A Week in the Life
Eight days ago, I baked a cake, put my daughter in the bath, finished an Ursula Le Guin novel, wrote the review of it, and then... my waters broke.
Ten hours of extraordinary work later, we had a new baby.
Seven days ago, we named our new daughter Jemima Violet, introduced her to her big sister and half her grandparents, and entirely failed to finish any of the relevant paperwork. (cough, still haven't)
Six days ago, we convinced the midwives at the hospital that I was a breastfeeding GENIUS (ha bloody ha) in order to make a clean getaway, over the walls and home.
Five days ago, we had one of the midwives visit us at home. I confessed that I was taking a touch of damage from the breastfeeding (slight grazes) and it was a little painful to feed, but I thought we were improving. I also thought my milk had come in, but it didn't really properly for another day. She made very firm suggestions that I should check out the lactation clinic at the hospital.
(I, having taken 4 weeks to get the feeding right last time, with the help of many professionals, thought this was probably a good idea - I went on to feed for nearly 3 years, hence the midwives being swayed to my early release)
Four days ago, I woke up. This is important, because it meant I had actually, at some point between the various feeds and crying and juggling 4 year old etc, GONE TO SLEEP. Life could actually continue. Sleep is good. Even if it only occurs in 1-2 hour bursts, and will continue thus for many, many weeks (months). Also four days ago, I gave in and made an appointment for the lactation clinic. I thought the breastfeeding was improving, but it was still a bit painful, and it wouldn't hurt to have the appointment, which turned out to be for Monday (ie tomorrow). In the meantime, I would carry on. I was pretty sure the baby was doing the right thing mostly, though I suspected she was dodgily removing her tongue at the last minute, thus gumming me a touch too savagely.
(in all things milk-related, baby #2 is gentler than my beloved ruthless baby #1, who pretty much savaged me in the first week, making me suspect that the vampire myth originated from exhausted mothers)
High on sleep as I was (it's like a DRUG), I used day four to assert my independence, venturing out into the world alone (with a two hour ticking timebomb of a napping baby left behind with her dad). I went on a hunt for little jumpers, a necessary thing because all of our baby clothes are for summer babies. It is not summer. Clearly I had not thought this through. I went to the local baby shop, the chemist near us, and the supermarket attached to the chemist, picking up various necessary items. I put petrol in my car. (still a major achievement) At the end of my two hours, I returned swaying to the house and collapsed wanly on the couch. Stomach cramps, pulsating back aches and general malaise followed for some time. We went on to have visitors, and I did my best to do something other than snooze in front of them, but it was not to be.
I remembered that, oh yes, I had a baby a few days ago, still not ACTUALLY in peak condition just because I can now see my feet...
Three days ago, I mostly lay around the house. Breastfeeding continued to get better, or seemed to, though it was oddly still painful. A touch more on one side than the other. Feet mostly up.
Two days ago, we set out to weigh the baby at the local health clinic, an important task that the visiting midwife had requested we do by the end of the week. It's kind of important to check that the post-birth weight loss isn't too bad, and with breastfeeding it can be a bit problematic at first. The trouble was - this was our first day home with four year old not attending daycare or school. And she decided to be Trouble. Getting out of the house, the four of us, proved a mammoth task of stress and drama. She didn't want to go. We didn't have any choice but to take her. DRAMAH.
Eventually we struggled out in the early afternoon, only to discover that my lovely friendly child health centre no longer has scales out in the waiting room for you to just use whenever. You have to make an appointment with the child health nurse. I took my five day old baby around to the reception desk to query this and the MEAN receptionist confirmed flatly that this was the case, appointments only. She suggested that I try the chemist in Channel Court, which *might* have weighing facilities. What she did not do was offer to make me a freaking appointment, and I was so flattened by her attitude that I just went wanly away.
When my honey asked what happened, I burst into tears. Uh huh. He stormed off to be Valiant at the mean receptionist, and came back to say that the child health nurse would make time for me between appointments. This, my friends, is why parenting leave is essential for both parents. Even the most feisty feminist needs someone else to be tough for her when she's hopped up on sleeplessness, hormones and breast milk.
The good news is that Jemima had started putting weight back on after her initial loss, so I could relax that she was in fact getting enough milk. Despite the ouchy of the feeding. (which was still not suspicious to me at all because hey, last time it took 3-4 weeks before I was able to feed without grazes, pain, etc.)
We then took our remarkably patient 4 year old out for donuts, a nice way of keeping her in one place with daddy while baby and I whizzed around Big W with the pram. We had discovered that the summer baby problem was bigger than we thought - as were ALL the baby clothes we owned. Jem was born at more than half a kilo lighter than Raeli and at this age, that makes a hell of a difference. Conventional wisdom is 'don't bother buying 0000 clothes, they'll grow out of them in the first fortnight, stick to 000.' This worked well with Raeli. With Jemima... yeah. She SWIMS in them.
Also I got a text from godiyeva informing me they had purple wondersuits. Since we were already on our way to Big W, this had to be a sign. Wondersuits, for those of you not in Babybabybabyland, are the best, simplest and most durable baby suit ever. Sadly they only come in white or various shades of ick (aka pastel pink, pastel blue, occasionally pastel yellow). But lo! They have reinvented them in bright shades of turquoise, emerald green and deep purple. The cynic in me noticed that they were $3 more per suit than the white and yuk coloured ones. The excitable mother in me bought four. Including some in 0000. My baby needs to see her hands occasionally.
Once again, this small amount of outing was enough to knock me out. I was flattened by a headache that lasted most of the night (dehydration+breastfeeding=badness). But at least my baby has clothes now.
One day ago, it occurred to me that breastfeeding had somehow become easy in a pain-free, cup of tea in one hand, baby chucked on the breast without thinking kind of way. But only on one side. The pain on the other side was getting worse. I started prodding for blocked milk ducts. Meanwhile I allowed my honey the luxury of a whole morning sleep in (earning major brownie points), hung out with my girls and watched endless, endless repeats of Raeli's latest acquisition, Lilo and Stitch.
Last night, the pain started getting worse and worse. From regularly agonising to purely excrutiating, whenever she latched on to that side. It occurred to me that maybe when they say 'it's not supposed to hurt,' maybe they meant it. It also occurred to me that actually there was a lot of red swollenness going on there.
FUCK.
It was late, but I did have an option that didn't require waiting until morning. I called the maternity ward and spoke to a very kind midwife who agreed that it sounded bad and told me to go to Emergency the next day (or that night if I wanted to - the mere thought of trying to manage that with honey, four year old and baby... yeah, not going to happen) to get a scrip for antibiotics.
So that was today. Getting the whole family out of the house, co-ordinated and clothed, was less traumatic than it had been on previous occasions. Raeli was remarkably well behaved throughout it all, including being taken into a cubicle in emergency and having to wait a long time. It helped that I told her the story of Jack and the beanstalk while we did it. It didn't help that I couldn't remember how the story went after he got to the castle and, btw, is Jack a bastard or what?
The doctor examined me, suggested we've probably caught it in time that a mere 6 day course of antibiotics should do the trick, and direly added that if there was reddening higher up the breast, it would require an IV DRIP. I managed not to panic.
We left, managed lunch out and negotiating the pharmacy without complications and got home by the early afternoon. For once, the outing hadn't exhausted me. That came later, after six hours of the baby waking up every 30 minutes and becoming suspicious at only being proffered one breast over and over. I dug out my old breast pump (reassembling it in 30 seconds in the manner of an AK47 by a super soldier) and discovered that it hurt a lot less on the Evil Breast than did Jemima's little sucky mouth.
I discovered this by checking that yes, her little mouth did still cause the Evil Breast to explode in unbelievable stabbity stabbity pain. Because, you know. You have to check these things.
So. That was my week. When all those things haven't been happening, I have been happily snuggling my new little person, playing with and entertaining her big sister, revelling in home cooked meals and other domestic wonders of my honey, and sleeping. In 1-2 hour bursts. We had a 3 hour one this morning. It was lovely.
Oh and yes. One thing happened to spill me out of Babybabybabyland. My boys are back. Arsenal played their first Premier League game last night. I managed to miss it, thanks largely to the fact that my child managed to fall asleep just before it started, and wake up about an hour after it finished. But ohhhh, what a game. 6-1 against Everton. Denilson. Cesc. Eduardo. Lovely, lovely boys. We couldn't ask for a better start to the season.
If I could only train my little Goonerbaby to want her feed DURING the 90 minutes of the game, though that would be sweet.
i would have posted this seven hours ago, but Jemima woke up. About 47 times. Am typing one handed to finish this off, while she feeds endlessly. From the Good Boob.
Ten hours of extraordinary work later, we had a new baby.
Seven days ago, we named our new daughter Jemima Violet, introduced her to her big sister and half her grandparents, and entirely failed to finish any of the relevant paperwork. (cough, still haven't)
Six days ago, we convinced the midwives at the hospital that I was a breastfeeding GENIUS (ha bloody ha) in order to make a clean getaway, over the walls and home.
Five days ago, we had one of the midwives visit us at home. I confessed that I was taking a touch of damage from the breastfeeding (slight grazes) and it was a little painful to feed, but I thought we were improving. I also thought my milk had come in, but it didn't really properly for another day. She made very firm suggestions that I should check out the lactation clinic at the hospital.
(I, having taken 4 weeks to get the feeding right last time, with the help of many professionals, thought this was probably a good idea - I went on to feed for nearly 3 years, hence the midwives being swayed to my early release)
Four days ago, I woke up. This is important, because it meant I had actually, at some point between the various feeds and crying and juggling 4 year old etc, GONE TO SLEEP. Life could actually continue. Sleep is good. Even if it only occurs in 1-2 hour bursts, and will continue thus for many, many weeks (months). Also four days ago, I gave in and made an appointment for the lactation clinic. I thought the breastfeeding was improving, but it was still a bit painful, and it wouldn't hurt to have the appointment, which turned out to be for Monday (ie tomorrow). In the meantime, I would carry on. I was pretty sure the baby was doing the right thing mostly, though I suspected she was dodgily removing her tongue at the last minute, thus gumming me a touch too savagely.
(in all things milk-related, baby #2 is gentler than my beloved ruthless baby #1, who pretty much savaged me in the first week, making me suspect that the vampire myth originated from exhausted mothers)
High on sleep as I was (it's like a DRUG), I used day four to assert my independence, venturing out into the world alone (with a two hour ticking timebomb of a napping baby left behind with her dad). I went on a hunt for little jumpers, a necessary thing because all of our baby clothes are for summer babies. It is not summer. Clearly I had not thought this through. I went to the local baby shop, the chemist near us, and the supermarket attached to the chemist, picking up various necessary items. I put petrol in my car. (still a major achievement) At the end of my two hours, I returned swaying to the house and collapsed wanly on the couch. Stomach cramps, pulsating back aches and general malaise followed for some time. We went on to have visitors, and I did my best to do something other than snooze in front of them, but it was not to be.
I remembered that, oh yes, I had a baby a few days ago, still not ACTUALLY in peak condition just because I can now see my feet...
Three days ago, I mostly lay around the house. Breastfeeding continued to get better, or seemed to, though it was oddly still painful. A touch more on one side than the other. Feet mostly up.
Two days ago, we set out to weigh the baby at the local health clinic, an important task that the visiting midwife had requested we do by the end of the week. It's kind of important to check that the post-birth weight loss isn't too bad, and with breastfeeding it can be a bit problematic at first. The trouble was - this was our first day home with four year old not attending daycare or school. And she decided to be Trouble. Getting out of the house, the four of us, proved a mammoth task of stress and drama. She didn't want to go. We didn't have any choice but to take her. DRAMAH.
Eventually we struggled out in the early afternoon, only to discover that my lovely friendly child health centre no longer has scales out in the waiting room for you to just use whenever. You have to make an appointment with the child health nurse. I took my five day old baby around to the reception desk to query this and the MEAN receptionist confirmed flatly that this was the case, appointments only. She suggested that I try the chemist in Channel Court, which *might* have weighing facilities. What she did not do was offer to make me a freaking appointment, and I was so flattened by her attitude that I just went wanly away.
When my honey asked what happened, I burst into tears. Uh huh. He stormed off to be Valiant at the mean receptionist, and came back to say that the child health nurse would make time for me between appointments. This, my friends, is why parenting leave is essential for both parents. Even the most feisty feminist needs someone else to be tough for her when she's hopped up on sleeplessness, hormones and breast milk.
The good news is that Jemima had started putting weight back on after her initial loss, so I could relax that she was in fact getting enough milk. Despite the ouchy of the feeding. (which was still not suspicious to me at all because hey, last time it took 3-4 weeks before I was able to feed without grazes, pain, etc.)
We then took our remarkably patient 4 year old out for donuts, a nice way of keeping her in one place with daddy while baby and I whizzed around Big W with the pram. We had discovered that the summer baby problem was bigger than we thought - as were ALL the baby clothes we owned. Jem was born at more than half a kilo lighter than Raeli and at this age, that makes a hell of a difference. Conventional wisdom is 'don't bother buying 0000 clothes, they'll grow out of them in the first fortnight, stick to 000.' This worked well with Raeli. With Jemima... yeah. She SWIMS in them.
Also I got a text from godiyeva informing me they had purple wondersuits. Since we were already on our way to Big W, this had to be a sign. Wondersuits, for those of you not in Babybabybabyland, are the best, simplest and most durable baby suit ever. Sadly they only come in white or various shades of ick (aka pastel pink, pastel blue, occasionally pastel yellow). But lo! They have reinvented them in bright shades of turquoise, emerald green and deep purple. The cynic in me noticed that they were $3 more per suit than the white and yuk coloured ones. The excitable mother in me bought four. Including some in 0000. My baby needs to see her hands occasionally.
Once again, this small amount of outing was enough to knock me out. I was flattened by a headache that lasted most of the night (dehydration+breastfeeding=badness). But at least my baby has clothes now.
One day ago, it occurred to me that breastfeeding had somehow become easy in a pain-free, cup of tea in one hand, baby chucked on the breast without thinking kind of way. But only on one side. The pain on the other side was getting worse. I started prodding for blocked milk ducts. Meanwhile I allowed my honey the luxury of a whole morning sleep in (earning major brownie points), hung out with my girls and watched endless, endless repeats of Raeli's latest acquisition, Lilo and Stitch.
Last night, the pain started getting worse and worse. From regularly agonising to purely excrutiating, whenever she latched on to that side. It occurred to me that maybe when they say 'it's not supposed to hurt,' maybe they meant it. It also occurred to me that actually there was a lot of red swollenness going on there.
FUCK.
It was late, but I did have an option that didn't require waiting until morning. I called the maternity ward and spoke to a very kind midwife who agreed that it sounded bad and told me to go to Emergency the next day (or that night if I wanted to - the mere thought of trying to manage that with honey, four year old and baby... yeah, not going to happen) to get a scrip for antibiotics.
So that was today. Getting the whole family out of the house, co-ordinated and clothed, was less traumatic than it had been on previous occasions. Raeli was remarkably well behaved throughout it all, including being taken into a cubicle in emergency and having to wait a long time. It helped that I told her the story of Jack and the beanstalk while we did it. It didn't help that I couldn't remember how the story went after he got to the castle and, btw, is Jack a bastard or what?
The doctor examined me, suggested we've probably caught it in time that a mere 6 day course of antibiotics should do the trick, and direly added that if there was reddening higher up the breast, it would require an IV DRIP. I managed not to panic.
We left, managed lunch out and negotiating the pharmacy without complications and got home by the early afternoon. For once, the outing hadn't exhausted me. That came later, after six hours of the baby waking up every 30 minutes and becoming suspicious at only being proffered one breast over and over. I dug out my old breast pump (reassembling it in 30 seconds in the manner of an AK47 by a super soldier) and discovered that it hurt a lot less on the Evil Breast than did Jemima's little sucky mouth.
I discovered this by checking that yes, her little mouth did still cause the Evil Breast to explode in unbelievable stabbity stabbity pain. Because, you know. You have to check these things.
So. That was my week. When all those things haven't been happening, I have been happily snuggling my new little person, playing with and entertaining her big sister, revelling in home cooked meals and other domestic wonders of my honey, and sleeping. In 1-2 hour bursts. We had a 3 hour one this morning. It was lovely.
Oh and yes. One thing happened to spill me out of Babybabybabyland. My boys are back. Arsenal played their first Premier League game last night. I managed to miss it, thanks largely to the fact that my child managed to fall asleep just before it started, and wake up about an hour after it finished. But ohhhh, what a game. 6-1 against Everton. Denilson. Cesc. Eduardo. Lovely, lovely boys. We couldn't ask for a better start to the season.
If I could only train my little Goonerbaby to want her feed DURING the 90 minutes of the game, though that would be sweet.
i would have posted this seven hours ago, but Jemima woke up. About 47 times. Am typing one handed to finish this off, while she feeds endlessly. From the Good Boob.