Drawing blood and drawing strength

I always look forward to Peeper’s pediatrician check-ups, especially when—like at her 9-month appointment—they don’t involve shots. So a few weeks ago when we headed to the doctor, I was excited.

The check-up went great: Peeper even waved to her doctor. As we were about to leave, the pediatrician looked at one of the routine forms we’d filled out. She paused.

“You have antique furniture?”

Antique might be overstating it, but we do have a few old-ish pieces among the IKEA tables, bookshelves and such.

After asking us a few more questions, the doctor recommended we test Peeper’s blood for lead.

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Baby’s breath

The last week has been a hard one. I’m not sure exactly why, which made me feel even worse whenever I sagged onto the edge of the bed crying.

Surely my low mood stems from the confluence of many factors. We returned from a wonderful vacation full of vitamin D and family and friends who helped with Edie. I have been racing against a deadline for a writing assignment. It’s been a struggle to arrange interviews around Eric’s work and Edie’s naps. And Edie’s sleeping schedule is still confused after our switch in time zones, which means I’m up with her more often. Two nights ago, for example, I wadded up a bath towel and used it as a pillow on the floor of the nursery as she babbled and played with her feet at 3am.

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Crying over spilled milk

At the beginning of the week, I found myself in room 1 of the lactation clinic. Again. The nurses there started calling me a frequent flyer several visits ago. The other babies in the waiting area are teeny; they “graduate” and move on while Edie, at almost 7 weeks, and I still find ourselves in the remedial class.

Each time I go to the clinic, I hope that time will do the trick, that Edith and I will finally figure out how to successfully nurse. Every article and listserv and web site I’ve trolled say that breastfeeding shouldn’t hurt if you “do it right.” By that standard, we’re definitely doing a lot of things wrong.

More than two weeks after Edie’s tongue tie was treated, I still hurt every time she ate. I’ve hit so many walls when I simply want to give up yet somehow I continue. Edith is the reason I’m doing this: I want to give her the best food possible, and I want to be the one to give it to her. I swear she must know when I’ve hit my breaking point. After a miserable night with no sleep, she showers me with smiles and gurgles that make me vow to do whatever it takes to make her happy.

How could I not want to give her everything?
How could I not want to give her everything?

I thought the same thing when I was preparing for Edie’s arrival: I would do anything to ensure her healthy birth. Eric and I decided that would include having our baby without medication. The first part of labor was a breeze: Eric, my sister Amy and I took Finn on a long walk in the park. Once I got to the hospital, though, everything became much more serious. I vomited through much of it. None of the positions that we learned in birthing class relieved the pain. My labor was progressing surprisingly quickly for a first-time mom, my midwife said, but the contractions came one after the other with no relief in between. What’s more, I later realized, I was having back labor.

Finally, I looked at Eric and said “Durian,” our code word that meant that I really did want help and he shouldn’t try to dissuade me or tell me I could do without. So at 9 1/2 centimeters dilation, I got an epidural. It kicked in a few contractions later and I was ready to marry the anesthesiologist.

I rested for 45 minutes then the nurse next checked our progress. “I see hair!” she said. The epidural allowed my body to relax and dilate the final half-centimeter. What’s more, I finally fully effaced, and Peeper turned so she was no longer facing up—the cause of the back labor. 48 minutes of pushing later. I held our beautiful daughter.

“Giving up” and getting an epidural, which was nowhere in our birth wishes, turned out to be the best decision for Edie’s birth. I have no regrets about it.

Would throwing in the nursing towel be the same, or would I regret it?

I’ve had moments in the last few days that were absolutely miserable. Eric had to stand by helpless as I doubled over sobbing, clutching my middle, because I hurt too bad to feed our daughter. He had to choose between soothing Edith and consoling his wife. No one should be faced with that decision.

Another moment I fell apart because the cap to a bottle of my pumped milk wasn’t screwed on tight enough and it spilled when I tested its temperature on my wrist. I despaired over the hard work it had taken to get that milk and cried over its loss. I also felt terrible that I’d become so desperate that losing a half-ounce of milk could reduce me to a blubbering mess.

Then there were the times when I heard Edie start to rouse from sleep and an ugly part of me didn’t want her to wake up. I dreaded having to suffer through 20 minutes of a feeding. Worse than that pain was acknowledging what I’d been reduced to: someone who hoped her baby would just continue to sleep. That was not the kind of mother I want to be.

I haven’t given up completely yet. I’m pumping from the more painful side, which the midwife told me yesterday (at my eighth lactation visit, by my count) is infected and clogged to boot. I’m hoping the antibiotics and rest will allow me to heal enough that I can continue nursing.

If not, we’ll have to reassess and move forward on a plan B. Even more difficult will be loving myself as an imperfect mom who did what she could but reached her breaking point.

The battlefield of my breasts

A few weeks after I gave birth to Edith, another new mom I was acquainted with took a bottle out of her diaper bag and began to feed her baby. I was a bit surprised because formula feeding isn’t terribly common among Portland liberals. But later she described how she had come to pumping and feeding her newborn both at the breast and at the bottle: At her baby’s two-week pediatric visit, they discovered the little one had continued to lose weight, and her milk supply had decreased. Her pain showed through her quavering voice and trembling lip.

My heart reached out to her then, but I now know how she felt.

Last Monday, Eric was out of town for work and I knew I’d be on my own for two days, so I checked out a new moms group nearby. When it was my turn, I shared how Edith had had two fussy and sleepless nights in a row and that I was still looking forward to the day when nursing wouldn’t hurt so terribly. The other moms encouraged me to go straight to the lactation clinic and get help. “It’s not right for you to be hurting so much at three weeks,” someone said.

After a disheartening visit to the nurse there, I was sent home with a loaner pump and instructions to nurse only from one side to give the other a chance to heal. After Edith had eaten, I set up the pump, a blue monstrosity with a piston that looked more like a torture device than anything. But the moment I tried to use it, Edith began to wail

She was hungry. And I couldn’t feed her.

The night only worsened. At one point, I was rocking Edith in her bassinet with my foot while she wailed, pumping and sobbing. “I’m sorry,” I kept saying. The machine’s wheezing competed with our cries in one of the more heartbreaking symphonies that could exist.

The next day was barely better. At my follow-up appointment, I learned that Edith had stopped gaining weight since her pediatric visit the previous week. Not only was I letting my child go hungry, I was starving her. Apparently, more than three weeks of inflammation, clogged ducts and pain had taken its toll on my milk supply.

When I first started nursing, I used to apologize to Edie for dripping milk all over her. The night I found out she had lost weight, I apologized for not being able to feed her properly and dripped my tears onto the top of her head as I tried to sway and soothe her

I’ve never felt like such a failure, especially not in something so important. I had been tasked with the most fundamental of jobs—feed your baby—but couldn’t deliver. Every time I sat down with that blue pump or fed her from a bottle was a reminder that I couldn’t cut it and was letting down my beautiful baby girl. I felt unfit as a mother.

On Friday at yet another follow-up visit with a lactation nurse, Nancy—a spunky breast cancer survivor with a Jersey accent—took one look at Edith and told me I had nothing to worry about. “She’s a Buddha baby. Look at that belly!” Even better than her proclamation was the scale’s testimony: Edith had gained six ounces in four days. I could have fainted I was so relieved. Nancy also told me my milk supply was fine: “You’re like a fire hydrant! You have beautiful equipment. Just ask your husband.” And when Edith pooped all over the scale, Nancy was elated. “Look at that gorgeous poop!”

I needed a laugh.

Even better was Nancy’s diagnosis. It turns out that Edith has tongue tie, which means the membrane that connects her tongue to the bottom of her mouth is unusually tight. It restricts her tongue’s movement and makes it scrape against my nipples with every suck. No wonder my boobs look and feel like a battlefield.

A diagnosis, even one whose treatment involves clipping part of my baby’s tongue with scissors, was encouraging: Maybe we can fix this.

Morning sickness, take two

It’s baaaaaack.

Morning sickness—that is, nausea that actually lasts all day—has returned with a vengeance. I thought I was through with the near-constant urge to, well, you know, after about week 17. But it turns out that some lucky women get to fight a second round at the end of pregnancy. (Joy!)

So I’m back to sporting the anti-nausea pressure point wristbands. They make me feel like I should go play basketball. Or, as a coworker suggested, paint a skull and crossbones on ‘em and walk around a high school. Thankfully, I can also rely on meds to keep me from hugging the toilet.

My iffy stomach has also returned to first trimester dietary habits. I can chow watermelon like a champ but otherwise, my meals tend toward the brown and bland. When I feel like this, pretty much the only food I want is noodies.

Noodies, as anyone in my family will tell you, consists of egg noodles, butter, salt and (maybe—if you’re feeling adventurous) parmesan cheese. My mom made it for us kids whenever we had the flu, and it has continued to be my go-to comfort food.

Sure, its inoffensive taste is easy on the gut. But a bowl of noodies also conjures up the care only a mother can provide. Feeling sick? Mom is there to put a wrist to your forehead, tuck you in and hold your hand until you drift off to sleep. That’s what noodies taste like.

It’s inevitable that Peeper will catch plenty of bugs. It’s just part of being a kid. But I will be there for every illness, ready to whip up the best recipe for quieting a stormy stomach. Because that’s what moms do.