Monthly Archives: April 2006

Holy jeebus, do I love lactation consultants. We took the Hatchling in this morning after one hell of a bad night: she woke up at 3 am and then nursed until 5 and still wasn’t full; Mr. Squab had to rock her until 6:30 and then we got an hour and a half of sleep before we had to get ready to go. We were both dead tired and feeling pretty desperate. I was afraid the Hatchling would be a mess, having to wait to eat until we were with the consultant, but she was a real trouper and stayed quiet sucking on her daddy’s finger. While we were waiting at the admissions desk, Mr. Squab and I looked at each other and started laughing – we realized we were both sitting in our chairs and rocking from side to side. Apparently babies aren’t the only ones who need to be comforted by rocking.

We got into the consulting room and met the nurse lactation specialist – a very nice, easy-going grandmotherly type – and told her about the problems we’d been having. The Hatchling was stripped down to the skin and weighed, and then the nurse took the baby and put her finger in the baby’s mouth to check her sucking impulse. About two seconds later, she had us look into the Hatchling’s mouth at the membrane below her tongue. “You see that?” she asked, “She can’t stick her tongue out past her lower gumline.” (Blank looks from us.) “That means she can’t suck effectively – she can’t stimulate the breast to get the milk out.” Well, holy crap. You have no idea the relief it was to hear that there was an actual physical cause to our nursing troubles. Apparently this condition is the origin of the phrase “tongue-tied” – the membrane (called the frenulum) literally ties the tongue to the mouth and prevents the person from sticking out their tongue the way most of us can. It’s a problem not only for breastfeeding – and it’s a REAL problem for breastfeeding, and makes it difficult to even take a bottle – but also for speech development later on, since you kind of need to be able to stick your tongue out to make certain speech sounds. Some kids are able to stretch it out as they get older, but for most people, the only cure is to cut the membrane and free the tongue’s movement that way. It sounds kind of awful, but apparently there aren’t a lot of nerves in that membrane or even much blood supply, so with a little local anaesthesia it’s a relatively minor procedure and recovery is almost instantaneous. (And no, the irony of having escaped the circumcision decision only to have to do this is not lost on me.)

After having made that little discovery, we tried to nurse so the consultant could see the problems in action. The nurse said I have “fantastic nipples for breastfeeding” (and then said, “I bet you hear that all the time” to which my reply was, “ehm … no, this is a first”), and our latching on got an A+. That was the good part. But then, sure enough, the fussiness and frustration started – not being able to stimulate the breast means she can’t get any food without a lot of work, and that (understandably) makes her a little crazy. With a little assistance we nursed for 10 minutes on each side, and then weighed her again to see how much milk she’d gotten. Result: 1/4 oz. After 20 minutes of nursing, she’d gotten 1/4 oz. of milk. That’s like an eighth of what she should be getting. So those hour-long sessions we’d been doing at home where she still seemed hungry? Yeah, that’s because she was. The combination of her attached frenulum and resulting poor nursing mean my milk supply is basically crappy. We figure she’s probably only been really, truly full maybe two times since we brought her home from the hospital. Of course, there’s no way we could have really known that without having a scale at home to measure, but still: you can imagine how great THAT feels. I mean, way to starve your kid. Then we tried feeding her a bottle of formula to supplement and as usual, that didn’t work so well either. But then the nurse showed us how to squeeze her cheeks a little to create better suction and lo and behold – she could suck the stuff down! She looks a little like Satchmo with a dairy-based sax, but at least she can eat.

So now we have a strategy: 8 regular feedings a day, 10 minutes per boob. After that, supplement with formula until she’s full, and then I have to pump for 15 minutes to stimulate milk production back to where it should be. And then, when we go back to the pediatrician’s on Thursday to check her weight, we’ll see about fixing her poor little tongue. Just having a plan, and knowing that the problems weren’t of our own making, makes us feel about a million times better. And knowing that we can feed her until she’s satisfied is … just huge. It makes such a difference to see how much more contented she is when she’s actually got a full stomach. Even my mom, who initially thought going to a lactation consultant was sort of a nervous-nelly new-parent thing to do, has been converted. So it looks like there’s light at the end of the tunnel, and this time I don’t think it’s an oncoming train.

Everyone says the first two weeks are the hardest. We don’t even have it that bad – plenty of relatives to help out, both of us at home, insurance coverage and good doctors. But still, when they send you home from the hospital with that tiny little bundle, it doesn’t matter how many brothers and sisters you’ve helped with, or how many hours of babysitting you’ve logged, or how “naturally” maternal or paternal you are – it’s an overwhelming responsibility. Our hatchling is impossibly beautiful with her little downy head and huge blue eyes. Her head exudes that awesome baby-essence that smells so good, and her tiny little fingernails and sweet button nose are completely enchanting. She’s the perfect size to hold and she’s already an expert cuddler. You can’t help but want to take care of her … and that’s where the roller-coaster kicks in. The car we’re curently riding is labeled “feeding issues.” I don’t know a family that hasn’t had some anxiety over how their baby is eating, and we’re no exception. Since Ellie nursed like a trouper in the hospital, I foolishly thought we were home free on the feeding front. HA! Naivete, thy name is first time motherhood. It would seem that our wee one suffers, like her mama, from reflux. I guess it’s not that uncommon in new babies, and she’ll likely outgrow it – but until she does, feeding is less a time of gentle bonding and more a time of high anxiety. Her little tummy hurts all the time, which makes it harder to eat, which makes her frustrated, which makes breastfeeding nigh unto impossible. She just gets too angry to latch on, and then she’s even more hungry, and more upset in her tummy, etc., etc. Not a good cycle. After spending a day and a half where it took over an hour just to get her calm enough to feed – and even then she still seemed hungry, like she wasn’t getting enough milk – Mr. Squab and I were feeling pretty done in. There’s nothing that feels more hopeless than seeing your baby hungry and upset and not being able to fix it. And – especially your first time around – you aren’t even sure what’s worth freaking out about and what’s not. I’m a pretty mellow person, as is Mr. Squab, but you know, we haven’t done this before. The doctors and the books all tell you how much the baby should eat and how many diapers they should have, and so forth. But they don’t tell you what your freakout point should be, and dammit, that’s what I want to know! I mean, ok, she should be eating 8-10 times a day. But, like, does that mean anything under 8 is a problem? If she’s eating 6 times a day and flourishing, that doesn’t seem like it should be a big deal. But what if she’s eating only 5 times a day? or 8 times a day and not flourishing? Or what if she’s eating fine but not producing enough diapers? Or none at all? I mean, my normal tendency to just let things slide is shot all to hell!

Fortunately, the next day we had our home healthcare visit – and lord, what a good idea those are – and the nurse helped us figure out some coping techniques (feeding her through a dropper until she calms down; supplementing with a little formula to get her some needed calories, etc.). We have an appointment with a lactation consultant tomorrow morning; Ellie nursed well last night and today, and like our pediatrician says, there are two mantras for this period: This Day Will End, and Everything is Going to be Fine. So maybe we can get off this particular car soon and head into the next part of the roller-coaster. Baby’s First Cold, maybe? Sleeping Issues, anyone? Everything is going to be fine, everything is going to be fine …

Well, Mr. Squab here announcing the birth of our little girl Eleanor Johanna who was born around 9:50pm yesterday. After a long hard labor which ended with a short c-section we are blessed with this beautiful little girl. She measures 7 pounds 9 ounces, and 21 inches long, and has the cutest little nose. Mom and baby ( and Dad) are doing well just a little tired. More details to come and I’m sure that Squab will give the full story as soon as she is able. Until then.

Still here. Still waiting. Apparently Hoss likes feeling like a sardine. Hopefully we’ll have some news tomorrow. Feel free to send laborious vibes in my general direction.

In other news, we had the suckiest Easter EVER yesterday – or at least it began that way. For the last week, we’ve been trying to savor every evening together sans child, watching lots of movies, going out to eat, sleeping in – all those things we won’t be able to do for like, YEARS after the baby comes. So we were looking forward to a nice squabby Easter – my parents were driving down and various other family members were coming over for a little potluck supper; we had the whole day open before that to do some picking up and straightening – it was going to be low key family time.

Except.

We’ve had unseasonably warm weather this month, which means all the trees and shrubs are all like “yippee!! let’s bloom!” which means this Squab’s allergies decided to kick it into extra-super-high gear at about 5 am yesterday morning. I woke up itching in the roof of my mouth and my inner ears – soooo pleasurable – and streaming snot from various orifices, and knew there would be no sleeping in for moi. So that started the day off well. Then, later in the morning, just as I’d finished my shower, Mr. Squab came tearing up the stairs to tell me to quit running any water because the basement was flooding. On Easter Sunday. Not “we can put this off until tomorrow” flooding, but more like “somebody better get here quick ‘cos I can’t turn off the water” flooding. Enter one Roto-rooter man who very nicely rid 3 of our main drainage pipes of about a football-sized ball of tree roots that were stopping up the works. Three hours and nearly $400 later, we could run water again, but the basement was still a mess. So Mr. Squab spent a good couple of hours with the shop vac and the dehumidifier trying to create some semblance of dryness. The awesome part is that we found out that our floor drain is basically totally worthless and will need to be replaced sometime soon to the tune of ~$1000. So there’s that to look forward to. Ack.

Meanwhile, I had blithely gone off in pursuit of the one dish we were responsible for at the potluck: the ham. Because I am mentally deficient, it didn’t even occur to me that I’d have a problem finding a grocery store open on Easter Sunday. I mean, we live in a major metropolis! I thought there might be reduced hours or something, but surely someplace would be open. Ha! Hahahahaha! Oh, I slay myself. So yeah: there were zero grocery stores open. Even the ones that claim to be open 24 hours had apparently found some kind of wormhole to a different time/space continuum, because they weren’t open, either. I drove around for 2 1/2 stinking hours, to every damn grocery store I knew of, and got bupkis for my trouble. What was open: Walgreens. And let me tell you, it was PACKED. What does Walgreen’s have in the way of pork products? Canned ham, that’s what. And in my desperation, I bought four tins. When I got home – a mere hour before people were supposed to arrive at the house – I started opening the tins to figure out how I was going to prepare them, and immediately burst into tears. They looked disgusting and smelled like catfood. “We can’t serve this!” I wailed to Mr. Squab, ” and we don’t have anything else in the house! I don’t know what to doooooooooo …”

Fortunately, as I may have mentioned before, I have awesome family members. I called my stepmom and she found an open grocery store in her neck of the woods and said she’d bring up ham and rolls along with other goodies. Another friend went to a Greek restaurant and brought over pitas and hummus to munch on before supper. Mr. Squab and I managed to get the house looking basically presentable before anyone arrived. And in the end we had a nice, relaxed supper with Easter treats and good conversation. So all’s well that ends well, I guess – but so much for enjoying a last special holiday sans baby!

Category: Easter Candy

Squabby: Peeps. I don’t even like peeps that much, but they’re definitely the squabbiest candy out there. First, because just LOOK:

And second, because you can say them like this: “peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeps.” And third, because they inspire sites like Great Scenes in Rock and Roll History as Reenacted by Marshmallow Peeps.

Squinny: Black Jelly Beans. I don’t get it either, but like every Squin I know likes these.

Squotund: Chocolate Bunny. Milk or dark, as you like it, and none of that hollow bunny crap. These are solid. Solid as a squo.

Mmmm … chocolate bunnies …

Now, as a bonus, here’s my favorite Easter Illustration (click the image for a bigger picture):

‘Cos nothing says “the Lord is risen” like maimed candy bunnies. Praise be.

Had my weekly check-up today, and (drumroll, please):

I am 3 cm dilated!

That’s two centimeters more than I was last week. Which is good. Also, it looks like we’re going to set up an appointment tomorrow to induce labor sometime next week if I haven’t spontaneously started before then. So either way, we’re getting ourselves a baby pretty soon!

Mr. Squab has now officially entered the “freak-out” zone. Operation SquabSpawn is now officially underway.

We’ll keep you posted.

I just got out of a three hour “branding” meeting at my loathed place of employment. Three hours spent listening to a marketing drone talk about “positive branding statements” and “personal brands” and brandy-brand-brand-McBranderton. This workshop is mandatory for all employees at my company, because the most recent employee satisfaction survey revealed that most employees had no idea what the hell our brand was, and even fewer actually cared. The solution, obviously, is to shanghai everyone from their actual work during one of the busiest times of the year, and force them to look at pictures of the Target and Apple logo for 180 minutes. I mean, duh. Highlights:

– We were required to bring an example of “our favorite brand” to the meeting and discuss why we liked it. I brought despair.com. ‘Nuff said. But the best one was this IT guy who brought a brochure from Royal Caribbean and spent three minutes talking about how much he loves “cruising” and he’s such an experienced “cruiser” and “cruising” is really a way of life. Heh heh. *snort*

– Absolutely true quote from the presenter: “One of the goals of this session is that we wanted to address the perception that ‘branding’ is a dirty marketing word. It’s much MORE than that!”

– At the beginning of the session, to help us understand just what a brand is (because we’ve apparently all been living in caves somewhere), we were shown a slide show of effective brands like Coke, Nike, IBM, Microsoft … and MLK, Jr., and Reagan. Er, yeah. After the slide show the presenter asked for comments. Me: “It seems like those images are conflating ‘brand’ with ‘image.’ ‘Brand’ suggests commodification in a way that seems odd to apply to individual people like MLK and Reagan. What’s your take on that?” Presenter: (blank look). “Great observation.” (To be fair, I think she didn’t know what “conflate” means, so maybe that made it harder to respond.)

So anyhoo, that’s three hours of my life that I won’t get back. Sounds like Brando had a similar experience – his list pretty accurately reflects my mindset.

Braxton-Hicks? Yeah, they kind of suck.

There is no time at which I do not feel like I have to pee.

I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that my fetus is a scientific genius, even in utero, and has embarked on some kind of crazy physics/engineering experiment in which the elasticity of the human frame is tested to its very limits. My tummy doesn’t get any bigger, kid. It’s just not physically possible.

I am not enjoying this waiting game. I consider myself a fairly patient person in many respects, but when it comes to shit happening to my body, not so much. I yanked my first baby teeth out right after my 6th birthday, waaaaaaay before they were really loose. I pick scabs. I pop blisters. I know I’m not at week 40 yet, but I’m still considered “full term.” WHAT’S THE HOLD UP???

Last night, Mr. Squab confessed that he’s afraid he’s going to “freak out” and “have a panic attack” after the baby comes. For some reason, I found this extremely funny. Is that wrong?