Uncategorized

One month

catherinemryan

Yesterday Edith Mae turned one month old. It’s clichéd, but I couldn’t believe how much time had flown past since the Sunday Edie joined our family.

Those first moments with her are still vivid: her bewildered, angry cry; her purple hue; the warmth of her on my chest. I could tear my eyes away from her only to look at Eric. How did we possibly get so lucky? How did we manage to create something so beautiful and perfect?

Her socks are so baggy on her!
Her socks are so baggy on her!

Since then we’ve had a lot of firsts. Edith’s first car ride, going home from the hospital, was a stressful one. Eric tensed up in the front seat and angrily criticized the other drivers as we hit traffic on I-84; I sat in the back and watched over our precious cargo. The last time we’d driven that stretch I was in labor.

Papa and Scrunchface seek the shade.
Papa and Scrunchface seek the shade.

We took our first family outing nearly a week after Edith was born. We packed a picnic and sat in the shade at Champoeg State Park, where settlers met in 1843 and decided to form a provisional government for Oregon Country. We learned the importance of packing an extra outfit when she peed on herself while we changed her—a habit that has seemingly become her favorite pastime. (“My diaper is off? Terrific! I need to empty my bladder!”

Peeper is sure to become a water weasel, delighting in the river for swimming, splashing and of course kayaking.
Peeper is sure to become a water weasel, delighting in the river for swimming, splashing and of course kayaking.

We visited the river for the first time a few weeks later. We went to Milo McIver State Park, one of our favorite places for disc golfing, where we went the week I was due. It was so hot then and I was so huge that I sat in a camp chair in the chilly Clackamas to cool down; this time Edith and I sat on the bank while Eric swam. The trip also counted as her first disc golfing adventure, although she slept through the few holes Eric played. The trip was worth the stress of getting there: While driving, Edith woke and screamed until we pulled into an Oil Can Henry’s, where I nursed her in the parking lot while local kids filled up their oversized inner tubes outside the car window.

Tummy time fail.
Tummy time fail.

More recently, Edie had her first tummy time. She must have missed the memo on what tummy time’s all about because she fell asleep immediately. In later attempts, she’s lifted her head and even turned it toward me when I scooted around behind her. She, Finn and I get down on the floor together for family tummy time now. I can hardly believe how strong her neck has gotten.

She's focusing her eyes!
She’s focusing her eyes!

I imagine every month will bring more firsts. And I’m sure I’ll marvel at how much she has changed. Edith is already outgrowing her newborn onesies, and when we weighed her yesterday, she’d gained six ounces in five days. When we receive gifts from friends, my first impulse is to return the sleepers and dresses they’ve given us. “She’ll never fit into this,” I think. “It’s so big!” I can’t fathom her filling out a nine-month outfit.

So happy one month, little Peeper. We love you very much and can’t wait to see what the next month holds!

The battlefield of my breasts

catherinemryan

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.

What no one told me about having a baby

catherinemryan

With new babies, you expect certain things: crying, cuteness and a lot of dirty diapers (although the reality—and expense—of so many nappy changes is shocking even though you knew it was coming). I read What to Expect When You’re Expecting just like every other mama to be in this country, but I’ve been caught off guard by a handful of surprises these first few weeks.

The Baby High
For the first five days or so, it felt like I didn’t need sleep. With the birth of Edith, I became this supermom who substituted staring at her newborn for REM. Sometimes, 15 minutes after I lay down for a nap, Eric brought a crying and hungry Edie to me with an apologetic look. “Don’t worry!” I’d say cheerily. “I feel rested!” I never nodded off during nighttime feedings and looked forward to the awake period Edie usually had between 3 and 5 a.m., when we’d have long conversations. (Ok, I talked at her and she squeaked, but still.)

Imagine my disillusionment when I realized I was not a superhuman and actually did need sleep. Whatever causes the baby high wore off or the string of nights with only two hours of rest caught up with me and I crashed. Now I fight off dozing during nighttime feedings by checking Facebook and pinning birth announcement ideas.

The noises
Edith makes the noises that, if they could be printed, would become an aww-oozing Hallmark card. She coos, squeaks, sighs and makes the satisfied lip-smacking sounds that this kitten does. I imagine these sounds had an evolutionary advantage: Darwin probably favored them over the babies who sounded like a velociraptor.

Edith chomps on Eric, wherever he's closest, when she's hungry.
Edith chomps on Eric, wherever he’s closest, when she’s hungry.

I was unprepared for the other noises, though. She snuffles like a pig when she’s hungry and looking for milk in all the wrong places (like Eric’s nose). She grunts like a cantankerous and disapproving grandfather. Her burps could match up to any Red Dog-swilling dude’s. Her hiccups are worse than a sorority girl’s at closing time. And she’s such an enthusiastic eater that she can’t keep quiet about it. When I was at a group midwife appointment, the midwife looked at me like, “Seriously?” when Edie went to town on her morning snack. (Correction: her fourth or fifth morning snack.)

The aggro nursing
At an earlier group midwife appointment (the diabetes check that made me cry and almost faint, I think), they showed a breastfeeding video. In it, all the mothers smiled down at their babies who were peacefully suckling. It was like a Vermeer painting: placid and side-lit.

Cue Edith. Her feeding style is more like a Motherwell. (Ironically.) Once she’s latched, she’ll thrash her head like a dog killing a squeaky toy and kick her little legs. Of course this isn’t pleasant for my war-weary nipples. I just hope it serves some purpose (stimulating milk production? exercising muscles?) because that would make it easier to bear. Ouch.

I’m sure Edith will bring plenty more surprises along with the more common baby traits. There’s always one guarantee: a whole slew of dirty diapers.

Introducing Edie

catherinemryan

Please meet our Peeper, Edith  Mae Ryan Gregory! She joined us Sunday, July 7 at 9:19pm, weighing 7 pounds and 14.8 ounces and stretching to 21 inches.

Edie shows off her guns
Edie shows off her guns

Reciting her stats has become routine–her weight, height, birth date, age in days–but ironically, everything else about her is immeasurable.

Time has taken on a nonlinear quality: I lose hours gazing at her snoozing with her mouth gaped open. Entire days will zip by but some nursing sessions turn into marathons in which we’re running in place at the 26.1 mile mark.

Our tiny snoozer keeps her mouth open while sleeping.
Our tiny snoozer keeps her mouth open while sleeping.

I have been blown away by how much I instantly loved Edith. The feeling consumed, submerged and enveloped me. Meeting her when our midwife placed her on my chest was like jumping to the bottom of a pool: I was immediately surrounded by an overwhelming feeling that both pushed on me from every angle and lifted me up. My heart felt simultaneously like it was wrapped in a bear hug and exploding into a million pieces. Every moment is a practice of contradictions.

I still struggle to describe my transformation into motherhood. “Love” just seems inadequate. Metaphor is the only way I can come close to expressing the tidal wave of emotion.

We took Edie on her first excursion for a picnic.
We took Edie on her first excursion for a picnic.

The most mind-boggling part is how I am full to overflowing with adoration for Edith but I keep getting fuller. The physics of it are a mystery like the ever-expanding universe.

How could anyone resist this face?
How could anyone resist this face?

I am awestruck witnessing the impossible. How can infinity get bigger? Edith is teaching my heart that lesson every day.

Baby quilt for a friend

catherinemryan

I’m notorious for giving gifts late. More often than not, Christmas and birthdays are accompanied by IOUs. I have good intentions and big ambitions for homemade presents but unfortunately, I seldom deliver. At least on time.

The five of us are due within 2 weeks of each other. There must've been something in the water!
The five of us are due within 2 weeks of each other. There must’ve been something in the water!

My friend Shannon’s baby shower gift was no different. A few weeks ago we gathered in the Portland sun to celebrate her little boy, who’s due this Friday. When she reached for the “It’s a boy!” bag from me, I had to warn her: “Sorry, it’s not finished. I have to take it back!”

Well, now it’s finished!

Shannon's nursery has a Montana theme, so I wanted the quilt to look organic and woodsy.
Shannon’s nursery has a Montana theme, so I wanted the quilt to look organic and woodsy.

This baby quilt gave me a lot of trouble. I had a grand vision of chevrons in a variety of greens and creams to evoke the outdoors. But after I’d cut out a million diamonds, I realized I’d mismeasured. The sides didn’t match up. I started looking into a fabric cutter machine at QuiltersReview.com by this point, but figured I’ll make the purchase for my next big quilting project.

I took a break from the quilt. I was frustrated. Then I came back, figuring I’d just cut the diamonds into strips and make a scrappy string quilt. But because the edges were cut at an angle, the strips were all wavy and wonky. I took another break.

The proximity of Finn's cuteness inspired me to make it work.
The proximity of Finn’s cuteness inspired me to make it work.

Finally, I figured I’d just go with the wonkiness. Somehow, it turned out! I’m happy with it now, even though the dimensions of the quilt are a little strange.

IMG_1786Lessons I learned:

  • Stepping back from a project gone wrong can open you up to new ideas. I ended up really liking the finished product despite it looking nothing like my original vision.
  • Making your own bias tape for the binding is a huge pain. I’ll probably just buy the premade tape from now on.
  • Flexibility is key, especially when you’re making up a pattern on your own. I’ll try not to be so rigid next time.

Happy (belated) shower, Shannon! I can’t wait to meet your little guy!

Kick me baby, one more time

catherinemryan

My coworker Stephanie was one of the first people I told I was pregnant. We were in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the midst of a storm that dumped more than a foot of snow. We were eating Chinese takeout and getting ready for an intense schedule of training for our new jobs. We’d just met.

“Can you keep a secret?”

No one else at work knew at that point, and I couldn’t bear to go another week and a half with my news kept entirely under wrap. I needed someone to empathize with me when morning sickness made me almost faint and when I was simply too tired to go to a Friday night party.

Since then, Stef and I have worked together closely, at first being one of two employees tucked into a back room of a school district office while our start-up installed cubes and phones in our permanent address, so she’s had a front-row seat to the ups and downs of my pregnancy.

As she’s said to me, with more than a hint of sarcasm, “You’re really selling this whole pregnancy thing.”

There’s plenty we don’t typically hear about growing a baby: Backne. Third trimester nausea. Inexplicable 4am wake-up calls. Fingernails that grow really, really fast. No wonder she’s grown more skeptical of the whole pregnancy thing.

But of course this isn’t a 40-week reason to complain–at least not exclusively. There are plenty of upsides, too.

Another bonus to being pregnant: People, like Stef, make you cupcakes!
Another bonus to being pregnant: People, like Stef, make you cupcakes!

My absolute favorite part about being pregnant is feeling Peeper move inside me.

The first time I felt it, I thought it was gas. (Seriously. Pregnancy is glamorous, what can I say?) The next night I sat on the couch and felt it again. I was about 17 weeks pregnant, and it felt like an eye twitch, except in my belly. It was a tiny tickle, Peeper’s way of saying hello.

Since then, of course, Peeper has gotten bigger and stronger, as have his or her movements. The common exclamation “Baby’s going to be a soccer player!” seemed inadequate to describe the baby’s kicks, jabs and twists, so I thought of other sports Peeper might be practicing: Judo. Synchronized swimming. Tai chi. Gymnastics. Cage fighting.

Only recently has Peeper gotten those tiny feet lodged under my ribcage–a benefit of having a long torso, I suppose. Even when the practice moves are painful, though, I can’t help but rest my hand on the action to feel Peeper move from the inside and outside. So I end up with the classic preggers pose–one hand on the belly–while waiting in line at the grocery store, driving home from work and talking to friends in the park.

In these last weeks (or days?!), as I grow more impatient to meet Peeper, friends have encouraged me to enjoy myself. The part of me that’s hot and sore and uncomfortable and huge and antsy rolls its eyes, but the more reasonable, less pregnant part knows they’re right. I’ll do my best to enjoy these last Peeper kicks and back flips and wiggles while they last–even the ones that find their mark under my ribs.

Music to my laboring ears

catherinemryan

Labor was getting intense. My work friend was perched on a birthing ball at the hospital, sweaty and trying to bring her daughter into the world. Her then-husband hovered nearby. Their custom play list pulsed out motivating music.

And then, Outkast’s “Hey Ya!” began.

“Turn. That. Off,” my friend growled. The upbeat, catchy tune did not inspire her to wiggle her fingers or shake it like a Polaroid picture. And that was the end of their musical accompaniment.

Hey Ya

Many of the pregnancy advice sites recommend compiling a play list for labor–but how do you choose what to play? How do you ensure you don’t have a regretful “Hey No!” moment?

I have a mix of relaxing, comforting songs I turn to if I need to focus intently and make a deadline. It includes a lot of Radiohead, Sigur Ros and Iron & Wine. I figure we’ll play this at least a bit, unless the otherworldly Icelandic keening makes me wish for an auditory epidural.

But I want a backup plan, or at least some more options.

What did you listen to while you were in labor? What did you wish you had? Or was music the last thing on your mind?

Feed me, Seymour!

catherinemryan

At my group midwife appointment last week, the facilitators—a midwife and a helper—were very concerned about food.

“Who will cook meals?” they asked. “Will friends or family bring you food? Has anyone frozen food ahead of time?”

The focus on edibles surprised me, but maybe it shouldn’t have. The first few weeks with a newborn, they explained, will leave only enough time for nursing and the most minimal of rest. You’ll have no energy, time or desire to whip up dinner, they said.

Plus, eating enough is vital to recover from labor and to produce milk for your new baby. Nursing moms should eat about 500 calories beyond what they did pre-pregnancy, most experts suggest.

So this weekend I launched myself into the project of feeding myself in the future. The tally for Saturday and Sunday’s work:

Our freezer is now stocked with individual portions of a few meals and snacks that can be eaten one-handed (for the multitasking mom I’ll become!).

Catherine RyanI won’t be surviving exclusively on burritos and muffins, though—at least I hope not. My problem is that I become incapable of making a decision about anything if I get too hungry.

Case in point: A few weekends ago, my mom visited Portland to take some maternity photos at Eric’s winery. The plan was to grab dinner afterwards, but Eric had to stay later than expected. When my patience and blood sugar bottomed out, I knew we had to get food immediately. But when Eric asked what or where I wanted to eat, I was immobilized.

We ended up going to the Red Hills Market for wine and herbed olive oil and, after a few (hundred?) calories, I could function again.

Knowing this, I’m trying to plan ahead. We have takeout menus for Laughing Planet and the Green Wok handy. I also made a short list of recipes (note to self: expand on this) I love and will eat at pretty much any time.

I figure I’ll add to this, but it gives me a good tool for when family and friends visit, want to help but don’t know what to cook. When I’m exhausted, near-delirious, struggling or just plain hungry, then, I’ll have some edible options.

What did you eat once your baby arrived? What are your favorite, easy summer meals? Help me out!

The name game

catherinemryan

A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but trying to choose the right name for your baby is still a BFD.

Almost from the time we broke our happy news, friends and family—and even strangers—have asked if we’ve picked out a name for Peeper. We’ve had lists going since before that fateful pregnancy test those three pregnancy tests but nothing has stuck yet. Now that our due date is less than two weeks away, the pressure is on!

Or maybe not. Eric’s brother and his wife just had their fifth child, and the little guy was nameless for three or four days before they settled on Sawyer James. As long as you have something to put on the birth certificate before you leave the hospital…

When going through our possibilities, Eric and I have brainstormed the potential schoolyard taunts, looked up meanings (why does every name have to do with fighting or God?) and recounted stories of people we know by the same name. Still, we’re undecided.

Eric, sporting his vacation hat, reads me ridiculous names from one of the books we brought to the beach.
Eric, sporting his vacation hat, reads me ridiculous names from one of the books we brought to the beach.

It turns out that names might subtly influence more than just how kids tease you on the playground. Female lawyers with more “masculine,” or androgynous, names like Kerry were more likely to become judges than lawyers with exclusively female names, according to a post in the New Yorker. Women with more feminine names are more likely to elect classes in the humanities rather than math and science, says another study, and people are more drawn to careers that mimic the sounds of their names, explains this article. So there tend to be more Dennis dentists because “we’re all unconsciously attracted to things that remind us of ourselves.”

How much is all this true? Well, the stats bear out the studies—but I have a hard time basing our naming choices on such research. Names are extremely personal, and when I veto one Eric suggests, it’s most often because I don’t like the sound of it or my gut says, “No way.”

For now, then, we’ll keep our lists. Hell, we haven’t even decided on the kid’s last name. The idea is that after Peeper arrives, we’ll come to know what to call him or her. Unless we just give up and settle on Peeper.