It is 12:25 am on a Tuesday night and I am writing. Late
night writing is not new. Certainly not for me. I used to do it all the time. When
I was young and suffering from insomnia, almost nightly during high school.
Then when I was older, in my twenties, and life felt like a never-ending tragedy,
or a comedy, or maybe really a comedy of errors (as nothing that happened
during my early twenties was truly tragic). In those days I would come home
from a night out, stumble around my apartment looking for a cigarette, spend
another ten minutes looking for a match, take a seat in front of the computer,
and start madly typing away while searching for whatever was in arm’s reach
that could double as an ashtray. The resulting stream of words was either a
long-winded diatribe that I fantasized about delivering to some pompous jerk
but didn’t have the guts to utter in real time, or an overly laconic (is that possible?)
smattering of poesy about regret and aging (I was 23), or a drama-rama email to
an ex that I would send in a fog and re-read the following morning in a fit of
shame. I grew so used to this routine that by the time I turned thirty I
started to forget what it was like to write. I mean to actually write. It took
me a while to get it back, but I can feel, even as I type this lump of prose,
that I’m forgetting again.
This is the first time in a month, a week, and a day (plus a
couple “trimesters”) that I’ve sat at the computer to type a post for this blog.
Exactly one month, one week, and one day ago my daughter was born. Linnea Anne
Dion Rosenzweig. (Whew. Need to take a breath after typing that entire name. I’m
praying Scantron doesn’t exist by the time she’s old enough to be taking
standardized tests… well, what I’m really hoping is standardized tests don’t
exist...) But I need to stay on track here. I have a deadline and I’m going to
try and pound this out as quickly as possible. You see, Linnea just finished
nursing and that means the clock is ticking. In about 120 minutes she’ll start
squirming around, still mostly asleep; this will give way to gentle squeaking
sounds, followed by more forceful grunting noises; then come the eyes opening,
and the mouth, and finally: the wail. At which point I’ll scoop her up, pull
the breast out (whichever feels easier, usually the left one), offer it to her
and she will nurse for as long as she cares to – anywhere from four minutes to
fifteen during nighttime feedings. Daytime feedings are longer, of course, and
the rest of the day disappears in a haze of laundry, vacuuming, bouncing,
rocking, singing, scheduling, dog-caring, and – if I’m lucky – showering. (I
know I’m forgetting several key housework activities… Oh yes! Dishes!) Sometimes I sneak in a nap.
Naturally, I find time to check Facebook (come on, this isn't Bleak House). I “Like” a few
posts, comment on a few status updates, and click on a link to some article
about how the earth and its inhabitants are all going straight to hell. I round
out the day by signing a few petitions, sending a text, and reading a few pages
in whatever book I can manage to read (something undemanding). But none of this
is important. What’s important is that I was wrong. I was totally wrong. Being
a mom/parent/caregiver is hard. Like, effing hard. And here’s the other thing:
it’s really effing rewarding.
What else was I wrong about? Oh. Yes. Labor. That was hard.
Like, effing hard. I literally lost my capacity to see during contractions. My
signature on the epidural consent form (the one I said I didn’t even need
because I was going au natural, obviously) looks like my Chihuahua was the one
given the pen and granted Power of Attorney. I was out of my MIND. The years of
gymnastics, running, diving, weight-lifting, and such? The massage and
progressive relaxation techniques? The badass doula and her birthing ball? The
husband who proudly took the blows of both my flesh-bruising clenching hands
and skin-piercing fingernails? None of this was enough in the final analysis.
I caved. Got the epidural, took a nap, and birthed the baby as the early morning sun streamed through the windows. After the cord-cutting (the delayed clamping I opted for garnered me an extra ten seconds, at most) and after the Apgar scores, I laughed and joked with everyone, beaming and grinning with a brand new healthy baby in my arms… blissfully unaware of my midwife sewing up the tears in my still-numb labia and perineum.
I know, you’re probably holding the world’s smallest violin
in your hands. And I know I probably sound like an entitled biotch who just
wanted her suburban cushy hospital and nice nurses who didn’t stick their heads
in to say “what’s up?” every four hours before quickly disappearing again. But
this isn’t a class issue. This is this: I just had a baby. I had no idea what
the fuck I was doing. My hormone levels had plummeted. My dog was home alone
and is terrified of rain. And from across the curtain I can hear the TV blaring
“you are not the father!” from the mouth of Maury Povich. Across the curtain a
couple was bickering. Across the curtain a strange man was barking insults into
his cell phone. I asked the nurse if it was possible to be discharged early and
she said, curtly, “yes.” Great! “But the baby has to stay.” OK. “Thanks,” I
said, “We’ll stay.” A few minutes later someone brought a tray of food. I hadn’t
eaten in 24 hours and although I wasn’t hungry, I knew I needed calories. I
lifted the lid and found a steaming hunk of meat. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t
want to be a pain in the butt, and I’m sure this is going to sound annoying,
but do you have a vegetarian option?” She looked at me for a few seconds before
saying, “No.” Then she turned around and walked away. Believe me. I wasn’t
expecting to be pampered. I wasn’t expecting an emotional afterglow. I knew it
would be difficult. The first hours, days, weeks even. But this was a ruder
awakening than I’d bargained for, and so, for the first time throughout the
whole experience I looked at Josh, started to talk, then broke down and cried.
Before we left, unfortunately, the hospital made us watch a graphic
video about Shaken Baby Syndrome. Part of their policy, they said. Although I
appreciate the advocacy efforts, this was not the right time for me. Due to
hormones, or my own highly emotional/sensitive disposition, I’d already been
fretting over the treatment of babies. Not just my baby. Not just Philadelphia babies.
But all babies. Everywhere. Throughout history, present, and future. When I
looked at Linnea I couldn’t imagine anything more vulnerable or more needing of
care and love. I tortured myself by recalling news stories detailing violence
done to babies by adults; stories of orphanages where babies were left alone
all day, without touch or talking; babies that suffered illness and hunger. I
don’t know if these thoughts were happening through my own volition or not, I
just know they were happening. And they were awful. The video of a man
violently shaking a defenseless newborn did not help. The image stayed in my
mind and would come to the surface every few hours, as if to say, “no matter
how happy you are, there is a baby somewhere suffering.” That thought, along
with similar horrors were enough to keep me pretty depressed the first couple weeks.
I asked some girlfriends about their thoughts in the days
following birth and received the kind of response that even if it doesn’t fix
the issue, gives hope. “Totally normal. Happened to me, too.” My doula dropped
off my placenta pills (I had it dehydrated and encapsulated) and I started
taking those, daily. My parents came to town, and my aunt, and best friend, and
Philadelphia friends came to see the baby and help us and keep us sane. My
husband and I went on drives, grocery shopping, and to book stores. Turns out
you can do all those things with a baby! I knew that before, but immediately
after having a baby, it’s hard to imagine…
Luckily, in time, the thoughts started to spread out, and
lessen in intensity, and by Week Three/Four, I was able to focus on the
present. And on my baby. (I could describe what my nipples and vagina were
going through those first two weeks, but I’ll trust you get the idea.) When I
saw her, sleeping, or crying, or nursing, or just shifting gently in my arms, I
saw the unimaginable. I saw someone who came out of my body, who was made by
her dad and me – and everyone who came before us. I saw something that needed
me to be happy, and present, and active in the things I can fix, not dwelling
on all the hideous shit that I can’t.
“Warm my hands,” Gramma says. “They’re cold.”
She slips her hands inside my cupped hands. Her hands like
two small mammals burrowing inside a hollow, hunkering down against each other,
against the coming freeze.
“I used to worry about you,” she says, “but I don’t anymore.
You’re over the wall.”
“What’s the wall?”
“Fear.”
-
Michael Hainey, from “After Visiting Friends”
This morning we brought Linnea to her one-month pediatric
appointment. She was due for her Hep B vaccine and as the nurse prepped the
needle I put my finger in her little hand. Her tiny fingers closed around mine.
As the nurse stuck the needle in her leg, I started to breathe heavy and fight
the desire to push the woman back, screaming: get the fuck away from my child!
After the shot, Linnea cried and I held her and shushed her and she
quickly calmed down and started looking around the office putting her little
fist into her mouth signaling she wanted to nurse (it never ends!) and then we
strapped her into the car seat and walked out of the office, onto Locust Street.
Construction was blowing dust at us and the cars didn’t seem to give a damn if
you were pushing a stroller or not. But. I was freaking glowing. My baby was
healthy. I was her mommy. And Josh and I were on our way to get a cup of coffee. Which of course I never drank. (I can’t seem to finish or even start a cup
of coffee anymore; other stuff keeps interrupting me and by the time I get back
to it, the coffee is cold.)
Tomorrow morning we’re getting three windows replaced and
Josh is dropping the car off to get inspected. Later in the day we need to move
the living room furniture back into the room from being in the kitchen. We had
the ceiling redone and then Josh wanted to touch up the painting. With a
newborn, however, I’ve learned that whatever is on your To Do list for the day,
expect to get only one of those items actually done. Hopefully we’ll get the
couch moved back in. If not, c’est la vie.
Abbi Mireille Dion, 2:46 AM, July 30 2013
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