Happy Chaos (3 page)

Let's face it, the one having the baby is the one who's getting all the attention (at least until the baby's born, and then it's the baby's turn). Your job is to help the pregnant mom bring that baby into the world while keeping your relationship intact! So here's my advice: Long before you get to the hospital, make a list of the things that your partner loves and finds comforting. And most important: Listen to her. Is she cold or hot? Are her lips parched? Offer to get her some lip balm, crushed ice, or a Popsicle. Help her keep her hair out of her face, and ask if she would like the lights softened. You know your partner best. Just remember that labor is different from any other experience you've had (especially if this is your first baby), so be prepared to be flexible and supportive, and if she is having a tough birth, don't take it personally if she starts yelling profanities at you!

Question of the day: What was the one thing that no one told you about having a baby that you had to find out for yourself?

“I think one of the most important things we figured out is that ‘going by the book' doesn't work for everyone. Sometimes you have to find your own path and make decisions based on what's best for your family.”

—JoyfulTxGal

“No one ever told me I would need to put Vaseline on my son for a month following his circumcision or that the skin could reattach! Ouch!! No one ever told me when to first bring my child to a dentist. No one told me that breastfeeding would be the most challenging and rewarding experience proving to myself that if I put my mind to anything and not give up that I could do it (with a little help from fenugreek, phytolacca, and hepar sulphur). Finally no one ever told me that having babies would be the hardest, scariest, self-sacrificing, yet most amazing thing ever. You will get through it!”

—Erin

“We are on our third child. The first two are girls and the newborn is a boy. Well our first boy, no one EVER told us to put his ‘peepee' down when putting on his diaper. For the first week, we could not figure out why he was wetting his crib, onesie, etc . . . What do you know, we pointed it down and no more wet crib :-) A warning label would have saved us a lot of wet bed sheets.”

—Leslie

“That I'd love her instantly and forever :-)”

—Becky

My family with Poet and me at the hospital right after she was born

 

A
s I was lying with my beautiful baby girl after giving birth, I remember a nurse walking in holding these fishnet granny panties. I stared at her in horror. “For me?” I asked innocently. The woman rolled her eyes at me as she continued holding them, and with her other hand held up a gigantic white surgical glove. For those of you who have had vaginal births, you know what I am talking about. For those who haven't, just picture the biggest fishnet panties you have ever seen and an enormous surgical glove filled with ice. That gigantic ice hand goes right onto your Va-JJ and immediately becomes your best friend. The granny panties hold that glove right in place, and as if things couldn't get sexier, the nurse then handed me a spray can. I was totally perplexed until I learned it was to numb the vagina. Yes, to numb my vagina.

There are so many things that no one tells you about having a baby. Oh sure, I read a few things. I talked to my friends. I did my research. But I swear to you, no one ever told me that after I had my baby I would be handed a gigantic pair of fishnet granny panties. And I'm positive no one told me that I'd be given a spray to numb my vagina. And I am absolutely, one hundred percent certain that no one told me that I would be given an enormous white rubber glove—filled with ice—that I would then stick on my vagina.

Little did I know at that moment how essential to my life these three completely bizarre items would become: mesh panties, vagina spray, ice glove. With that tool kit in hand, the maternity nurse sent me on my way, and we were ready to leave the hospital with our new baby girl. As we signed ourselves out, the only thing the hospital wanted to know was if we had a car seat. That's it. Have a car seat? Here's your baby.

Jason wrestled the car seat into submission, and when we got out on the road we had this feeling that the world as we once knew it had changed—and it had. We drove four miles per hour the whole way home, fearful that any bump or movement might upset our new baby. Had people really done this before? We felt like the first. There I sat looking at my husband and our beautiful baby, thinking about life. My Va-JJ spray was wearing off and reality was sinking in.

When we got to our house, I fell into the warm embrace of my mother's loving arms. I caught the scent of her pasta sauce when we walked in the door, and I knew I was home. And our girl, Poet, was home, too. It was heaven . . . and then I realized that—oh my God—we'd forgotten the placenta at the hospital. I'd been determined to bring it home and plant a tree over it—like the true earth mother I aspired to be. No placenta, no tree, so I called my good friend Hillary, who raced back to the hospital to retrieve our placenta. She ran through the halls of the hospital having no idea where one might go to pick up a placenta—preferably the one that had been attached to my baby and not to someone else's. Finally, knowing that I had my heart set on a placenta tree, she said to a nurse, “Just give me one!” To this day I'm not sure we got the right one, but I try not to think too much about that.

My mother's welcome-home feast was just the beginning of the nurturing. I know that some new moms are brought flowers. Some are brought baby clothes. Me, I get food. Because my family loves to eat, and even by the standards of my food-loving family, I really love food. Neighbors knew the way to my heart, and they stuffed our kitchen. The celebration in the hospital turned into an extended holiday, and the house filled with family, extended family, and friends all stopping by to welcome us home and meet Poet.

I'm sure that I was still on a new-baby high during those days. I barely slept, because I couldn't stop holding Poet. When she was awake, I needed to be awake, and when she was asleep, I just wanted to look at her. And oh, that new-baby smell. It was intoxicating. The rhythm of life those first few weeks was simple and all-consuming—change the baby, hold the baby, feed the baby. And feed the baby. And feed the baby. I loved the incredible bonding experience of breastfeeding, but at one point I broke down and called the doctor and said, “Okay, can your nipples actually fall off?” And I was not kidding.

Everything we did was a first: first bath, first walk, first drive in the car. It was like we walked into an alternate universe that looked just like the old one, but all the rules were different and we had to relearn how to live. I remember the first time we tried to go on an adventure with Poet, and we got halfway down the street only to turn around again because it suddenly occurred to us that maybe it was too soon to take her outside. And the diaper bag—what were you supposed to put in there? I had no clue. Even a simple stroll around the neighborhood was a production. It's hilarious to me now when I think about those days when I took forty-five minutes to get ready in the morning. Now it was a miracle if I could take a shower. Even if Poet was quiet, I'd be convinced that I heard her cries echoing, reverberating through the house. Every few seconds I'd have to leap out of the shower to see if she was okay. Once I was clothed—shirt on inside out—it was time to get her changed and dressed (and hope that she wouldn't poop or spit up even before I'd lifted her off the changing table). I remember how scared I'd be that I would hurt her just bending her little arms to fit them into her onesie, and how fragile she seemed to me.

Then the question was what to carry the baby in. I so badly wanted to use a sling. The other moms made it look so easy and nurturing, their babies snuggled close to their chests, wrapped in brightly colored organic fiber. But I found it to be impossible. I tried wrapping it around my waist, my chest, every possible way before finally giving up and just carrying Poet. The stroller should have been easier, too, but that was another thing I struggled with. I'd study the other mothers closely—a flick of the wrist, and it was open. For me it was the opposite. I would pull it, tug it, kick it, and only after twenty minutes figure it out. Then the next time I would have the same problem.

Every day it was a shock to discover all the things I hadn't known before. So I observed all the parents around me, and I soaked up the knowledge. Within a few weeks, right around the time that Jason had to go back to work, I was starting to get the swing of things in my own way. I had figured out a few things that worked for me: power walking all night long when she cried due to her tummy issues and colic, never getting too comfortable in bed because the second I lay down she would wake up, that she was still breathing after I put my cheek next to her for the twentieth time in the night, that I could function on only a few hours of sleep (I think moms have a superhero gene somewhere inside of them), and finally, that pacifiers were not evil. I knew that hippie moms weren't supposed to use pacifiers. And to that I say: This hippie mom uses a pacifier. And this hippie mom learned the value of walking around in granny panties with an ice pack attached to her vagina.

The first days and weeks of new parenthood can be surreal, exhilarating, and sometimes scary. Just listen to your heart, listen to your baby, and listen to the nurse when she tells you where to put that ice pack. You don't have to have all of the answers, and it's okay to learn as you go.

Jason and me with Poet after her first bath

Sometimes babies come early and sometimes they come late, so it's better to be prepared. I had a bag packed three weeks before my due date with Poet, and it was a good thing. Ziplocs were my friend when packing, and they still are. They made it easier to separate things for me. Most important is to bring things that are cozy. This meant my snuggliest robe, two pairs of socks, and baggy sweats (remember something comfortable and roomy so you have space for the vagina ice—seriously).

Now, I'm not saying that
you
need all this, and your needs may vary depending on how long you will be there, but here's what I found most helpful to pack for the hospital: