Smile!

We got a smile tonight! The first recipient was Dragon's Grandpa Alberty.

Merry Christmas.

Naptime

This is my first week alone with Dragon. For her first two weeks, grandparents were here. Her father was here.

Now they're all gone.

It is a pretty bit adjustment. To make things more manageable, I decided to set a new goal every day, something attainable to focus on and feel good about accomplishing no matter the degree.

Here are my goals so far.

Monday: Have the baby alive at the end of the day.

Tuesday: Get some exercise.

Wednesday: Squeeze in a nap.

Thursday: Drink 8 oz. water with every pumping.

By far the most ambitious goal has been naptime. Everyone tells new moms, "Sleep when the baby sleeps." That was the plan when I told my husband to let me take care of nighttime feedings and diapers so he could function at work. 

That plan flew right out the window with breast pumping. The doctor said I'd need to pump every two hours to recover any substantial supply. I have since learned that means pumping (or washing pump pieces or assembling pump pieces) pretty much any time the baby does not require active care. Dragon has a couple of extended naps every day, and they aren't likely to coincide with the end of a pumping session. 

But a goal is a goal, and the point was to feel good about it no matter the degree to which it was attained.

So at 4:35 p.m., I moved sleeping Dragon to her bassinet and lay down in my bed.

For 3 minutes. Then she woke up and started crying.

Done and done. Gimme a gold star. 

Dry

There is pus caked on my nipple right now. 

Seriously.

They say to look for blue lines emanating from an infection site, but that would be hard to identify on my pointlessly veiny boobs. Meanwhile, the perky girls are now swollen girls and soon will become droopy girls, all for nothing.

I can't breastfeed. 

Before I had Dragon, I thought new moms should not get so upset over breastfeeding trouble. On the forums and blogs, women would discuss formula-feeding with the kind of guilt I would only feel if I were to get someone else fired for my mistake, or hit a person with my car.

I figured it was because breastfeeding is a consuming task, by far the No. 1 agenda item in a new mom's life. It would feel really awful to commit the majority of your time and energy to a single activity only to have it fail. From the perspective of a balanced life, switching from breast milk to formula is not worth anguish. But life with a newborn is not a balanced life. That's probably why these women were so upset.

Turns out I was right. But that didn't make me feel any better.

We thought breastfeeding was going fine. In the hospital, all of the nurses were impressed by Dragon's latch and obvious interest in suckling (she was born with a blister on her wrist, probably from practicing in utero, they said). It took five days for my milk to start dripping — not a good start for a baby with jaundice — but eventually I squeezed out something white. Dragon's nursing got drowsy as the minutes passed, but the books said that was just some babies' style. 

The fucking books. "Oh, every woman can produce enough milk for her baby. If it doesn't work out, you did something wrong." They'll never tell you that it hurts like hell, that you will never sleep or leave your house (notably, measures that might remedy or prevent postpartum depression), or that your supply could be crippled if your baby spends one day sick.

It looks like jaundice was our stumbling block. Dragon was taken away for treatment on day 2 and brought back only for feedings when she got fussy. I later was told that Dragon likely was sleeping though hunger and the jaundice left her too pooped to nurse aggressively. My boobs interpreted that as low demand and responded with low supply.

Lethargy drove shortage drove lethargy, and things never bounced back. Not that I had any way of knowing this. Dragon didn't act hungry, she acted mellow. I only called the lactation consultant because I had a crack on my nipple and needed to fix Dragon's latch. The consultant noticed Dragon wasn't swallowing, so we got out the breast pump to see what I had.

I couldn't pump enough milk to cover the bottom of a bottle.

I started feeding formula through thin piping taped to my boob for Dragon to suck out while "breastfeeding," and pumping the opposite boob at the same time. With the pump motor whirring, tubes coming and going over the baby's head and my boob sucked into a plastic funnel, we looked like a mad science experiment. Then the formula tube screwed with Dragon's latch, and my nipples got chewed to shit.

So, great. First my body couldn't have the baby; she had to be cut out of me. Then I couldn't change her diapers or bathe her or dress her or learn to take care of her because I was stuck in recovery after the C-section. All I could do was feed her, and now it turns out I wasn't even doing that.

I never thought I would be one to sentimentalize such things. These are problems with good, modern solutions. But in my heart, all I wanted was to still be pregnant because back then it actually felt like Dragon was mine and I was taking care of her. Suddenly I had become nothing but a big, fat, malfunctioning blob who happens to live with a baby.

For a couple of days I cried more than Dragon.

Since then I've talked to multiple friends who went through similar crises. That made me feel less like a dried-up old lady. I retired the formula tube, which means fewer tears. Now I'm just pumping and serving a little bit of breast milk on the side of formula. Dragon actually looks at my face now rather than fussing and rooting around my shirt every time I hold her. Craig is back at work, so I am in charge of Dragon all day. I feel less useless. 

At Dragon's doctor appointment today (15 days), she still weighed less than her birth weight. The pediatrician said to dump formula into Dragon, as much as she'll take. Doc also urged me to think about how much sleep and sanity I'm willing to sacrifice for pumping. 

I don't know what the balance will be, but at least I'm back to a point where balance interests me. 

Dragon's arrival

My Dragon was born Dec. 3. She was more than one week overdue, so the doctor induced me at 9 a.m. The drugs gave me really strong contractions, but after 14 hours Dragon had made no progress toward the egress and I developed a fever. So they rolled me in for a C-section. They tied my arms out like crucified Jesus and hung a blue curtain over my chest so I wouldn't freak out at the sight of my guts piled on my torso. Craig held my hand, I puked on the table, and life began.

It turned out Dragon was facing the wrong way and got stuck against my bones. I don't think anybody told me when they got her out of my belly, but I heard her squawk a couple of times.

"She has hair," Craig said. I was still tied down behind the curtain, so I couldn't see her. Someone wrapped Dragon in a blanket, untied my arms and put her on my chest while I was flat on my back. It was awkward. I felt incredibly tired and couldn't swallow for some reason, so I was preoccupied with a fear of falling asleep, choking on my saliva and dropping her.

That didn't happen.

Dragon lay on my chest, stared at me and stuck her tongue out again and again.

Craig took her away for some activities I still don't know about. I fell asleep while the doctors sewed me up.

Then my family was together.