I think I’ve hit the wacky stage of pregnancy eating. Today The Husband asked what I wanted for lunch, and I said, “Pizza. Or sushi. Or falafel. … Or pizza WITH sushi AND falafel.” And The Husband looked scared. Very, very scared.
(We ended up eating quinoa salad and sweet potato fries, in case you’re wondering. No sushi/falafel pizza. Not yet, anyway.)
I’m still craving lots of fruit too. Watermelon, cantaloupe, grapes, watermelon, strawberries, banana smoothies, watermelon.
Exercise: It’s difficult to find motivation to work out when I wake up feeling heavy and lethargic, and it’s already 90 degrees outside at dawn. I’ve been swimming a lot and trying to do as much yoga as possible, but I feel increasingly lumpy. I’m pretty sure my blood type has changed from A-positive to gravy.
The Husband: I found this old photo of The Husband with our niece, and it cracks me up. You can just tell by the look on his face that he believes he broke the baby.
