Mumbling Madly

I’d love to say I ate decadently during the 9 months I was pregnant, but instead I had this weird relationship with everything I put in my mouth. Those of you may recall, I never barfed but was so nauseous my OWN SALIVA made me gag. I was saddened by the idea that I wasn’t going to really celebrate my 200 extra calories per day. Instead I volleyed back and forth from feeling queasy to just ok…There was only one day that I felt so famished, it felt like my body might be ingesting my own tongue.

Otherwise, I ate pretty normally. Oh sure, I had a few celebratory meals where I went to Red Robin and wolfed down a giant hamburger or when I ate the entire Chicken Dinner at St. Clouds. But the baby was squeshing my stomach most of the time and I seemed unable to really pack much in during one sitting. (Hence, I was constantly grazing). I also suffered from “Copper Penny Mouth.” This is when your mouth inhabits a bitter taste most of the time instead of the neutral, non-taste, your saliva usually produces. I would eat something marvelous, delicious, ravenous and two seconds later…bam…copper penny taste was back. I’m sure this had something to do with hormones, but it plagued me all through my third trimester. One of the first things I noticed after pregnancy was a lack of copper taste in my mouth.

Anyway, everything changed when I started to really, seriously breastfeed. And I mean REALLY seriously…in the beginning the baby is this tiny, blind, newborn who can barely open its mouth much less lift its head. There is a lot of manipulation of the baby, of your breast, or everything to get the kid settled and fed. Baby only eats about two ounces and it takes a long time. As baby becomes stronger, hungrier, and more confident your milk supply really starts to kick in. Then baby starts developing an attitude, and in my child’s case: he’s thrilled. He loves to eat, he loves to look around, he’ll stop mid-way and smile up at me in adoration. 3 ounces has gone up to 5 and then 6. As a result, Baby has developed creases in his thighs and an extra chin. He’s wearing 6-9 month clothing on his barely 4 month old frame.

To allow for baby to be this enthusiastic about nursing I have become a Protein Fiend. I always had a casual approach to protein, preferring a diet based on fruits, vegetables, and light dairy. A pack of chicken breasts would last me a week. The idea of ‘cooking a roast’ was foreign to me. I’m sure Josh suffered over this; preferring to leave the cooking up to me, I would find him appreciative but constantly hungry. (Consequently, he would supplement the lack of roast in his diet by smuggling large bowls of cereal at night).

Slowly, I became more and more hungry as baby began to really grow. At three months I noticed I was spending a lot more at the grocery. My cart started filling up with sausages, chicken, beef, and lunch meat. I bought a Baby Loaf of Tillamook cheese–because it was on sale, but I didn’t expect to actually go through the whole thing in a week. I found a really excellent cookie recipe made entirely out of almonds, whole wheat flour, and oats–the nuts provide a huge pack of protein in a hurry. I showed up to a yoga class having only eaten my father’s healthy whole grain pancakes. The class did not go well. Sleep dep combined with only carbs for breakfast left me weak and light-headed. When I returned home I wolfed down handfuls of salami slices and a cheese stick.

The real indicator came during a recent BBQ at Seward Park. There was a time when someone would hand me a bratwurst and I would bat my eyes demurely, look at my husband, and say, “This looks delicious; would you split this with me?” Then I might nibble a veggie burger or munch on some carrot sticks to balance the half of a sausage I had just consumed. Not so this last time…no, at this BBQ I wolfed down the entire bratwurst in two seconds. Then, AND THEN, I ate a hamburger. Oh sure, I told Josh we would split it, but before I knew it I had eaten the whole thing. At one point Josh asked, “Hey, where did that hamburger go we were going to split?…oh, wait…I see.” The burger was gone. Beef tastes good! After the hamburger and the bratwurst, I contemplated a hot dog, but decided I might need to slow down for a moment.

My sister’s eyes widened when I told her the BBQ meat story. As a vegan, she is pretty laid back. However, even she knew that my meat consumption was unusually high compared to my usual “let’s split this” attitude. I asked for some recommendations of non-animal based protein sources. Beans and rice, saytan, tofu dogs…”even I get protein cravings,” she claimed. But they’re no where near mine: handfuls of sliced turkey, meatballs, baked chicken with veggies, chicken quesadillas on whole grain tortillas. At last, the epic food adventure I didn’t get to have during pregnancy, is here!

At a recent (professionally paid for) playgroup, the baby and I were treated to a guest speaker who specialized in dance, movement, brain development, scarf tossing, etc. etc. During this speech the babies were bombarded with group tummy time in a circle on a mat (my child cried first), scarves dangled in their faces, songs, and then their torsos were placed on top of big rubber balls. While the balls were rolled gently back and forth we sang “Wheels on the Bus” loudly. During the madness the speaker expounded on the brain while holding a plastic replica. “You see this ridge right here,” she indicated to a blue line near the cerebellum, “This ridge is thinner in boys at birth then girls…this is because boys mature fully by the age of 23 and girls by the age of 21.”

Instantly, I was transported to myself at 21 and all the dingbat boys I hung out with who were a sad two years away from full maturation. (Ah, no wonder I had such a hard time in college!) But then I looked at my son who outweighs the average baby girl in the group, his chubby enthusiastic cheeks, his fists clinging to my shirt in a desperate monkey-like grip to keep from being placed on the mat again….really? This kid is destined to be behind the girls due to a thinner band in his cortex? Sure, we all know what adolescence looks like with the girls towering over the boys in pimply hormonal maturation. But, I hate being reminded of this ‘fact’ when my son is only 3 months old and just starting out.

The speaker then launched into how, since we all place babies on our backs now to reduce SIDS, their brains are getting smooshed. In fact, a very important part of the brain which controls motor development is at the base of the neck, which, BINGO, is right where a prostrate baby puts its weight. ‘Laying a baby on its back is equivalent to a turtle,’ she said, ‘All arms and legs waving but the REAL work is when you put the baby on its stomach.’ She then announced that since the “Back to Sleep” campaign began in the 1990’s, neural disorders like ADD and ADHD have increased by 60%! Especially in boys…that’s right. If you weren’t afraid of your son getting autism, (thanks a lot Jenny McCarthy) now you need to worry that laying your child on his back is increasing his chance of bouncing all over the classroom and being put on Ritalin in a few years.

There are several big worriers in the group, myself included. We over-analyze and over-read all the baby books and worry ourselves into the middle of the night. The last thing we need us a reminder that our sons are at higher risk of every neurological disorder on the never ending list of ‘things that could go wrong.’ I could see the other mothers tighten their grips as they dive bombed and swayed to “Tickety Tickety Bumblebee.” The speaker lambasted us with more shitty brain facts for a few more moments before whisking her millions of props away and running out of the playgroup as fast as she had entered. Every baby in the room was either crying or past out from over stimulation.

Remember when girls were the big concern? The whole “Ophelia Complex” thing with the neglect of the schools for girl’s learning; They all had eating disorders and low self-esteem tied in with a squashing of their learning potential due to overbearing boys. Cut to 15 years later and now we’re desperately concerned for our autistic, ADD, ADHD riddled boys who yearn to run around the playground during the many cut recesses from the school schedule. Boys can’t read, they’re graduating from college in smaller numbers, and they’re drowning in jail time. And, oh yeah, Baby girls have cuter clothes, they pull off gender-neutral outfits better, and they have more choices for good first names.

Was this why I initially swore I would have a girl during the beginning of my pregnancy? Because I had already had a whiff of the boy hysteria crowding our education? Did I think it would be easier to navigate a child who was my own gender? Perhaps the fear is that we will be unable to unlock the mysteries of our sons and they’ll be out of control monsters pointing guns at everything while the girls stand there demurely being seen and not heard. It doesn’t improve our outlook when so-called specialists remind us that our boys will be talking later, their brains are smaller, and that they might, MIGHT, struggle more in life because they are boys.

Because, we do the best we can, right? We put our babies on their backs despite what a huge pain in the ass it is. Babies LIKE being on their stomachs when they’re a newborn ball, they prefer it actually. But consequently, none of us are putting our kids on their stomachs enough when they get older, the concept of ‘Tummy Time’ a cruel invention of our generation. We don’t put them on their tummies as often as they need to because most babies HATE it. They usually throw up, head resting in their puke, little necks straining to support themselves. Most of them cry and cry, only to be relieved when they finally end up on their back again.

We delay feeding them solids because we don’t want them to get allergies. So, even though many of us were eating solids at 2 weeks old and therefore sleeping through the night with a brick of solid food weighing our stomachs down, this is now taboo.

Vaccines might cause allergies, autism, aluminum allergies or something bad…so many parents are spacing them out much to our pediatrician’s chagrin. I’m not doing this but so many of my friends are that I can’t even talk about vaccines without fear of a panic attack. What if the current recommended vaccine schedule turns out to be unsafe after all and our children are consuming thousands of toxins with each shot? Will I be the idiot who trusted the American Board of Pediatrics when everyone forged ahead with their own made up vaccine schedules?

Don’t get me started on the current stipulations for the crib: no pillows, no blankets, no toys, no crib bumpers, no nothing in their crib until they’re one years old. Winter babies are expected to be stuffed into sleep sacks to ward off the cold because even swaddling the kid in a blanket is under controversy! Because it’s a BLANKET, people, and even a blanket tightly wrapped around your baby could somehow come undone, drape itself over your kid’s mouth, and SUFFOCATE him.

All this and I have to sit through a guest speaker reminding me about my boy’s future shortcomings? No way, sister…no way. I’m shutting my ears, holding my son securely in my lap, and waving a scarf a safe distance from his face.

There are these little shoes….well, they’re not SHOE shoes, they’re more like moccasins. They’re pricey–twenty-eight bucks–for something a kid is only going to wear for a few months. But all the other babies have them. They’re soft and leathery and don’t have hard soles. This makes them more acceptable because everyone knows that real shoes for babies are kinda silly. In fact, real shoes are suppose to inhibit the baby’s ability to learn how to walk. Stick a pair of leather, heeled, shoes on a kid and their feet becomes walk-less clubs.

Before I knew this, I already felt prejudice against shoes for babies. I always thought they looked weird. Plus, it’s a well known family story that my mother cried the day she bought me my first pair of shoes. I cried too, I hated them! I think I was over a year old and my father described my mother’s anguish: “It meant that you weren’t little anymore, that you would be tied down to the weight of the world and that this was only the beginning.” Or something kind of sweet and hippie like that. At any rate, I felt my mother’s pain but I also developed a healthy shoe addiction as an adult. (My father is to blame). When you’re a size 10 you must seize the opportunity when a cute pair of shoes is on sale–and in stock in your size!

At any rate, I swore that Isaac wouldn’t have baby shoes. Even the little moccasins that EVERY GD baby in Seattle has to have! But I sorta thought that once he reached the walking stage I would break down and buy him the moccasin style shoes–you know, to protect his feet. And then, a woman at play group pointed out that she too had been really anti-shoe until she realized that no amount of socks could keep her baby’s feet warm. Suddenly, I realized she was right! Isaac’s feet are always cold when we go out and it’s because he doesn’t have those little leather shoes!

So…I compromised. I bought him a slightly used pair for seven bucks…and now he’s a total hipster. (They have blue helicopters on them!)

At the 3 month mark; Baby is happier, more entertained, and pulling out of the ‘4th trimester…I am losing my hair. This is normal; something I had been warned about. Last night, piles of my hair came out while I took a shower. “Woah,” I thought, recalling a friend saying she felt like a cancer patient on chemo when her body started shedding all her pre-baby hair. While that sounds awfully dramatic, I was a bit shocked at the sight of so much hair circling the drain.

It’s true that I had started to take my luxurious mane for granted. For the first time in ten years I have hair down to my shoulders. Gone were the many versions of the layered bob I’d been sporting; as soon as pregnancy hit, I celebrated the thickest long hair I’ve ever had, (tied back in a ponytail every damn day, mind you, but I still had it!). Because I can’t seem to get myself to the salon, I’ve been hacking at my bangs with scissors, angling everything upward in a shaggy attempt to look stylishly care free. Now my hair is all over the house, littering my pillow, the laundry, and my son’s mouth.

So much of the baby/pregnancy experience is physically crazy and bizarre. But so much of it I have gotten use to. I’ve gotten use to the strange sensation of nursing, of my weird post-pregnancy body that can’t quite fit into my old clothes, and even the sporadic, interrupted, sleep. But losing my hair is a strange visual. In some ways I relish being one more step closer to my ‘old’ self. The old me never had this hair…it was always thin, stringy, filled with broken ends and limp. The old me is buried somewhere in this post-baby, new mom, body. The old me feels tiny and ignored, a hopeful blip, desperate to return.

Sure, the new me has this really fascinating little person to hang out with all the time. The new me has organized playgroups and connected with a brand new community. The new me is longing for the usual New Mom type of things: sleep, a cry-free existence, and new clothes. But then there’s the old me nipping at my heels…longing for theater and dance…

I went to a Parent/Baby yoga class for the first time today and was shocked by how exhausted the whole thing made me. Any trip out of the house takes a lot of planning these days; I didn’t realize I would have to struggle to get our back door open. In fact, I never did get the back door open because some sort of piece of wood was wedged in the bottom of the door. Perhaps something Josh jerry rigged years ago that has come loose? At any rate I was on my hands and knees with a butter knife trying to unlodge the piece of wood. My son was agressively sucking on his pacifier in his car seat, impatiently waiting to go. When I yelled, “DAMMIT!” My kid let out a whimper. Ah crap, it’s the first time my son has heard me utter a swear word really loud. (And not the last time I’m sure).

We left out the front door, traipsed through the mud to the backyard, and managed to leave only a few minutes late. Even though I have my baby in the car I still drive inappropriately because I’m running late. (I am never late–even with a newborn. It’s a value I can’t shake). I arrive, drive around the block, decide to risk the 1 hour parking, and pull my car over. Baby seems to be doing fine. I lug his car seat out of the car–which I hate; I hate that the carseat is like a huge, heavy, bucket with a handle that bangs around the stairway when we enter the yoga studio. My prenatal teacher who I took 29 weeks solid of preggo yoga (didn’t miss a week) is there at the top of the stairs. “Ta Da,” I say, presenting the baby to her as if he’s a chocolate sundae I made. “He’s big,” she observes. “Really?” I say, slightly cross. “He’s 7 weeks old.” The teacher corrects herself, “I mean he looks more like a baby and less of a newborn.” I can’t disagree with this.

I enter the room and stake out a spot by the window. I used to always do prenatal yoga by the window during the summer because it allowed a cool breeze to flow on me. The room is filled with mothers and babies. Some are breast feeding, a few 6 month old babies are sitting on little blankets playing with hula hoops, and all the women looks tired and are forcefully smiling. I have no interest in making friends, (What am I, a reality tv show star?), I simply want to stretch my sore muscles out. Ok, so that makes me sound like a jerk…I DO want to make friends, but my fatigue makes full sentences difficult and I’m pretty sure full sentences are required in order to make friends.

Luckily, my friend Ashley shows up and plops down next to me. Her baby is in the carrier and my baby is in the carrier. My baby immediately starts crying and out of the carrier he goes. I hold him during the introductions. I tentatively put him down on the mat and try to do spiritual, yoga-y, stuff over him. He’s not into it…my fantasy of down dogging and looking at my son are shot. Other babies in the room aren’t buying it either. I find the sound of crying children really grating to my nerves, and half way through the class I realize it’s kind of hell. There is nothing relaxing at all about taking yoga with infants. Sure, I’m getting a few side stretches in, but I’m so distracted I might as well be practicing yoga in the street–it’s that overwhelming.

I’m leaning over, touching my toes, when I realize how shabby I am. Oh sure, in a room full of women in the same boat, I can hardly complain about my hairy legs. But, I realize that Ashely has a really nice red pedicure and my nails are yellow and too long. On my big toes I have some ancient remnant of some clear nailpolish I gooped onto my toes for my Seattle baby shower. I can’t remember when I last cut my toenails, (was it when I tried to do it at 9 months pregnant? Talk about a challenge!). While lifting my arms in Warrior 2 pose I realize I haven’t shaved my armpits. And they kind of reek. I also remember that I have baby puke in my hair–oh crap, my hair! Normally, I try to at least brush my hair but today I forgot! It’s sitting on top of my head in this weird, tangled, long mess. Hot.

My son lapses into his usual response when surrounded by tons of people–he falls asleep. (It’s in this way that he sorta reminds me of his Dad). But he falls asleep right when the instructor tells us we’re going to sing some songs with our babies. While my baby snoozes in his carseat, we sing about elevators going up and down, wheels going round and round, and the usual collection of baby tunes. It’s at this point that everything seems really surreal. “How the hell did I get here?” I wonder. I look around at everyone raising their babies collectively over their head at the crest of the song, and I feel totally emotional. Sometimes I think, ‘I don’t belong here!’ and then I look over at my son and think, “Oh, that’s right…I have a baby now.” It’s like an identity crisis every day sometimes.

The baby/mom yoga class kicks my ass. I am exhausted and sore. I feel out of shape and out of touch. My son and I sleep for hours when we return home (well, after an hour of cajoling him to go to sleep). I’m so tired, it’s as if the bed is floating…lifting off the ground, gently spinning us, as the outside January world grows darker and darker. Maybe it was just too much…being in a room filled with babies, mothers, and yoga mats. Tomorrow is a new day…tomorrow we will join an army of strollers and walk around Seward Park. Maybe THAT will feel better…

As you can imagine, the baby was the star of the show during Christmas. He lit up the room; he smiled random little smiles (that sometimes evolved into tears, gas, or sleep); instead of either wailing or sleeping he has also started making little cooing noises (a stepping stone towards speech according to the books). Every time he sneezes he let’s out a little sigh (i.e “AAACHHOOOO……aaah”).

It’s all ridiculous and tiny but each little thing is new and we haven’t seen any of it before. I mean you hear and read about babies learning to speak, sleep, etc. but none of it really clicks until you see your own tiny person trying it out for themselves. Thus, I catch myself speaking to my son in a sing-song voice (encourages language developement), admiring his poops (‘holy crap that’s an impressive amount!’), and generally making a big fuss over him, (a key factor in bonding).

Perhaps this is why we go above and beyond to take care of our children. It’s why I find myself bouncing him up and down on the medicine ball at 4am despite the pain in my head. Images plague me all the time regarding his well-being and safety. Josh was playing with him recently–which included holding the baby in the palm of his hand. The baby would balance for a few seconds before falling back into Josh’s arms. I wasn’t paying attention until suddenly I realized that my son was being palmed like a basketball before flying in the air for a few seconds at the impressive height of 6′6 before being caught. “DON’T DO THAT!” I roared like a mama bear before bursting into tears. Josh apologized repeatedly and said sagely, “I’m sure mothers have been protecting their babies for centuries from over-enthusiastic rough housing.”

Indeed.

Baby insists on doing most things against the book…like sleep on his tummy. This is a horrible no-no and we only allow it if it happens that he is face first on one of our chests. When he lies on his back, Baby’s hands fly up in the air occasionally as if he were falling. Josh researches this response and learns that it is a remnant of our primate days when baby monkeys use to fear falling out of the tree. Now we are trained to swaddle babies so their little arms stay firmly wrapped to their sides. Anyone over 50 will be baffled by this since for years babies lay on their stomachs to sleep–and sleep better they did too. But no one wants to be a SIDS statistic so on their backs the babies go.

Baby hates his swaddle and prefers to be loosely covered with a blanket instead. Another no-no since he could get smothered in the blanket. He could also get smothered in our bed–which is also discouraged. But sleep becomes a valuable, precious, necessary commodity so inside our bed the Baby goes. Sometimes he sleeps on his father’s chest–diagonally so he can rest his cheek on a pectoral muscle and let his legs flop over the ribs. Ideally he sleeps smack in the middle of his milk supply, little fists grasping at his mother in his sleep. This is usually when I realize I have an awful wedgie that I can’t tend to because it means waking the baby. A lot of my needs are pushed aside in order to care for this baby. There a lot of little things: not being able to reach the remote, not being able to turn the page in my book, not being able to press send on an email, the list goes on and on.

Women who love being pregnant and women who claim they immediately fell in deep, satisfying love with their firstborn probably don’t really remember what it was like. Having a tiny, crying, stranger enter your life and prevent you from doing almost everything is so shocking you can’t even negotiate the reality in your head until it happens. Thus, parents are part of a secret club…the kind of club that allows you to forgive a crying infant on a plane, or in the store, or in a restaurant.

Blogging with a newborn is impossible…it just is. I mean most things are impossible: going to the bathroom, eating, sleeping, getting in and out of the car. These are all things that were taken for granted before baby and now, lo and behold, I sound like all the other new parents out there in the world who grieve for the days when they could poop without staring into the face of their brand new child. But I have to blog, I just have to. Where else can I spill my creative genius about a process that still (after 5 weeks postpartum) feels so difficult?

Little, brief, moments is what we’ll have to settle for.