So I’ve been a parent for a whole week, and I’ve managed not to accidentally leave the baby in the refrigerator or to put a diaper on her head.
Yet.
I’ve totally fallen in love with the little Bean. I could stare at her for hours. I don’t mind her shitting all over me. Twice. Right after I got out of the shower. My first shower in two days: Still. Not. Bitter.
The little Bean sleeps most of the day. She’s up every two hours at night. She’s beautiful and funny and we’ll be starting calculus tutoring in a week.
My recovery continues on apace. I have a few stitches “down there,” but I’m honestly not sure where, and frankly, I’m too frightened to put a mirror down under to find them. The nurse’s after care instructions are enough to scare anyone:
-No douching
-No thinking about douching
-No sex (Ha! As If!)
-No scrubbing with soap
-No scrubbing with anything resembling a sponge, cloth, glove, or pouf
-No baths
-No thinking about baths
-No powders, lotions, potions, or salves other than witch hazel
-No feeding it after midnight
My main source of anxiety has been with breast feeding. After a particularly nasty encounter with the nursery nurse, I have been stark-raving paranoid about starving the Bean with my hideously malformed teats.
The nurse (A nurse! A professional!) expressed horror that I hadn’t successfully nursed the baby in the first seven hours of her being topside. I tried to nurse her many times, but a barely six pound baby is no match for the, ahem, udder massivity (bad, I know) that is my breastage. She intimated that the Bean’s health would be in danger if I didn’t feed her formula RIGHT AWAY, EVEN 20 milliliters FOR GOD’S SAKE! CONSIDER THE CHILD! All of my reading on the subject telling me otherwise went right out the window because a professional baby nurse was telling me that I was starving my child and she hadn’t even had a chance to see the outdoors yet!
So I fed her formula, cried my eyes out, and felt like a total failure. Wow, that only took seven hours.
So I checked out of the hospital in 24 hours, figuring that if the Bean was going home with the most retarded mother in the world, we might was well check out early to get a jump on things. Dim, the Bean, and I locked ourselves in the house and spent hours staring at each other. Our highly evolved and sophisticated natures came up with incredibly deep thoughts like:
“Wow. She’s really here.”
“We made that”
“I can’t believe that came out of me.”
“She looks like Captain Picard.”
“Or Wilford Brimley.”
“Yeah. Or him.”
Nursing her is incredibly hard. Harder than any of the books tell you. I don’t have perfect boobs like the skinny bitches. I don’t even have interestingly inverted nipples like the “Other women” the books all devote, oh, ONE FUCKING PARAGRAPH TO. My little Bean shrieks from hunger and all I can do is try to pinch my horribly engorged and yet maddeningly uncooperative teats into her teensy, tiny mouth. She can’t latch on to that which refuses to be latched on to. I try and try and try and she screams and screams and screams, and I end up dosing her with formula or pumped breast milk just so I know she doesn’t die by morning. She sleeps soundly and I cry myself into a catnap until the process starts again two hours later.
The La Leche League Lady I called told me that my problem was really that I had DARED to give the baby a pacifier to calm her down, and unless I wanted to be bailing my kid out of jail down the line for a string of crimes that can be traced back to the PRESENCE OF SILICONE IN HER MOUTH AS AN INFANT, I would cease that silly behavior immediately.
My friends and mothers all try to be helpful by telling me how they had it hard because it took, like, a whole two tries to get their kids latched on, and golly, wasn’t it stressful to not be able to figure it out for like ten whole minutes and what a scary ten minutes it was.
I swear that if I hear one more “be patient” or “it just takes time” I’ll scream. It shaves a little piece of skin off me each time she cries, knowing that I have these two giant beasts waiting to feed her but neither the skill nor the physiology to do it solo yet. The hospital lactation nurse's advice of "just shove it in there, you'll figure it out" seems advice better given to someone being asked to ram her own fist in her ass. Listen sister, if it would make it so I could feed the Bean, point me to the Vaseline...
I found a silicone shield that I can use to force my nipple into a shape that the baby can take. The websites all tell me that this is a hollow victory, since it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t latch her on to me, and it dulls sensation, so unless I continue to pump, I’ll dry up faster than a summer mud puddle in the savannah.
In four days I’ve already burned out one breast pump, and the other one looks scared.
I’ll keep at it, because I love the Bean more than I do myself. And how could you not? She looks like Captain Picard.
UPDATE: Post-Partum Depression Jen has been placed in a cage. Hopefully future posts will be limited to discussions of Coochie-coos and butterflies.
UPDATED UPDATE: PPD-Jen has clubbed Coochie-coo Jen. Discussions of tits and the paralells between her perineum and The Gremlins will likely continue. Adjust your reading habits accordingly.
...the diapers of breast-fed babies have no odor
LIIIIIIEEEED!
Still working on the birth story. Typing one-handed. Be patient.
Dimitri here.. Here are some pics and stats:
Sophia Lisa Rodis
Born on 4/22 at 10:28AM at Spring Valley Hospital
6 lbs, 6 oz.
19 in long
Checked out of the hospital on 4/23 at about 12:30pm.
We’ve been at home since.
Pictures have not been resized-- they are all full resolution, and most of them have an incorrect date stamp on them. Be patient while they load.
Her first picture
Us
Cone Head!
A Proud Yiayia (grandmother)
Ready to go home (Jen came home from the hospital in this outfit when she was born)
Buckled In
Welcome Home
"Your cousin is coming soon!"
Twelve hours of labor
20 minutes of pushing
One perfect-looking, cone-headed little lizard baby
Damn, I'm good.
Indirect
I’m at church last night to receive unction as part of the preparation for Orthodox Easter this Sunday. Father John has two other priests helping him, but with a church full of people, a third of a million is still a lot of people.
So as I’m winding my way up the line, I finally reach Father John. The guy hasn’t seen me in months, but he knows that I’m pregnant. He doesn’t miss a beat, this guy. He’s painted fifty gajillion people, but still manages a personal message for everyone. He looks at my huge belly and says “Jennifer, you look wonderful!” He paints my face, ears, and hands with the oil and says a quick prayer. He stops short and says “Jen, I forgot your baptismal name.” I tell it to him and he uses it to finish the prayer.
He winks at me and says “So, I guess it’s been too long since I’ve given you communion, eh, Jen?”
DOH!
Direct
I’m at church this afternoon helping the old ladies dye red eggs for Sunday’s service. The ladies society sells the eggs by the dozen as a fundraiser, but the priest also gives every parishioner one polished red egg at the close of the Easter service. I’m helping them dye three skillion eggs with this sketchy, in-no-way-approved-by-the-FDA powdered dye from Greece, as well as bottles and bottles of red Rit dye, thinking I can’t believe people EAT these things and live to see the next year’s egg batch.
The old hens all want to know my due date. I tell them May 7th, and I hear a volley of (in Greek and in English):
-No way you’re lasting that long. Look how wide your nose is!
-Yeah, right. Look how low her belly is. I say she goes next week.
-Look at her feet! They’re so big, she can’t make it to the 7th!
Geez, ladies. You want to talk about my ass, too, while you’re at it?
Five of us hopped in Pontius to get some supplies from Costco for the Trojan Siege. The five of us were:
Me
Athena, my also-9-month pregnant sister in law
Patrick, her fianc�
Aisling, Dim�s cousin Peter�s girlfriend (whom he�d marry already if he had the sense God gave a donut.)
Stella, Dim�s aunt
I needed to make a left turn to get to Sophie�s house. The street was three lanes in each direction. Long story short, I couldn�t see around a stalled vehicle, and, instead of waiting to make a turn until I could assess the intersection better, I tried to make a left-hand turn.
Unfortunately, a Land Rover had plans for the intersection other than my passing through it.
So I blocked the path of the Land Rover with my car, and the Land Rover hit us and spun us 180 degrees. All of the airbags deployed. I don�t remember spinning. I only remember worrying about everyone else in the car and getting them out before someone else hit us.
We all lumbered out of the Pilot, counted heads (yup, five, all still attached) and I checked on the lady in the Land Rover. She was shaken, but okay. She didn�t want to get out of her car until the paramedics showed. Looking at the passel of dazed Greeks staggering in the street like zombies, I didn�t blame her.
Witnesses stayed at the scene, and I think it was one of them who called 911. In retrospect, I learned that if you want to speed up response time of medical and police assistance, make sure that you tell them that two 9-month pregnant women were involved in a car accident.
The paramedics responded quickly (it couldn�t have been more than six or eight minutes) and took a look at everyone. We had bumps and painful things that would later blossom into some spectacular-looking bruises, but nothing major. I had a pretty good burn from my airbag venting, and Aisling�s toe was bleeding, but the rest was kid stuff.
No one went in an ambulance to the hospital. The paramedics (helloooooo, Ving Rhames lookalike. Pour saline on my arm a little slower, will you?) asked us preggers if we wanted to go, but didn�t recommend it since we�d just be sitting for hours in a hospital anyway. We could both feel the babies kicking, and we weren�t contracting or anything, so we took a pass on an ambulance ride and promised to call our OBs once we got home.
The policeman (hellooooo, Poncharello lookalike. Write slower, will you?) wrote me a citation for the accident. The other lady and I exchanged information that wasn�t on the police report. I invited everyone: the witnesses, the cop, the lady I hit, and her husband to the Greek siege. No one took me up on it, but everyone felt better for the offer of hospitality. The lady has since made it a point to call me and check up on me and the baby. She�s someone that, had we not met under these circumstances, I�d enjoy having as a friend.
If one good thing can come of the accident, it�s this: I shine in a crisis. I wasn�t shaky, and I didn�t get batty. I was solid as a rock. My first instincts were to take care of others. I remained clear-headed and focused. I was cracking jokes with the paramedics. I was making sure that ice packs were properly placed on others. I was the paragon of clear-headedness and steely calm.
Of course, once I was sure everyone was taken care of and the cars were being safely towed away, I crumpled in Dimitri�s arms and sobbed like a little girl.
ed note: This picture sugar coats the damage to the Honda. It actually looked a lot worse in person.
So the Greeks have come and gone. I have video of them singing Solitary Man into kitchen utensil microphones, but I have to figure out how to chop it down to a 15 second clip. You can only handle so much before your head explodes.
In other news, I totaled Pontius in an accident over the weekend. It is no more.
Everyone is fine. The five in my car and the lady in the other car all walked away from the accident with only minor bumps and bruises. Insurance will get us a new car, and, based on the crumple zone and airbag performance of Pontius, we want another one just like him.
I'm still a little shaken by the whole thing, so I need a little time before I post pictures or a blow-by-blow account, but the important thing is that everyone is okay and the only lasting damage is to stuff, not to people.
My dad says "That's what you get for naming a car Pontius during lent." :)
The Greeks are gathering in Vegas this year. Normally, we all go to Dim’s Aunt Petrula’s house in Los Angeles, but with two nine-month pregnant women stationed in Vegas, I made the idiot suggestion of everyone coming here.
Sophie has five people at her house, and I have nine. At my house, everyone has their own blow up mattress and their own designated shower time.
While it is a little stressful to have so many Greeks in my house at once, I really love Dim’s family, and the flock that I have at my house contains some of my favorites. Of course, I’m just saying that in case one of them reads this…
Just kidding, it’s chaos, but it’s fun chaos.
So this weekend will be filled with eating, lip-syncing to Neil Diamond with wooden spoon and whisk microphones, eating, people staring at my and Athena’s bellies, eating, and of course, making sure everyone has enough to eat.
Thank GOD, though, we’re not roasting a whole lamb like last time. The lamb is arriving already butchered.
The Fetus-Induced Carpal Tunnel gets worse each day. It becomes increasingly harrrrder to tyyype. When fine motor skills are needed, it feels like I’ve strapped a squid to my wrist and asked it to perform the Beguine.
My doctor’s recommendations aren’t working. I’m drinking like a fish, elevating my feet (holy dromedary, Batman! I’ve never seen ankles so huge!), and wearing a wrist brace. Nada. It’s as if my hand went to the dentist and the Novocain just won’t wear off.
The shower went off without any major hitches. It was your standard girlie tea-party-esque (read: no martinis. Darn.) affair. People ooohed and aaahhhed and touched my gut WITHOUT PERMISSION. I knew it was coming, so I plastered a fake smile on my face and tried not to deck people for it.
People appeared to have fun. At the very least, they plastered on that same fake I-don’t-mind-you-touching -me-in-ways-that-would-be-totally-creepy-were-there -not-an-alien-being-kicking-me-in-the-ribs smile.
People were kind enough to keep the pink and the frills to a minimum on the gifts. Sophie only had to be restrained once on issues relating to the backyard, something that I think is commendable. (It was along the lines of: “No, Sophie. You may not wind the hose around the tables and through the chairs so that you can water my plants and heckle me in front of my guests.” After that, I slyly hid the hose just to be sure. Mamma didn’t raise no dummy.)
I washed the baby clothes and set up the changing station this afternoon. I put sheets on the crib. Wow. There really is a baby coming.
I just pick her up from the hospital when she’s fully cooked, right? Sort of like Applebees car-side service. Right? Right?
I got a call last night from my girlfriend Nicole.
She told me that she read my post about Sophie and the backyard. I said something along the lines of "I KNOW. Can you believe it?" by which I meant:
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SAVE ME FROM THIS WOMAN! BRING GARLIC! no, wait, she's Greek. Garlic won't work...BRING A PROTESTANT WITH A FULL STOMACH WHO IS VEGETARIAN AND LACTOSE INTOLERANT!!"
Nicole totally picked up on my stream of consciousness desperation, because she said "You know, I know of this GREAT retirement home in Brazil. Sophie and my mom can keep each other company."
At Lowe's, I'm treated like a person. At Home Depot, I'm treated like a moron.
I was looking for baling twine to bind up the skillion branches left by Hurricane Sophie. I asked a troglodyte in an orange apron where I could find it. He gives me the once over, realizes I'm female, and says:
"It's on aisle 21. That's the aisle after 20."
I can't make this stuff up.
My baby shower is scheduled for this Sunday in my backyard.
I have spent the past several weeks wheezing and grunting on all fours pulling weeds, trimming bushes, and repairing busted sprinkler lines. (Thanks, Kat :) ) I have put at least 25 hours worth of work into the yard making it look like something other than a home for wayward, four-foot tall weeds. I have had help from Kat and my mother, but most of the work I did solo.
So it stung a little when Sophie traipsed through the backyard on Monday and started criticizing.
She trimmed the trees (left the mess for me to pick up of course), and groused that she just couldn’t BELIEVE how two people can let a yard get to this condition.
I said “Sophie, this isn’t too bad. It looks just fine. Actually, this represents twenty-five hours of work on the part of an almost nine-month pregnant woman almost single-handedly.”
“Well, it looks like hell.”
“Thanks, Sophie.”
So that was Monday. Today, I get this call:
“Hi Jennifer. This is Bambi from You’re So Clearly Inadequate Landscaping. Your mother-in-Law Sophie asked me to call you because she said that you were interested in hiring us to take care of your yard. Our maintenance contracts start at $130 per month –“
I tried not to take it out on Bambi. It’s not her fault I married a man with a mother who has the tact of a decomposing rat.
Just thinking as I wash clothes:
Why do they put directions on a product called Spray N' Wash?
