First time having brunch with friends.
First Halloween costume (a skeleton, that glows in the dark).
First walk in the rain.
First time hearing someone play David Bowie on the guitar.
First time wearing socks.
First time sleeping through Spaceballs.
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Saturday, October 26, 2019
Friday, October 25, 2019
Due Date
Today would have marked 40 weeks if you were still inside my body. Instead it marks two and a half weeks, the amount of time you have been out in the world as an autonomous being.
You do not yet entirely understand that you are an autonomous being. We had the doula come back to help us get you to sleep in your bassinet, and I discovered that I cannot stand having you sleep in the next room without me. It was the worst night of sleep I've had since the hospital. An annoying way to spend $500.
I have historically considered myself to be a pretty cerebral person, and so it has been a surprise to discover that I am an animal. But there is no way to do this without being an animal. There is blood and sweat and smells and milk, and you and I smell like each other. I have put a sweaty t-shirt of mine into your bassinet, under the fitted sheet, to help you feel at home there. In the night I hear your every gurgle and sneeze, and I open my eyes and see that all is well, and that makes it okay for me to go back to sleep. Sometimes I have to touch you. Like a mother elephant softly draping her trunk along the neck of her calf, just to check and make sure he's still really there.
You are asleep on my chest right now, on the couch in the den of the apartment, while your Oma walks the dog and your father listens in on a faculty meeting over the phone and pads around the house.
I love this new animal life we are leading together.
You do not yet entirely understand that you are an autonomous being. We had the doula come back to help us get you to sleep in your bassinet, and I discovered that I cannot stand having you sleep in the next room without me. It was the worst night of sleep I've had since the hospital. An annoying way to spend $500.
I have historically considered myself to be a pretty cerebral person, and so it has been a surprise to discover that I am an animal. But there is no way to do this without being an animal. There is blood and sweat and smells and milk, and you and I smell like each other. I have put a sweaty t-shirt of mine into your bassinet, under the fitted sheet, to help you feel at home there. In the night I hear your every gurgle and sneeze, and I open my eyes and see that all is well, and that makes it okay for me to go back to sleep. Sometimes I have to touch you. Like a mother elephant softly draping her trunk along the neck of her calf, just to check and make sure he's still really there.
You are asleep on my chest right now, on the couch in the den of the apartment, while your Oma walks the dog and your father listens in on a faculty meeting over the phone and pads around the house.
I love this new animal life we are leading together.
Monday, October 21, 2019
Two weeks tomorrow
The days run together somewhat, but I have noticed that you have started filling out your newborn sized pajamas. And you definitely have more of a double chin than before.
I am amused that someone gave me the very serious advice to take pictures of you every day - as if I need to be reminded.
I am amused that someone gave me the very serious advice to take pictures of you every day - as if I need to be reminded.
Tuesday, October 15, 2019
One week old
Today, you smiled in your sleep.
Yesterday, you went in your stroller for the first time to the pediatrician, where we learned you are perfect. Which, of course, we already knew. On our walk home we got tired and stopped at a wine bar and you napped in your stroller bassinet while we had glasses of wine by an open window on 34th street. When you fussed I fed you under a light wrap patterned in bright blue anchors. A motorcycle went by and backfired and you startled under your wrap but weren't fazed.
Yesterday you met your first friend - Amanda, whose son's pajamas you are presently sleeping in, in the arms of your Oma. You slept in her arms. Amanda and I went to high school together, and she updated me on the Astros attempts to return to the World Series, and she brought you a Baby Bjorn bouncer, and happily told me that you will be the fifth baby to use it. When you are done with it we will give it to Kett for her son, tentatively to be named Peter, who is due in 15 weeks, and who you will undoubtedly come to know very well.
Yesterday you also learned how to suck your thumb.
Your Oma and I are spending a lot of quiet time in the den, trading off holding you and watching "Turn" on Netflix, a show about spies during the American revolution. As I watch I keep wishing whoever designed that show's interiors would come and redecorate our house in Marblehead. You don't know about our house in Marblehead, and won't for several months. But I hope you will love it as much as we do. I like thinking about the fact that I can leave you that house now. I bought it after my first book sold, when the housing market collapsed and it was owned by a bank, empty, unloved, with frozen pipes. It intimidated me, owning a house. It was too much space, and though it has morphed and changed over the years, it was first built in 1750, with the oak bones and pine plank floors to show for it. I love it because I know we are only its custodians for now, as a 300 year old house feels all the souls that travel through it, but continues being itself as we pass by. I am excited to bring your soul into our house, for it to feel your presence as you grow and change and breathe within it.
Your Oma gave me a push present yesterday - a cocktail ring from her mother, in a flower shape studded with diamonds. It's not my style, but it makes me happy, and makes me feel loved, and so I am wearing it. It snags your muslin wrap while I change your diaper. You pretty much only scream like you mean it when your diaper is being changed. I wonder if it's the cold air on your tender skin, or being on your back on the changing pad, or having your little baby feet free and naked in the air that does it. I love your feet. I love cupping them in my hand while you nurse, or running my fingertip down the soles of them. They are as soft as every other part of you, just as delicate and new. But I know those feet so well. They were a conduit to your moods, sometimes pressing, sometimes kicking, sometimes asleep. I like checking in with them now.
And that where things stand on this day, one week after your birth.
Yesterday, you went in your stroller for the first time to the pediatrician, where we learned you are perfect. Which, of course, we already knew. On our walk home we got tired and stopped at a wine bar and you napped in your stroller bassinet while we had glasses of wine by an open window on 34th street. When you fussed I fed you under a light wrap patterned in bright blue anchors. A motorcycle went by and backfired and you startled under your wrap but weren't fazed.
Yesterday you met your first friend - Amanda, whose son's pajamas you are presently sleeping in, in the arms of your Oma. You slept in her arms. Amanda and I went to high school together, and she updated me on the Astros attempts to return to the World Series, and she brought you a Baby Bjorn bouncer, and happily told me that you will be the fifth baby to use it. When you are done with it we will give it to Kett for her son, tentatively to be named Peter, who is due in 15 weeks, and who you will undoubtedly come to know very well.
Yesterday you also learned how to suck your thumb.
Your Oma and I are spending a lot of quiet time in the den, trading off holding you and watching "Turn" on Netflix, a show about spies during the American revolution. As I watch I keep wishing whoever designed that show's interiors would come and redecorate our house in Marblehead. You don't know about our house in Marblehead, and won't for several months. But I hope you will love it as much as we do. I like thinking about the fact that I can leave you that house now. I bought it after my first book sold, when the housing market collapsed and it was owned by a bank, empty, unloved, with frozen pipes. It intimidated me, owning a house. It was too much space, and though it has morphed and changed over the years, it was first built in 1750, with the oak bones and pine plank floors to show for it. I love it because I know we are only its custodians for now, as a 300 year old house feels all the souls that travel through it, but continues being itself as we pass by. I am excited to bring your soul into our house, for it to feel your presence as you grow and change and breathe within it.
Your Oma gave me a push present yesterday - a cocktail ring from her mother, in a flower shape studded with diamonds. It's not my style, but it makes me happy, and makes me feel loved, and so I am wearing it. It snags your muslin wrap while I change your diaper. You pretty much only scream like you mean it when your diaper is being changed. I wonder if it's the cold air on your tender skin, or being on your back on the changing pad, or having your little baby feet free and naked in the air that does it. I love your feet. I love cupping them in my hand while you nurse, or running my fingertip down the soles of them. They are as soft as every other part of you, just as delicate and new. But I know those feet so well. They were a conduit to your moods, sometimes pressing, sometimes kicking, sometimes asleep. I like checking in with them now.
And that where things stand on this day, one week after your birth.
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Birth Story
Okay. Everybody ready? Got popcorn? Coke? Comfy? Here we go.
TL/dr: Birth was a shitshow, but Succotash is perfect, and we are all home safe.
Sunday, 10/6: After a solid couple of days of blood pressure readings in the 140s and Erika presumably still on a beach in the Caribbean, I call the OB answering service. I am told that yes, those BP readings mean we need to induce today. Today! We are excited! We go out for a tasty brunch, we get MIL squared away with Dog Guac, we assemble our hospital supplies, we dance to "Sweet Child of Mine" on Alexa, and we get in an Uber. At the hospital, we skip over triage and are shown into a labor and delivery room. There is a baby warmer in the corner. It all feels very real. We settle in.
Sunday night: My cervix is tight as a drum. We are given cytotec to get things started. We order in Tex Mex. My BP is constantly monitored, and so is Succotash. He is great. We watch a TV program in which I appear as a talking head, which is a weird thing to do in a labor and delivery room. Then we both sleep. Not too bad.
Monday: I forget when the foley bulb is introduced, if it's Sunday or Monday. Upon reflection, probably Sunday. Regardless, there's a foley bulb. It sucks. And it goes on for a very long time. I text with doula, and we decide she will join us after bulb comes out, when they start Pitocin.
Around noon, after 12 hours of foley, they pull it out with a disconcerting pop, and start Pitocin. Doula arrives. Contractions intensify, but I can still deal with them. Doula is godsend, really helps with pain control. Spend time with peanut ball, spend time sitting on yoga ball. This goes on for many hours.
Monday evening: Doula heads out to get a bite to eat. I continue on yoga ball. About five minutes after she leaves, I feel a sort of downward thump. "I just felt a thump," I say to Mr. G. I climb into the bed and find myself sitting in puddle. Mr. G brings me paper towels, because my water just broke. I inform the nurses and text doula. Exciting! OB comes in to check on me, and I am seized with a simply astonishing contraction. Holy shit. I vomit. Yes, I would like an epidural please. Thank you. We have passed the 24 hour in labor mark.
It takes some time for the anesthesiologist to come. I am stunned by how painful the contractions are. I vomit over and over and over again. Doula does her best. Then we get it, it's much better. More hours pass. I try to sleep and fail. Incredibly, I am still vomiting. My body knows it's in pain even if my brain doesn't.
Monday night: Mr. Guac asleep, I keep begging doula to hit the pain med button on my epidural. Tremendous pressure moving through my body. Epidural feels like it's doing nothing. Doula tells me not to fight it. I twist and writhe and push on my side. Eventually OB and nurses turn up. They hold up my feet, they shout encouragements, warm compresses are applied to my perineum, I scream bloody murder, they ask if I want to feel his head and I shout "NO I JUST WANT HIM OUT I WANT HIM OUT." After thirty minutes of hardcore pushing, Succotash is put on my chest and I am amazed and stunned and the doula takes very graphic pictures and Mr. Guac is beside himself and everything is wonderful. It's 3:42 am Tuesday the 8th - about 36 hours of labor. OB stitches me up (secondary tear, not too bad) while I hold the baby. He's a real baby. We have a real baby. After six years, all those shots, all that heartache, he's real and he's here and he's amazing.
Tuesday morning: We are transferred to maternity by maybe 8 am. Succotash nuzzling my breast, I'm desperate for a shower, etc. People keep coming by to check my belly, check my pad. Everyone seems to think everything looks fine.
Tuesday 10 am: I mention to a nurse that I passed a clot. "How big?" she asks. I don't know. She says if I pass another one, to show it to her. I'm soaking through pads at a steady clip. At one point, I get up to go to the bathroom and my socks fill with blood. I throw them away in the bathroom and hobble back to bed. I'm lightheaded. I ask the nurse if I can take a shower as I still have vomit in my hair. She isn't sure, helps me to bathroom. Blood streaking down my legs. I pass several clots with wet thumps. She tells me I have to get back in bed. "I need a second," I say, leaning on the bathroom sink. She gets me back into bed, Mr. Guac is holding Succotash, nurse looks in toilet bowl. Shit hits fan.
Tuesday 11 am: Twenty people mob the room. One doc is barking orders. I'm told to relax my legs, open my knees. An OB puts her hand inside my body without epidural or any kind of pain relief and manually pulls clots out of my body. I scream. Everyone is talking all at once. She does it again, saying "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I have to." I scream, more clots scooped out of me. It is the worst pain I have ever known in my life. Worse than labor. Worse than pushing. Someone jabs my leg with morphine, it makes no difference, she does it again, I scream, Mr. Guac shouts "WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE?" OB who is doing manual sweeps tells him calmly what's going on.
I've lost 1.4 liters of blood, which I learn later is about 1/4 my blood volume, and I need a transfusion. It's possible I have retained a piece of placenta and that's why I'm bleeding so profusely. They take blood, type it, another IV is put in, my body is swarmed with people, the transfusion is hooked up, and then I am wheeled away to the OR for an emergency D and C, Mr. Guac running after me, Succotash left with nurses.
Tuesday noon: Before being put under I tell OB if necessary hysterectomy is okay, but please leave ovaries so I don't go into instant menopause. She assures me that won't be necessary. I am knocked out.
Tuesday, sometime later: I come to. D and C went okay, they removed what they think is a piece of retained placenta from behind my fibroid, the one I used to joke Succotash liked to use as an ottoman. I am shivering uncontrollably. I don't know if it's from shock or what. Mr. G has had to fend off my parents and his mother and everyone who wants to know about the baby.
Tuesday night: Mr. G and I collapse in exhausted and terrified sleep around 8 pm. Succotash is in the nursery being cared for by nursing staff, and is fine, though I am distraught that I haven't seen him in hours, and we haven't started nursing or anything. I feel like I abandoned him, even though I know it's irrational.
Wednesday the 9th: Our first real day with Succotash. I am still shivering and have periodic uncontrollable crying jags from, I assume, a lethal combo of hormones and PTSD. But the baby is perfect, and we work on getting my colostrum going. My parents come in the afternoon and want to make pleasant small talk, but I am unable to do it. We hope to go home Thursday. Mr. G sleeps at home Wednesday night to be rested, I am brought Succotash to feed him during the night and rest very little, but I'm okay with it.
Thursday morning the 10th: My blood pressure is 164/94. What the everloving FUCK. How is this possible? I am kept past checkout for observation.
Thursday afternoon: Deep breathing exercises to get BP down in between crying jags of desperation to go home and just be with my new baby.
Thursday night: Discharged. At last. We take an Uber home. Doorman takes picture of the three of us in the elevator. Succotash angelic and asleep in his car seat, Mr. Guac looking beside himself with joy, and I look like I almost died on Tuesday.
But now we are home. Succotash's name is Charles Gage Hyman Howe, he weighed 7 lbs 6 oz at birth, he is a champion nurser but is also cool with some formula on the side. MIL is here helping out, which has been amazing, I only flipped out at my parents once, and tomorrow we venture out into the world for our first pediatrician appointment.
I did not think it was possible to love a human being as much as I love Succotash.
TL/dr: Birth was a shitshow, but Succotash is perfect, and we are all home safe.
Sunday, 10/6: After a solid couple of days of blood pressure readings in the 140s and Erika presumably still on a beach in the Caribbean, I call the OB answering service. I am told that yes, those BP readings mean we need to induce today. Today! We are excited! We go out for a tasty brunch, we get MIL squared away with Dog Guac, we assemble our hospital supplies, we dance to "Sweet Child of Mine" on Alexa, and we get in an Uber. At the hospital, we skip over triage and are shown into a labor and delivery room. There is a baby warmer in the corner. It all feels very real. We settle in.
Sunday night: My cervix is tight as a drum. We are given cytotec to get things started. We order in Tex Mex. My BP is constantly monitored, and so is Succotash. He is great. We watch a TV program in which I appear as a talking head, which is a weird thing to do in a labor and delivery room. Then we both sleep. Not too bad.
Monday: I forget when the foley bulb is introduced, if it's Sunday or Monday. Upon reflection, probably Sunday. Regardless, there's a foley bulb. It sucks. And it goes on for a very long time. I text with doula, and we decide she will join us after bulb comes out, when they start Pitocin.
Around noon, after 12 hours of foley, they pull it out with a disconcerting pop, and start Pitocin. Doula arrives. Contractions intensify, but I can still deal with them. Doula is godsend, really helps with pain control. Spend time with peanut ball, spend time sitting on yoga ball. This goes on for many hours.
Monday evening: Doula heads out to get a bite to eat. I continue on yoga ball. About five minutes after she leaves, I feel a sort of downward thump. "I just felt a thump," I say to Mr. G. I climb into the bed and find myself sitting in puddle. Mr. G brings me paper towels, because my water just broke. I inform the nurses and text doula. Exciting! OB comes in to check on me, and I am seized with a simply astonishing contraction. Holy shit. I vomit. Yes, I would like an epidural please. Thank you. We have passed the 24 hour in labor mark.
It takes some time for the anesthesiologist to come. I am stunned by how painful the contractions are. I vomit over and over and over again. Doula does her best. Then we get it, it's much better. More hours pass. I try to sleep and fail. Incredibly, I am still vomiting. My body knows it's in pain even if my brain doesn't.
Monday night: Mr. Guac asleep, I keep begging doula to hit the pain med button on my epidural. Tremendous pressure moving through my body. Epidural feels like it's doing nothing. Doula tells me not to fight it. I twist and writhe and push on my side. Eventually OB and nurses turn up. They hold up my feet, they shout encouragements, warm compresses are applied to my perineum, I scream bloody murder, they ask if I want to feel his head and I shout "NO I JUST WANT HIM OUT I WANT HIM OUT." After thirty minutes of hardcore pushing, Succotash is put on my chest and I am amazed and stunned and the doula takes very graphic pictures and Mr. Guac is beside himself and everything is wonderful. It's 3:42 am Tuesday the 8th - about 36 hours of labor. OB stitches me up (secondary tear, not too bad) while I hold the baby. He's a real baby. We have a real baby. After six years, all those shots, all that heartache, he's real and he's here and he's amazing.
Tuesday morning: We are transferred to maternity by maybe 8 am. Succotash nuzzling my breast, I'm desperate for a shower, etc. People keep coming by to check my belly, check my pad. Everyone seems to think everything looks fine.
Tuesday 10 am: I mention to a nurse that I passed a clot. "How big?" she asks. I don't know. She says if I pass another one, to show it to her. I'm soaking through pads at a steady clip. At one point, I get up to go to the bathroom and my socks fill with blood. I throw them away in the bathroom and hobble back to bed. I'm lightheaded. I ask the nurse if I can take a shower as I still have vomit in my hair. She isn't sure, helps me to bathroom. Blood streaking down my legs. I pass several clots with wet thumps. She tells me I have to get back in bed. "I need a second," I say, leaning on the bathroom sink. She gets me back into bed, Mr. Guac is holding Succotash, nurse looks in toilet bowl. Shit hits fan.
Tuesday 11 am: Twenty people mob the room. One doc is barking orders. I'm told to relax my legs, open my knees. An OB puts her hand inside my body without epidural or any kind of pain relief and manually pulls clots out of my body. I scream. Everyone is talking all at once. She does it again, saying "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I have to." I scream, more clots scooped out of me. It is the worst pain I have ever known in my life. Worse than labor. Worse than pushing. Someone jabs my leg with morphine, it makes no difference, she does it again, I scream, Mr. Guac shouts "WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE?" OB who is doing manual sweeps tells him calmly what's going on.
I've lost 1.4 liters of blood, which I learn later is about 1/4 my blood volume, and I need a transfusion. It's possible I have retained a piece of placenta and that's why I'm bleeding so profusely. They take blood, type it, another IV is put in, my body is swarmed with people, the transfusion is hooked up, and then I am wheeled away to the OR for an emergency D and C, Mr. Guac running after me, Succotash left with nurses.
Tuesday noon: Before being put under I tell OB if necessary hysterectomy is okay, but please leave ovaries so I don't go into instant menopause. She assures me that won't be necessary. I am knocked out.
Tuesday, sometime later: I come to. D and C went okay, they removed what they think is a piece of retained placenta from behind my fibroid, the one I used to joke Succotash liked to use as an ottoman. I am shivering uncontrollably. I don't know if it's from shock or what. Mr. G has had to fend off my parents and his mother and everyone who wants to know about the baby.
Tuesday night: Mr. G and I collapse in exhausted and terrified sleep around 8 pm. Succotash is in the nursery being cared for by nursing staff, and is fine, though I am distraught that I haven't seen him in hours, and we haven't started nursing or anything. I feel like I abandoned him, even though I know it's irrational.
Wednesday the 9th: Our first real day with Succotash. I am still shivering and have periodic uncontrollable crying jags from, I assume, a lethal combo of hormones and PTSD. But the baby is perfect, and we work on getting my colostrum going. My parents come in the afternoon and want to make pleasant small talk, but I am unable to do it. We hope to go home Thursday. Mr. G sleeps at home Wednesday night to be rested, I am brought Succotash to feed him during the night and rest very little, but I'm okay with it.
Thursday morning the 10th: My blood pressure is 164/94. What the everloving FUCK. How is this possible? I am kept past checkout for observation.
Thursday afternoon: Deep breathing exercises to get BP down in between crying jags of desperation to go home and just be with my new baby.
Thursday night: Discharged. At last. We take an Uber home. Doorman takes picture of the three of us in the elevator. Succotash angelic and asleep in his car seat, Mr. Guac looking beside himself with joy, and I look like I almost died on Tuesday.
But now we are home. Succotash's name is Charles Gage Hyman Howe, he weighed 7 lbs 6 oz at birth, he is a champion nurser but is also cool with some formula on the side. MIL is here helping out, which has been amazing, I only flipped out at my parents once, and tomorrow we venture out into the world for our first pediatrician appointment.
I did not think it was possible to love a human being as much as I love Succotash.
Sunday, October 6, 2019
144/93
That's my blood pressure this morning. After most of yesterday over 140.
Well, kid. What do you think?
I've walked the dog, and we're having some coffee, and your father is doing a load of laundry, and then I'm going to shower and have some breakfast and double-check my hospital bag, and then I'm going to take my blood pressure again. And if it's still high, I'm going to call the office. And then the office is almost certainly going to send me to L and D, which I will almost certainly begin the induction.
Today.
Today.
Today.
Today.
Well, kid. What do you think?
I've walked the dog, and we're having some coffee, and your father is doing a load of laundry, and then I'm going to shower and have some breakfast and double-check my hospital bag, and then I'm going to take my blood pressure again. And if it's still high, I'm going to call the office. And then the office is almost certainly going to send me to L and D, which I will almost certainly begin the induction.
Today.
Today.
Today.
Today.
Friday, October 4, 2019
37 Weeks
And I'm on the couch. Ordering dog food, window shopping little sailboat mobiles. I turned over a sack of maternity clothes to my friend who is one trimester behind me, who wants us to have regular dinners on Saturday nights with the babies when they are both here.
The puppy is looking out the apartment window, watching for dragons.
We are all waiting.
The puppy is looking out the apartment window, watching for dragons.
We are all waiting.
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
Home Stretch
Back on the couch after our last OB checkup, which is a relief as I spent yesterday in Labor and Delivery - again - being monitored for preeclampsia.
All looks well.
We are a go for induction on Monday morning.
I am heading into the last weekend of my life without Succotash. My imaginary baby. My imaginary baby is about to be a real person.
On Monday.
Maybe Tuesday.
Less than a week to go. Then I get to see those little baby feet that are presently digging into my right side. See them and smell them and kiss them and tickle them and they will be real human feet that belong to a real human person who has newly arrived on earth, and will - God willing - live on it much longer than I will. A pair of feet that will walk into the future, beyond me.
All looks well.
We are a go for induction on Monday morning.
I am heading into the last weekend of my life without Succotash. My imaginary baby. My imaginary baby is about to be a real person.
On Monday.
Maybe Tuesday.
Less than a week to go. Then I get to see those little baby feet that are presently digging into my right side. See them and smell them and kiss them and tickle them and they will be real human feet that belong to a real human person who has newly arrived on earth, and will - God willing - live on it much longer than I will. A pair of feet that will walk into the future, beyond me.
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