Hemorrhoids, foot fungus and morning breath

Every now and then I get the urge to write something immodest on my blog. Something about hemorrhoids or foot fungus or morning breath. (Not that I have any of those things, mind you. Roses usually come out my butt first thing in the morning.) But I often hold back because I worry that there are people reading my blog who I’ve either dated or would like to date at some point in the future, and why ruin the romance over a little foot fungus? On the other hand, complaining about my various ills gives me great pleasure, and I kind of want to lay it on the table about breastfeeding. Just as a warning, the following post could be construed as graphic and gross. Please don’t read it if a) you’re a guy, b) you have a weak stomach, c) you like to leave nasty comments on my blog under the moniker “anonymous,” d) you ever dated me, e) you ever wanted to date me, f) you ever got the feeling I wanted to date you, or g) you have an image of me in your head as a glamorous sexpot.

Enough said. At the risk of ruining my sex life and offending the ladies at La Leche League, here are the reasons I hate breastfeeding:

1. Picky baby. At nearly four weeks old my baby has never nursed from my right breast, not once. Apparently my left breast contains the sweet euphoria of heaven while my right breast is the lactation equivalent of a toxic waste dump. I am in danger of being lopsided for life. Maybe pregnancy really does ruin your body.

2. Fussy baby. Any time I offer my baby my breast (yes, even the cherished left breast), she screams, grimaces, punches my breast with her fists, arches her back like an Olympic gymnast and does anything she can to get away from the offending nipple. (“Offending Nipple.” I like that. Maybe I’ll start calling my blog The Offending Nipple.) After about fifteen minutes of frustration, on a good day and if I’m extremely lucky, I can sometimes coax her to take the breast. At which point she clamps her little jaws down in a vise grip and proceeds to chew her way to a full stomach.

3. The pain. Oh Holy Sweet Jesus Mary Mother of Mercy, the pain. The first time I attempted to nurse her it hurt so bad I screamed and nearly ripped her poor head away from my breast. Over the next several days I simply tried to ignore the pain while tears rolled down my face every time I nursed her. I talked to four lactation specialists in the hospital, but none of them had a damn clue. I’ve continued to seek out lactation specialists, the latest of which was a two-hour drive from my house and not covered by my insurance. She did, however, have some good advice – a little silicone hat that fits over my nipple and keeps baby from clamping down too hard. Unfortunately, baby has taken a dislike to the hat and has mustered both the indignation and the hand coordination to simply rip it off every time she sees it.

4. The pump. After about a week of agony, I started feeding her from a bottle of milk I obtained via a medieval torture device known as a breast pump. This seemed like an ideal solution until I realized that a) the pump also hurts like a mofo, b) she needs to be fed every two hours, c) it takes 30 minutes to feed her, and d) it takes 30 minutes to pump my breasts. If that math isn’t dismal enough, here’s some more: a) it takes five minutes to transfer the milk from pump to bottle, b) it takes 10 minutes to disassemble the bottle, nipple and nipple ring then thoroughly wash and dry the bottle, c) it takes 15 minutes to disassemble the pump and thoroughly wash and dry it. This leaves me a total of TEN FREAKING SECONDS per day to obtain a law degree. Which doesn’t work. I am totally failing Evidence.

5. The noise. Once you start pumping you really can’t stop without making an unholy mess. Once you turn the boob on, there’s no turning it off until it takes its sweet time to empty itself. But when my duckling wants to be fed, she wants to be fed RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. She can’t understand why milk-lady is sitting across the room frantically working a breast pump when she wants her 2:00 a.m. snack THIS MINUTE, and she’s not afraid to express her feelings in a shockingly loud manner. After slashing my tires and egging my windows, the neighbors have simply started moving away.

6. The mess. My cup overfloweth. I have a milk supply that puts the entire Wisconsin dairy industry to shame, and it flows like the Nile. Unfortunately it doesn’t just flow like the Nile when I’m nursing or pumping, but also when I’m studying, driving, taking a shower, ordering coffee, sitting in Evidence, eating, sleeping, or breathing. I bought some industrial-strength absorbent breast pads to stick in my bra, but I typically soak through them in fifteen minutes. All of my shirts are ruined, I smell like a tub of butter someone left out in the sun, and I am beginning to hate breastfeeding.

I wish I just had hemorrhoids, foot fungus and morning breath.

So much to say

So little time to say it in. For now a gratuitous picture of my cleavage - oops, I mean my baby... will have to suffice.

Where I'm at

My first two weeks as a new mother have passed in a blur. As if learning how to be a mother and taking care of a newborn infant aren’t enough, out of necessity I hit the ground running immediately after my duckling was born. I gave birth on Tuesday morning, got out of the hospital on Thursday afternoon, and went to a job interview Friday morning. The interview was in a city two hours away from me, my suit was twenty sizes too small, and my milk came in halfway through the interview. For those of you who don’t know, when your milk comes in for the first time after giving birth your boobs expand from a D cup to a Z cup in approximately two minutes, accompanied by hideous pain, fever, and the feeling that you’re hosting an alien creature that’s going to pop its head out your nipples at any minute.

While pretty much any job interview under those circumstances would suck, this interview was hideous in its own unique way. I spent three excruciating hours getting grilled by several different panels of attorneys, answering questions like, “What is your position on the death penalty?” and, “How do you feel about the Fourth Amendment?” At that point I wasn’t even sure what the Fourth Amendment was, and I was beginning to think the electric chair would be preferable to the agony I was currently undergoing. Making matters worse, no one thought I might want a few minutes in between interviews to use the bathroom or grab a bite to eat, so I spent the entire miserable time feeling like my tender bladder was going to explode and covertly eating some old cough drops I found stuck to the bottom of my purse in an attempt to stave off glucose shock.

With only two days to recover from the interview, I had a Thai midterm on Monday morning and, just for the hell of it, attended all of my classes on Monday afternoon. This added up to twelve hours on campus, six of which I spent in a hot, smelly bathroom becoming intimately acquainted with a trumpet-shaped instrument of torture called a breast pump and frantically calling my mother every five minutes to make sure the baby had enough food. I then graded six journal articles, leaped a tall building in a single bound, and sang “I am woman, hear me roar” several times under my breath.

With only about four hours of sleep per night and running my ass off during the day, you’d think I would be a basket case, but I seem to have developed a serious case of post-partum euphoria. I walk the floors at 4:00 in the morning with my baby in my arms and I know my hair is unwashed and my nightgown is ratty but somehow I feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. I look at her tiny little arms and am so moved by her vulnerability that I burst into tears. Likewise, any song on the radio makes me think of her and I find myself bawling with joy at such tear-jerkers as Beyonce and Bob Marley. In fact, I’m getting a little choked up now. Let me change the subject.

If you’re one of the nine hundred people who sent me a really nice e-mail in response to my birth announcement, please forgive me for not responding. As you can imagine, I’m up to my eyeballs with work. (Then how does she find time to update her blog, you ask. Oh, I am so busted.)

Also, several people left comments admiring my swaddling skills after I posted that last picture of my angry little banana. Sadly, I can’t take credit - as it turns out, babies come pre-swaddled these days. There are blankets that have a little pouch where you put the baby, and attached to the pouch are wrap-around blanket-wings with velcro that tie baby up tight. This is the best invention ever and I have to thank PT-LawMom for introducing me to them. (Also, swaddlers help prevent SIDS by keeping blankets away from baby’s face, so if you're a new mother, run out and get yourself a bunch of them.)

Skinny baby

I am a skinny, skinny baby with great big feet and an enormous diaper and I'm wondering why you're subjecting me to the indignity of posting this nearly-naked picture of me on the internet.

One day old

Is it just me or does she look like a very angry banana?

Partum post

First of all, I want to thank everyone who sent well wishes and congratulations on my baby's birth. I had no idea I had so many readers, and it was really gratifying to know how many people were looking out for me.

Even though it’s only been a week, it seems like a very long time since I wrote anything on this blog. I have distant memories of typing something incoherent while doped up on the most fantastic drugs available to man, and it occurs to me that this may not have been the best idea. Did I really promise to tell the world the story of my labor and delivery? I am so not the type to disclose that sort of thing, but because I promised, here’s a condensed version of how it went down.

Do you remember the “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful” commercials? We all hated that chick, not because she was beautiful but because she was incredibly annoying. I’ll try not to be annoying about this, so don’t hate me, but friends and readers, I had the easiest labor and delivery ever.

First, my blood pressure stabilized and the induction was called off altogether. Then, on Monday night my labor started on its own, and started with a bang. The first contraction hit at exactly midnight (technically Tuesday morning), the next at 12:02, and the next at 12:04. After the first contraction, my water broke, Hollywood style, with enough force to nearly knock me off my feet. Remember that big melonbelly I was complaining about? Apparently it was 20 pounds water, 6 pounds baby. She must have had her own Olympic sized swimming pool in there.

Even though I was wracked by the contractions and standing in about a foot of mucky water, I yelled for my mom and somehow managed to get my hands on the phone to call the doctor. The doctor told us to get to the hospital pronto, and when we got there a nurse was waiting for us at the door. My mom and the nurse pretty much tossed me into a wheelchair and literally ran to the labor and delivery floor with me. To be honest, I loved every minute of the drama of the situation.

By the time we got to labor and delivery, there was no space at all between contractions and the doctor said it looked like I was having the baby FAST. I asked for an epidural, which was delivered by a man who might actually have been God, and was immediately transported to a very happy place. Luckily the epidural slowed the labor down a little, so I was able to enjoy being the center of attention for a while. The pain completely gone, I watched my contractions waving on the monitor, joked around with my mom and the hospital staff, and basically sat in bed feeling like a princess for a few hours. Around 8:00 a.m. the doctor casually announced that she thought it was time to push, and at exactly 8:30, with what felt like very little effort on my part, my little duckling was born.

I’m a little embarrassed to tell this tale, if only because you’re probably thinking, “Damn she must have a large coochie to get that baby out so easily.” But I promised, so there you go.

Duckling

Six pounds, two ounces. Gorgeous. Happened this morning. Highly unusual labor and delivery story (did you expect any less from me?) to come when I get back on my feet.

More important than you

Okay, I’ll confess. I’m not actually psychic. I “knew” I was going to have a baby this weekend because my doctor told me I was going to have a baby this weekend. My blood pressure has gone slightly wonky, the baby is past her due date, and the doctor felt it was time to induce. Obviously, I want what’s best for my baby, plus I have a huge job interview on March 7 with an office that doesn’t know I’m pregnant, plus I hate being pregnant worse than the fires of hell, so I was only too happy to comply. They scheduled the induction for Friday, 2/29 at 7:00 a.m.*

I didn’t tell many people about the induction. I’ve already put up with more than I can handle from idiots who suddenly seem to think my body is their business just because I’m pregnant, and I really didn’t want to hear any “tsk-ing” or see any fingers wagged in my face. Also, I absolutely hate hearing my phone ring, I have a lot of people in my life who inexplicably think it’s okay to call me after 10:00 at night, and I simply didn’t want to get a bunch of well-intentioned phone calls the day before, or God forbid, the day of the induction.

But I secretly began to prepare.

First, I called my mom and had her fly to Wisconsin. She arrived Wednesday. She has an extremely limited number of days she can take off work, but she wanted to be here for the birth and to take care of me for as long as possible afterward (sadly, less than two weeks). Then, I cut half a week of classes to rest up for the big event, even though missing class in law school is like slow suicide and I knew I’d have to miss a ton after the baby was born. On Thursday night I went to a fancy salon and had my hair washed and dried because I’ve been too tired to style it for weeks now and I wanted to look decent in pictures. Finally, with a fantastic feeling of abandon, I started throwing away the horrifyingly ugly maternity underwear I’ve been forced to wear for so long.

At this point I feel like I should write something pithy about how pride goeth before a fall or how the mighty have fallen or something, but I’ll just be blunt and say everything absolutely went to the shitter.

First, people must have noticed that the enormously pregnant chick was missing from class and concluded that I had gone into labor. I still have approximately 95 unopened e-mails from this weekend, most of which have subject lines like, “OHMIGOD, IS IT HAPPENING?!?!?!” or “CONGRATULATIONS NEW MOM?!?!?” Worse, my cell phone was absolutely demented with people calling on both Thursday and Friday, and I couldn’t turn it off because I had to be in constant communication with my doctor, the hospital, and my family. Finally, I was too excited to sleep on Thursday night, despite having taken a Tylenol PM on my doctor’s orders. When my alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. on Friday morning, I had been asleep for a grand total of two hours.

Nevertheless, my mom and I were excited beyond measure on Friday morning. The hospital bag was packed, the cell phones were charged, the baby seat safely installed in the car. I wasn’t allowed to eat anything, but managed to not be too cranky about it. At 6:00 a.m., as per my doctor’s instructions, we called the hospital. Did we think it was weird that we had to call first? Not really. That is, not until the triage nurse said, “Oh no, you can’t come in for an induction right now. We’re way too busy. Call back at 9:00 and we might be able to fit you in.” What? At my incoherent stuttering, she explained, “We have way too many pregnant women right now with problems that are more important than yours.” I swear, she used the term “more important than yours.” Then, just to piss me off further, she added, “Oh, and don’t eat anything if you want to be induced today.”

I won’t bore you with the gory details of how Friday unfolded, but in short-form, I had to call the hospital every two hours. I wasn’t allowed to eat. Every time I called the hospital, I was told that there were women with “more important” problems than mine (not “worse” problems mind you, more important problems) and I should call back later. My doctor called me every hour, apologizing profusely and saying that the delivery room had unexpectedly been inundated with emergencies. My phone rang constantly with friends wanting to know how my labor and delivery had gone and when they could come see the baby. My dad kept leaving me voicemails wanting to know what was going on and why he couldn’t get through on the phone. My mom was in tears. I was wracked.

Finally, around 5:00 I called my doctor and told her I was going to have a serious emergency if I didn’t eat something. She checked with the triage nurse and confirmed that they would definitely not be able to induce me that night, then gave me permission to eat.

Lather, rinse, repeat...

We went through the exact same thing all day Saturday, and the exact same thing all day today. I think I’ve lost fifty pounds, I can’t see straight, I’ve had three hours of sleep in the last four days, and I have twelve hours of class tomorrow. My mom needs to leave in nine days, there is no way I’m making my job interview (which for reasons I won’t go into can’t be rescheduled), and my hair is filthy. And the worst part? The last doctor who examined me (read: the last random resident who shoved his hand up my hoo-haa without even introducing himself) said, “Don’t worry, it looks like you’ll give birth within two weeks. And if you don’t, then you’ll be so far overdue you’ll be first on the priority list for an induction.”

The final conclusion? I’m still pregnant, and I’m going to be pregnant for the rest of my life.

Oh yeah, and I have no underwear.

* Please spare me any discussion about leap year babies. I am seriously not in the mood.