Have you ever noticed how baby talk is sometimes used a means to talk to others indirectly? Like, instead of asking the parent of a clearly pre-verbal infant how old they are, an adult will ask the baby and wait for the parent to respond. I guess it serves the purpose of interacting with the baby and parent at the same time but it's a weird dynamic for a first-time mom. "Oh sorry, were you talking to me? I was confused because you seemed to not be making eye contact with me at all." I do this indirect communication as well, but less as a means of connecting with baby and parent at the same time, and more as a means of explaining that I'm a good mom.
As my baby is crying and fussing more than normal with onlookers:
"Someone didn't get his morning nap!"
My baby smells and I'm getting judgmental stares:
"Do you need your diaper changed? Well, thank goodness we're almost home. It's too bad we used our last diaper. It's amazing how many diapers you can go through in one trip!" *Elbowing spouse* "I told you we should have packed more."
Tired baby crying in the mother's lounge as I try to rock him to sleep:
Me: "You're not hungry."
I notice another mother feeding her baby and realize that I might sound like I'm withholding.
Me again: "I'd feed you but I know you'd just use me as a pacifier and we're trying to discourage that..."
He continues to cry and I eye the other mom.
"I wish you'd take a pacifier."
His crying gets louder.
"Okay, I guess just this once."
Angry child will not latch until his grievances are heard. Other mother pointedly looks away.
SO... motherhood. It's a big change. I meant to write about this months ago and to keep adding my thoughts as I learned more, but it's hard to do much with this guy. I guess I'll start at the beginning...
Just to protect our identities, I will refer to my husband as "Husband" periodically and our baby as "Baby."
Labor was hard.
Skipping forward...
When we came home from the hospital that first night, I realized that our house was my baby's first home. I stepped through the front door and saw everything with new eyes. I showed him our kitchen to the right (advising him to not look down at the ugly linoleum floor), I showed him the living room (describing how much nicer it was now--he should have seen it a week ago!), I showed him the bathroom ("Yep, we'll need to baby-proof this room."), then I showed him his room ("And this, my child, is all yours."). And then I got tired, cuz let's be real, I just delivered a baby. I sat down on his rocking chair, excited to be finally using it with my baby in my arms, and feeling like an old-timey mom. As I rocked him, something clicked in my mind that this new addition to our house was going to change it in a big way.
I know I'm being repetitive here, but bear with me: this home and all my future homes would not belong to just me and my spouse, it was the baby's home as well. That previous "our," which included Husband and me, would now include Baby in reference to our home, car, family, etc. My husband and my simple, happy relationship dynamic would drastically change with this tiny, warm little squish in my arms. And I really liked how things were. My mind had previously categorized my relationship with my baby as separate from my relationship with my husband, but now things were overlapping. It would never be the same.
Overwhelmed with this feeling of loss, I wept. I felt so stupid for not making this connection before and wishing--well, what? That I had relished my previous lifestyle more than I had? That I had more of it? That I had waited to have the baby?
While we hadn't planned on having Baby when we did, we were planning on having kids and it really wasn't a terrible time to start (since we want more than one).
But I suddenly felt not ready, and I couldn't do anything about it.
I looked at his cute little face and I felt terrible for feeling not ready, and I then felt ashamed for not being happy. And then I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed. (And then I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed of feeling ashamed because I should know better as a therapist. I'm only half-kidding.)
I related my thoughts to my husband and he tried to reassure me that things were not all that different and that we'd be okay. He set up some Chinese takeout on our bed and got his computer to play Netflix as I placed a sleeping baby in his bassinet.
Then the baby woke up.
The next week was a blur--I was asleep, I was awake, I was cleaning my house, I was gingerly washing myself, I was gingerly sitting down, I was gingerly applying this vasoline-like substance to my breast parts (okay, I'll say it, "NIPPLES. I have nipples. Breastfeeding sucks!"... (pun intended)) Oh my gosh, so much gingerly. So much ow. People focus on labor and don't mention to post-partum pain.
Beyond the pain and anxiety, there was also a lot of holding this delicate adorable thing who sounded like a creaking floorboard.
Anywho, after a week of this, I started to form a routine in my head and gathered enough confidence to implement it despite my utter exhaustion. Then I noticed my baby wasn't acting like himself. His cries sounded more feeble, he didn't want to eat, he wouldn't open his eyes, he would cry as if in pain whenever I tried put him down, he grimaced throughout the day, and he had a slight fever.
I still remember the feeling of terror I repressed as I held him. I thought to myself, "It's okay. He's just colicky. I just ate something weird." And then breathing deeply and reminding myself that no one was about to die. "Oh my goodness, why does your mind even jump to something like that? You are so ridiculous sometimes!" I laughed to myself about my silly anxiety. CUT TO: image of heart thumping out of control.
As the day progressed, he continued to refuse to eat (both breastmilk and formula) and he felt warmer to me. I checked his temperature and it was something like 99 F. Nothing crazy, but still... I wondered if God was trying to teach me a lesson: "You were crying about not feeling ready? Well let me give you something real to cry about."
Silly thought, really. I know our Heavenly Father does not bully us (or talk like my dad). I guess I sometimes fear there's a mean side to God even though I've had ample evidence to the contrary.
Husband wasn't too concerned. We had just gone to the doctor and Baby had already gained back his birth weight. The pediatrician had told us that we did not need to take him in unless his temperature was above 100.4 F.
My husband was finally was able to get Baby to eat later that evening but he was still fussy sleeping (a form of sleeping that is also fussy). My husband had gone back to bed and though the baby hadn't woken me up for his next feeding, I couldn't sleep. I took his temperature again and it was 100.2 F. I went through the same worries in my mind and then tried to shut them down.
"Should I just drive to Walmart and get some Tylenol?"
I nearly got in the car but decided that I would rather be worried with my baby then worried away, and I wasn't bringing him with me to Walmart. Not knowing what else to do apart from driving to the ER, I woke my husband and asked him to give the baby a blessing. He blessed Baby in a mumbled voice (I noted some repeated phrases and tried not to laugh) and then he immediately went back to sleep. The baby slept on as well.
I stayed awake for an hour debating on if I should wake Husband again and demand that we go to the ER. It was 1:00 AM and I was extremely tired. Was I worrying for nothing? It's just so hard to know if I can trust my worries when (1) I worry too much already and (2) I'm oh so sleep-deprived. And I would have hated to needlessly add to our already crazy high sleep debt when my husband had school in the morning. He had already missed a week of school. Plus he had midterm in a week and still hadn't studied for it (with all his new parenting shinanigans).
I checked Baby's temperature again and it had gone up to 101.1 F. He had breached the threshold.
Breathing deeply, I prayed to know if we should go. I didn't want to start this motherhood thing with midnight scares and unnecessary lost sleep. I got no answer. Angrily, I prayed again, voicing my concerns and my need to know in just this instance what to do.
In the silence, I held my little boy and told God in a prayer, "You know what? I don't care if this is unnecessary. We're going." And with that, I felt this small feeling of clarity in the back of my mind and something else that felt like loving approval.
My husband did not object to my decision or my insistence that he accompany me and we rushed to the ER around the same time in the morning that we had rushed to the ER just 9 days ago.
Baby's temperature continued to rise and he continued to fussy sleep. We waited for hours as medical personnel came in and out doing various tests and he would not eat that entire time. (At the 6 hour mark I eventually forced his mouth open and inserted a syringe to feed him formula.) His cries started to sound less and less familiar. I looked away as they inserted IV's into his foot and he shrieked in pain. Unable to hold back the tears, I continued to look away as my husband held our child's arms and sang soothingly in his ear as medical professional worked around him. The baby responded with calmer cries.
I was a mess.
When we were finally seen by the pediatrician (and moved to the pediatric ward), he told us that it was most likely just a virus--all the tests were coming back negative and the baby was acting more normal now that his temperature had gone down with the Tylenol. The doctor asked us to sign a release form to allow him to do one last test to check if Baby was all clean. This test was a spinal tap. I was given a document of all the possible horrific side effects. He then told us we would need to stay in the hospital for 48 hours just to monitor everything regardless of his test results. I kicked myself for not just getting the dang Tylenol.
At this point, I was more tired than I had been after giving birth, I was feeling a lot less worried for Baby's health, and I was eager to go back home. I looked at this stupid document and thought, "What if I don't want to risk it?" I'd never gone against medical advice before, but I entertained the thought for a good while. My child had been through enough for one day, and the doctor had as good as told me he just had a virus.
I asked again why this was necessary and he explained that we needed to rule everything out and that he would do this for his own child even if he hated doing the procedure. He again explained that it would likely come back negative but it was best to be safe with infants this young.
That argument that he would do the same for his own kid persuaded me. Well, why not one more test? We're gonna be here for 48 more hours anyway.
While we waited, Husband contacted some understanding professors, and I remembered that we had friends from our ward that were bringing us dinner and would not find us home that night. I texted a brief message about our situation and thanked them for their generosity. They texted back right away wondering if they could bring food to the hospital and also if we would like another priesthood bearer to come give the baby a blessing. I said yes to both. What nice people!
Hours later as my husband and I sat chatting about our new experiences of being parents and this awful one-night scare, the pediatrician returned. I knew immediately that he was about to give us bad news. He trembled as he told us that our baby had meningitis. (Cue sweet nurse to give me a hug.)
We talked about options for his care--a children's hospital would be best for this kind of thing--he didn't know if it was bacterial or viral--bacterial is worse--no, we hadn't had many visitors this past week besides my in-laws--if it was bacterial, he most likely contracted it from me since I tested positive for group B strep--this was rare--it was good we came in when we did--he doesn't seem to show any clear sign of meningitis so there probably wasn't severe damage done to his brain yet-- he was already being treated with two types of antibiotics and those were working against the infection if it was indeed bacterial--they had the best researchers at the children's hospital and they would take care of him--he would send his own kid to the one in St. Louis--they would likely send an ambulance or a helicopter--we could be at the hospital for 14 days if it was bacterial--
"So where would you like us to transfer him?"
"Well, if St. Louis is the best, let's go there." Husband nodded.
They left to gather paperwork for us to sign for his transfer to the St. Louis Children's Hospital.
I remember looking at my husband, surprised at his calmness. I told him that meningitis was a deadly disease and tried to impress upon him the seriousness of this information. I told him that the baby could die.
He responded that if it was his time to go, then it was his time. It was unfortunate but there was nothing we could do about it so why worry?
WHAT??
Who was this person?
Didn't he care?!
Blessedly, my therapist skills started to kick in and I sensed the shock under his flat affect. I was able to reign in my own emotions and be fully present. I don't remember what I said or did but soon we were both weeping. We prayed together and asked for the baby to be okay and for peace. After the prayer, I couldn't stop crying.
Overwhelmed with this feeling of loss, I wept. I felt so stupid for not making this connection before and wishing--well, what? That I had relished my previous lifestyle more than I had? That I had more of it? That I had waited to have the baby?
While we hadn't planned on having Baby when we did, we were planning on having kids and it really wasn't a terrible time to start (since we want more than one).
But I suddenly felt not ready, and I couldn't do anything about it.
I looked at his cute little face and I felt terrible for feeling not ready, and I then felt ashamed for not being happy. And then I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed. (And then I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed of feeling ashamed because I should know better as a therapist. I'm only half-kidding.)
I related my thoughts to my husband and he tried to reassure me that things were not all that different and that we'd be okay. He set up some Chinese takeout on our bed and got his computer to play Netflix as I placed a sleeping baby in his bassinet.
Then the baby woke up.
The next week was a blur--I was asleep, I was awake, I was cleaning my house, I was gingerly washing myself, I was gingerly sitting down, I was gingerly applying this vasoline-like substance to my breast parts (okay, I'll say it, "NIPPLES. I have nipples. Breastfeeding sucks!"... (pun intended)) Oh my gosh, so much gingerly. So much ow. People focus on labor and don't mention to post-partum pain.
Beyond the pain and anxiety, there was also a lot of holding this delicate adorable thing who sounded like a creaking floorboard.
Anywho, after a week of this, I started to form a routine in my head and gathered enough confidence to implement it despite my utter exhaustion. Then I noticed my baby wasn't acting like himself. His cries sounded more feeble, he didn't want to eat, he wouldn't open his eyes, he would cry as if in pain whenever I tried put him down, he grimaced throughout the day, and he had a slight fever.
I still remember the feeling of terror I repressed as I held him. I thought to myself, "It's okay. He's just colicky. I just ate something weird." And then breathing deeply and reminding myself that no one was about to die. "Oh my goodness, why does your mind even jump to something like that? You are so ridiculous sometimes!" I laughed to myself about my silly anxiety. CUT TO: image of heart thumping out of control.
As the day progressed, he continued to refuse to eat (both breastmilk and formula) and he felt warmer to me. I checked his temperature and it was something like 99 F. Nothing crazy, but still... I wondered if God was trying to teach me a lesson: "You were crying about not feeling ready? Well let me give you something real to cry about."
Silly thought, really. I know our Heavenly Father does not bully us (or talk like my dad). I guess I sometimes fear there's a mean side to God even though I've had ample evidence to the contrary.
Husband wasn't too concerned. We had just gone to the doctor and Baby had already gained back his birth weight. The pediatrician had told us that we did not need to take him in unless his temperature was above 100.4 F.
My husband was finally was able to get Baby to eat later that evening but he was still fussy sleeping (a form of sleeping that is also fussy). My husband had gone back to bed and though the baby hadn't woken me up for his next feeding, I couldn't sleep. I took his temperature again and it was 100.2 F. I went through the same worries in my mind and then tried to shut them down.
"Should I just drive to Walmart and get some Tylenol?"
I nearly got in the car but decided that I would rather be worried with my baby then worried away, and I wasn't bringing him with me to Walmart. Not knowing what else to do apart from driving to the ER, I woke my husband and asked him to give the baby a blessing. He blessed Baby in a mumbled voice (I noted some repeated phrases and tried not to laugh) and then he immediately went back to sleep. The baby slept on as well.
I stayed awake for an hour debating on if I should wake Husband again and demand that we go to the ER. It was 1:00 AM and I was extremely tired. Was I worrying for nothing? It's just so hard to know if I can trust my worries when (1) I worry too much already and (2) I'm oh so sleep-deprived. And I would have hated to needlessly add to our already crazy high sleep debt when my husband had school in the morning. He had already missed a week of school. Plus he had midterm in a week and still hadn't studied for it (with all his new parenting shinanigans).
I checked Baby's temperature again and it had gone up to 101.1 F. He had breached the threshold.
Breathing deeply, I prayed to know if we should go. I didn't want to start this motherhood thing with midnight scares and unnecessary lost sleep. I got no answer. Angrily, I prayed again, voicing my concerns and my need to know in just this instance what to do.
In the silence, I held my little boy and told God in a prayer, "You know what? I don't care if this is unnecessary. We're going." And with that, I felt this small feeling of clarity in the back of my mind and something else that felt like loving approval.
My husband did not object to my decision or my insistence that he accompany me and we rushed to the ER around the same time in the morning that we had rushed to the ER just 9 days ago.
Baby's temperature continued to rise and he continued to fussy sleep. We waited for hours as medical personnel came in and out doing various tests and he would not eat that entire time. (At the 6 hour mark I eventually forced his mouth open and inserted a syringe to feed him formula.) His cries started to sound less and less familiar. I looked away as they inserted IV's into his foot and he shrieked in pain. Unable to hold back the tears, I continued to look away as my husband held our child's arms and sang soothingly in his ear as medical professional worked around him. The baby responded with calmer cries.
I was a mess.
When we were finally seen by the pediatrician (and moved to the pediatric ward), he told us that it was most likely just a virus--all the tests were coming back negative and the baby was acting more normal now that his temperature had gone down with the Tylenol. The doctor asked us to sign a release form to allow him to do one last test to check if Baby was all clean. This test was a spinal tap. I was given a document of all the possible horrific side effects. He then told us we would need to stay in the hospital for 48 hours just to monitor everything regardless of his test results. I kicked myself for not just getting the dang Tylenol.
At this point, I was more tired than I had been after giving birth, I was feeling a lot less worried for Baby's health, and I was eager to go back home. I looked at this stupid document and thought, "What if I don't want to risk it?" I'd never gone against medical advice before, but I entertained the thought for a good while. My child had been through enough for one day, and the doctor had as good as told me he just had a virus.
I asked again why this was necessary and he explained that we needed to rule everything out and that he would do this for his own child even if he hated doing the procedure. He again explained that it would likely come back negative but it was best to be safe with infants this young.
That argument that he would do the same for his own kid persuaded me. Well, why not one more test? We're gonna be here for 48 more hours anyway.
While we waited, Husband contacted some understanding professors, and I remembered that we had friends from our ward that were bringing us dinner and would not find us home that night. I texted a brief message about our situation and thanked them for their generosity. They texted back right away wondering if they could bring food to the hospital and also if we would like another priesthood bearer to come give the baby a blessing. I said yes to both. What nice people!
Hours later as my husband and I sat chatting about our new experiences of being parents and this awful one-night scare, the pediatrician returned. I knew immediately that he was about to give us bad news. He trembled as he told us that our baby had meningitis. (Cue sweet nurse to give me a hug.)
We talked about options for his care--a children's hospital would be best for this kind of thing--he didn't know if it was bacterial or viral--bacterial is worse--no, we hadn't had many visitors this past week besides my in-laws--if it was bacterial, he most likely contracted it from me since I tested positive for group B strep--this was rare--it was good we came in when we did--he doesn't seem to show any clear sign of meningitis so there probably wasn't severe damage done to his brain yet-- he was already being treated with two types of antibiotics and those were working against the infection if it was indeed bacterial--they had the best researchers at the children's hospital and they would take care of him--he would send his own kid to the one in St. Louis--they would likely send an ambulance or a helicopter--we could be at the hospital for 14 days if it was bacterial--
"So where would you like us to transfer him?"
"Well, if St. Louis is the best, let's go there." Husband nodded.
They left to gather paperwork for us to sign for his transfer to the St. Louis Children's Hospital.
I remember looking at my husband, surprised at his calmness. I told him that meningitis was a deadly disease and tried to impress upon him the seriousness of this information. I told him that the baby could die.
He responded that if it was his time to go, then it was his time. It was unfortunate but there was nothing we could do about it so why worry?
WHAT??
Who was this person?
Didn't he care?!
Blessedly, my therapist skills started to kick in and I sensed the shock under his flat affect. I was able to reign in my own emotions and be fully present. I don't remember what I said or did but soon we were both weeping. We prayed together and asked for the baby to be okay and for peace. After the prayer, I couldn't stop crying.
Our friends from the ward arrived soon after the bad news and breakdown. The baby received a blessing, my husband received a blessing, and I received a blessing as well. The blessings were specific about the outcome: everything would be okay and the baby would fully recover. I was so happy to know in absolute terms that he would be okay, and I felt the peace and hope that I was promised in my blessing.
It made all the difference to have that knowledge the next couple weeks as stress mounted so that I could enjoy my baby rather than say goodbye every time I held him. I remember people asking after me and feeling like I ought to pretend to be more distressed. I didn't want people to think I didn't care or that I was pulling the same fake calm thing my husband had done prior to our blessings; I was just legitimately happy. Well, super uncomfortable and sad that our baby was distressed, but happy. (And occasionally allowing myself to entertain really sad possibilities and subsequently not okay for a free minutes.) But I was really okay. Our baby was going to be okay, and nothing else mattered.
to be continued... probably
