Cherish the chaos! Cherish it!

It's hard to believe that it's been five months since we officially met our little Monkey, Lorraina.  Heck, I look at my ~12.5lb baby girl and it's hard to believe that she took her first breath at just under 5lb.  A few weeks ago, I finally cleared out some of the clothes that no longer fit her ... I looked at the tiny Carter's "preemie" size and some of the other "up to 7lb" kimonos and I remembered when they were baggy on her.  In another five months, I'll look back again and wistfully recall the time before she was mobile.  And in a year, I'll look back and sigh as I recall a time before she knew the word "no!" ...

I won't lie, the first month was hard.  I don't think that there's anything on Gaea's Green Earth that can prepare you for those first weeks.  There were many times when Z and I looked at each other and marveled at the fact that the people, the professionals, in the hospital had sent us home with a baby! Didn't they know that we had no idea what we were doing? Were they going to come back and do a spot inspection and rescind our parenthood at any moment? I can't stress enough how delirious we were ... somewhere in the cycle of Feed-the-baby-Change-the-baby-Rock-the-baby-Nap-the-baby-Feed-the-baby we lost days. We had conversations that made no sense like:

A: Can you please make some coffee?

Z: What operating system are you running on?

A: Coffee.

Z: Mac or PC?

and

Z: Here, she's hungry.
A: But I'm feeding her.
Z: No, she's here. In my arms. (Attempts to hand me the baby)
A: No. She's right here. I'm feeding her now. (looks down, notices distinct lack of baby) 
A: Oh. Nooooo! I thought I already was feeding her!

Z has a gift with settling a fussy (aka screamy, thrashy, hysterical, otherwise inconsolable) baby.  I think that it probably stems from his deep well of patience. He is amazing now ... and he was amazing then, when she was a month old and would scream and fidget and fuss for hours each night.  He would swaddle her, rock her, gently "shusssh" her and pace our small apartment until she settled.  Me? I would offer to feed her.  You know the old saying, "If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail"?  I started referring to my boobs as "The Hammers."  After we watched Thor, we started calling one "Mjolnir" and the other "Ball Peen."  That's what parenthood does to you. Or, at least, that's what parenthood has done to me. Now my boobs have their own ridiculous names.


I went back to work when Lorraina was six weeks old, so that brought its own set of trials, which made the previous six weeks look relatively easy.  I think that I may have figured out something here: it never gets easier, it just gets harder in different ways -- which makes what you were doing before look easy.  

I am trying to be calm and not worry ... but who am I kidding? I worry about everything.  As my Nana said (and attributed to her mother), "You worry from the moment they open their eyes to the moment you close yours." That's just how it is in my family. We're fretters. I celebrate every little baby-achievement (yay! you smiled! yay! you cooed!) and I fret over perceived failures (why isn't she moving objects from one hand to another? it must be because I work all day!).  It's so ridiculous. 

Parenthood has also made me reflect on my own childhood.  Many people say that they want to give their children what they didn't have growing up.  I'd be happy if I'm able to give Lo what I had growing up: parents who loved and supported me, a yard to safely play in, an extended family to lean on, memories of simple, happy times camping or cooking with my mother ....  If I'm able to do this, if she's a happy, well-adjusted adult ... I'll consider myself a success.  Of course, I suppose I won't know if I'm doing a good job for another thirty years or so.


But here in the present, we are at 20-odd weeks and Lorraina is thriving. She's waking up to the world more and more every day and becoming more of her own person (and less of a no less lovable baby-lump).  We love her very much (even when she's gross (which is most of the time)).

With Love,
A

P.S. Almost forgot the photo!  Here is our sweet little Monkey at 20 weeks:

The way I seen it... that is to say, I saw it.

Wait, what the hell just happened? I thought I had a few more weeks of freedom, all the while listening to Amanda complain of cankles as I marveled at how well she still managed to get around and be highly functional. And for someone who was just coming to term, she sure wasn't terribly big. She still didn't even look pregnant from behind.

And yes, we had plans that weren't to be. Amanda neglected to mention she didn't even get to keep her appointment to get her hair did this week. And even as I type, our good friend Scott Chasolen is taking the stage for his first SC3 show (with many guests, he advertised) of the new year. As it is, I feel very fortunate that my best friend Kenny talked me into going to see Umphrey's McGee in Times Square last Friday night. Not only was it a surprisingly excellent night of music (like Cream, Zeppelin, Faces? Try London Souls, the night's opening act), complete with spot-on, left-field cover by UM (Lionel's "All Night Long" anyone?), but it also turned out to be a final hurrah of a night out before my life changed forever.

I took advantage of Kenny's presence on Saturday afternoon to finally move our damaged loveseat out to the curb to make room for the mechanical baby swing. His presence would prove to be very valuable as events took their unexpected turn late that evening and into the next day.

Amanda was so exceedingly calm (especially for her) when she woke me up shortly before 4:00am. Her almost surreal calm and apparent reluctance to admit that her water had really broken meant that it didn't fully register what it implied when she'd said, "Zac, I think we need to go to the hospital." She successfully lulled me into thinking we were truly making the trip more as a precaution than anything. It was this rationale that made me think it wasn't worth waking Kenny to let him know we were leaving. Should it be necessary ("this is three weeks early!!"), he could call when he woke up to an unpeopled house, but chances are we'd be back before he got up. Yes, walking out the door, I actually thought this.

I finally began to get an inkling that something was actually up when Amanda spoke with the admitting nurse at the ER. As earlier chronicled, she argued that she didn't need a wheelchair. Having been so duped into complacency, I don't think we even talked contractions on the drive into Manhattan. So when the nurse asked her to rate her current level of pain on the 1-10 scale, my dumbass, expecting a zero or one, was taken aback by her response of three to four. It wasn't until we were upstairs in the initial exam room a half hour later when the resident officially confirmed that Amanda's water had indeed broken and that she was in fact 2-3cm dilated already that it hit me: "Holy shit, this is happening."

Officially admitted into Labor and Delivery, we then of course were conditioned to believe we were in for a long haul. This is why I didn't think it was too awful of me that I succumbed to my body's insistent reminder that I'd only gotten two hours of sleep. I will admit that as I drifted off in the chair next to the bed at 9:00-ish and heard that Amanda would be getting the epidural (hadn't she just asked for something mild?), I was drowsily concerned that a) if she needed the heavy stuff now, her threshold for pain was even lower than I'd thought and b) if we were truly here until possibly into Monday, the epidural would wear off before shit got serious. I didn't like that combination, and yet I dozed. I know; I'm awful. In retrospect, I found out that if I'd voiced these concerns out loud, I may have lost my eyebrows in the fire that sprang from Amanda's mouth, but such was my sleep-addled haze.

I wasn't out long before I was rousted and ousted for the administering of the epidural. I guess expectant fathers have historically not taken well the sight of an 18-gauge needle going into their significant others' spines. Having nowhere to go, I didn't stray far from the open door. That was rough. Believe it or not, those were the worst cries of pain to come from Amanda for the duration of the morning. I agonized and ached for her, but I didn't know what good rushing back in to the room was going to do. Of course, the upshot of that pain was that from that point on, to inelegantly quote a big, fat junkie dealer from the movie Rush, Amanda was more or less "floating on a cloud of titties," albeit itchy titties. (runner-up: "Pretty soon, you'll be feelin' all unnecessary.")

The next two-plus hours totally flew in the face of the scenario the resident and nurses had set us up to expect. Contractions were building steadily; dilation was seemingly expanding exponentially. The next thing I knew, Amanda's OB had finally arrived. If Amanda had been on the bottom of her list to expect a late-night call, below all the dues and overdues, I wonder if she was even more surprised to arrive at 11:30 to find that it was indeed already go-time. I barely had time to text immediate family that pushing was set to begin before we (we?) were doing it.

I wonder if it just weren't the luck of default by position from where I'd been standing at her bedside the past hour, but as Amanda began to push, I was given the responsibility of holding up her right leg. I was so impressed with her initial efforts and by just how utterly quickly events were unfolding before my eyes (was that a hairy head already?) that I at first forgot to be the supportive husband, coaching and praising the push. Thankfully (and obviously), my encouraging efforts were the difference maker as I found my voice, and the air in the delivery room took on an even more accelerated and rarified quality.

The former half of the preceding sentence: hogwash; the latter, far from it. Dr. Brill gave new instructions to her team quickly, firmly, and perhaps even a bit furtively, and in my avid sideline ignorance, I knew we were at a moment of truth. This next push was going to be the one; had to be the one. Turns out, every time Amanda pushed, the baby's heart rate was plummeting, meaning the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. And damn if Dr. Brill and her team didn't show just why they make the big bucks, acting with assured and smooth precision to safely deliver my daughter with a vacuum-assisted final push.

This semi-dodgy scenario meant that I wasn't going to be the one to cut the cord, but quite frankly, I don't care, and it didn't even occur to me at the time. All I knew and all that mattered was that our little (and hoo, I mean little) Lorraina Marie had been safely ushered into this world. Through some mystical metaphysical property, the swelling love and bursting pride I felt for Amanda had grown exponentially several times over in the space of minutes, while at the same time expanding across to this new soul that was the ensuing result of our love for each other. As I gazed lovingly into my exhausted wife's eyes, we both broke into tears of elation as we simultaneously heard our daughter's first defiant cries of life.

To be continued...

37 weeks: an unexpected surprise

So, um, I had big plans.  Plans to talk about pregnancy and body image, plans to take more bump pictures (and perhaps be told by random lady-strangers in my neighborhood, again, that I should be taking more naked bump pictures), plans to cook  freezer meals, plans to see Stew and Heidi of The Negro Problem, plans to see the Daily Show (and try not to laugh so hard that my water would break right there in the studio audience) ....  I had plans.  When asked about my concerns for labor, I would remark that the odds of a first-timer like myself going early, or even having the water break as the first sign were very low.  And also, I had plans.  So clearly, this was going to happen on some sort of schedule.

Well, our little Monkey had other plans.  At midnight on January 22, I was officially 37 weeks and was considered "at term."  At 3:00am, my water broke while I was sleeping.  At 3:45, I decided that perhaps I should call my OB about this new, moist development.  She told me to go directly to the hospital.  At 3:50, I calmly woke Zac.  We checked in to the hospital at 5:45am where I argued with the staff that I most certainly did NOT need a wheelchair, I could walk myself to the 6th floor, dagnabbit. I was fine, if a bit -er- damp and mildly crampy.  They disagreed and wheeled me around.  I offered to kick open the doors, karate-style.  They asked me nicely to refrain.  About 30-40 minutes later, it was confirmed that labor was starting and that I would be staying. The resident said that it might be Monday before the Monkey made an official appearance, as these things take time, especially with the first.




We got set up in our swanky delivery suite (not as swanky as Beyonce's, I'm sure) and Zac fell asleep in the chair next to me as I idly stared at the Japanese Bridge Monet print.  The sound system couldn't connect with our iPods, so the suite was pretty quiet except for the steady beep-beep of the Monkey's heartbeats. By 8:00ish, things got a little more painful, so I asked for some sort of analgesia.  The nurses rang for the anesthesiologist for an epidural.  That stung like a [expletive deleted], but then there was peace in the world again.  Yay, drugs.  (I did get a bad case of the opium-itchies, and Zac lovingly referred to me as his "junkie wife" as I begged him to scratch my face, my arm, my back, anywhere, everywhere, ohmygod, itchy itchy itchy)

At 11:30, my OB arrived to check me out.  She joked that she had a list of people who she expected to call her over the weekend ... I was not on the list.  Not even close. And yet, here we were. She examined me, said it was almost go-time, and she was going to change into scrubs.

At 12:02pm on January 22, 2012, our little Monkey made her official appearance, and it is with joy that we present to you Lorraina Marie.  She was 4.87lb (4#14oz) and 19.25in.  We love her.  Very much.  And we hope that you'll all understand if the blog updates are a little slow for the next few weeks -- we've got our hands full.

LMR @ not quite 12 hours old

LMR @ ~48hrs, checking out the world, right before we were discharged. 

 

Before and After :)

Much MUCH love to all,
A+Z+wee-Lorraina

36 weeks: catching up and the C-word

Here we are in the home stretch ... there's only 4 more weeks until the Monkey will make an official appearance!  We've been a bit (a lot!) slack with updating the blog as we've been pretty busy.  We've taken a childbirth class and an infant CPR class as well as survived the holidays (as you know, that comes with its own brand of chaos both at work and at home) ....  So, ladies and gentlemen, this is going to be a longer post.  Please, sit back, relax, grab a cup of hot cocoa (or, truly, whatever you'd like, pick your poison, my friends) and come along as I relive the last month.

I. The Childbirth Class

Many moons ago, I asked my OB if it was really necessary for me to take a childbirth class.  Not because as a veterinarian I know all about how puppies and kittens come out (like little slimy, furry jelly beans, in case you're wondering), but because labor and delivery is going to happen.  Even if I'm unprepared.  Even if I don't study the appropriate chapters in the multiple pregnancy books that I own.  Even if I close my eyes and cover my ears and say "No! no! There is no way THAT is going to fit out of THERE!" .... It's happening.  Sometime in February, there will be a baby.  And it will come out of me.  And not like Athena sprang fully formed out of Zeus' forehead or how Aphrodite was formed from sea-foam ... but like a screaming horror show.  A beautiful, screaming horror show.  Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Anyhoo, my OB said that it was a good idea, so I dutifully scheduled the "intensive" class: three hours of learnin' (as opposed to one hour of learnin' each weekend for three weekends.  Urgh.).

So the first part of the class was relatively informative: we learned about epidurals, fetal monitors, Braxton-Hicks contractions, labor pains, the myth of water-breaking and how big 10cm really is. The latter portion was ... um ... interesting.  I'll say that I'm glad it was the shorter bit.  We went over breathing techniques for different levels of discomfort, from "Oh, hey, that's uncomfortable" to "WHY AM I BEING PUNISHED?!?"  The breathing techniques alone were not so bad.  Holding my legs up in the air while I pretend to "push" and breathe in the "hee hee hee hoo" pattern?  During which Zac cried out things like, "Don't poop on the baby!" and "I can see the head!" That?  That made me laugh so hard I was weeping.  And then, the nurse running the class said that we should practice our breathing techniques ... the next time we poop.  She was completely serious. Yeah.  I lost it. Completely.  I am so mature.


II. The holidays

We were lucky enough to start out the holiday week of madness with an ultrasound appointment: the growth scan.  Everything was progressing well with the Monkey, although there were continuing "camera shy" issues.  We did manage to get a cute "4D" image (cue the "aawww"s) and a weight estimate of 3lb 13 oz (3.82lb for those of you out there, like me, who think that weighing in ounces is silly).  

Monkey at 32 weeks

Christmas was lovely.  My mother flew in from Florida, and we spent the holiday with my aunt and uncle and family in Long Island.  We had a wonderful time eating way too much food and reminiscing. My aunt and uncle are finishing a remodel of their house, and they've installed the fanciest toilet that I have ever seen (not counting anything from the Travel Chanel on Japan): it had a heated seat-warmer and more buttons than our TV remote control!  Normally, I wouldn't mention a toilet, but since going pee is pretty much my new part-time job, I tend to notice these sorts of things!  My mom took a photo of me in front of the Christmas tree.  I would like to point out that the reasons I seem wider than the tree are twofold: (1) forced perspective, and (2) it was a skinny tree!

33 weeks at Christmas

 

III. Another Evening Class

I think that Infant CPR and First Aid is one of those classes that you take and hope that you will never, ever need.  We learned basic first aid concepts like putting pressure on a bleeding wound and "ice is cold" (that is a direct quote). We learned that you should do compressions at 100/minute (30 compressions - 2 breaths - repeat 5 times).  To help with the basic rhythm, you can sing the song "Stayin' Alive" in your head.  (Another song with 100bpm? The slightly ironic "Another One Bites the Dust")  I found it amusing that our teacher did go through step one of CPR: checking to see if the "person" needs CPR.  During the last adult CPR class that I took, that meant that the basic script was: (1) "Annie, Annie, are you ok?" (while shaking the CPR dummy), followed by (2) "You, (point and say name), go call 911!" and then (3) start CPR. So this translated into baby-CPR as (1) "Baby, baby, are you ok?" which, unfortunately, made me want to giggle.  Seriously, what parent/caretaker is going to gently shake an unconscious, blue infant while quietly asking if they are ok?  I'm pretty sure it would have been more realistic to just release a primal scream, scream at your significant other to get on the damn phone with 911 and start CPR.  But maybe that's just me.  Anyway.  On a lighter note, the couples across to and next to us were about to have a baby-dummy-battle before the instructor intervened.  So, for once, we were not the least mature couple.  Woo! Go, us!

IV. 36 Weeks

It's the final month of this portion of our journey and on one hand, I am so ready to meet our kiddooski. On the other hand, oh, man, I feel like I will never be ready!  And on the third hand (three hands? Eew!), I am ready for this pregnancy to be over.  I have, for the first time ever in my life, cankles.  Yes, ladies and gents, that lovely portmanteau of calf+ankle, thanks to pregnancy, that is now what my legs end in.  It's not as if prior to pregnancy I would have listed small, graceful, ladylike ankles as one of my best traits.  Honestly, I just never considered my ankles.  Now, it's all I can do to hide them.  A few weeks ago when I took off my shoes and socks Zac actually cried out in shock and horror, "Oh, my god!" (<--He wants me to make the important distinction: I didn't say revulsion).  I've even resorted to using ugly support-socks to keep the cankle at bay.  They're effective but hideous.  I'm also using my fantastically stretchy Bogs as everyday shoes - they're warm and slip-on and have plenty of room in the ankle.  Unfortunately, this means that by the end of the day, I have Bog-shaped feet.  Like little loaves of bread with vienna sausages attached.  Urgh.

Well, enough of that mental picture.  Here are some photos from 36 weeks.  Enjoy!

Front view: the purple boots are my stretchy, stretchy Bogs. :)

 

36 weeks bumpity-bump

So there you have it; we're pretty much caught up to the present!  Much love to all, -a-