“How often do I have to do this?” I try not to sound terrified. “Should I wake her up to feed her? What if she won’t eat? When will my milk come in?”
“You’re going to figure this out. I’m here to help you, okay? Your nipples are pretty flat. You’re going to need to regularly pinch and twist them to give the baby something to grab onto.” Flat nipples are a thing? Does this mean I’m going to fail at breastfeeding? I think to myself. I’m in my thirties and I’ve never had anyone comment on the slope of my nipple, in a good or a bad way. It feels like Rose and I are the only ones in this room. Fiona and Gordon are bystanders to this conversation.
I forcefully pinch my nipple and try to get the hang of guiding the baby’s head into my chest, but I can’t get it and I give up. The baby squawks.
“I’m sorry little one,” I whisper into the smallest little ear. “This is hard.” I can feel more blood coming out between my legs, and now that the painkillers have worn off, the soreness from the internal stiches is growing fiercely through my lower half.
“Do you want to stay here in the hospital overnight?” asks Rose.
“Absolutely not,” I say quickly. I’ll be proud to get out of here. I did this, now let’s get back to normal. Rose helps Gordon pack Fiona into our baby car seat and she helps me put on a new set of pyjamas. The familiar pangs of self-loathing about my body, the ones that have been absent during nine months of pregnancy, return not two hours after childbirth. I sense Rose struggling to pull the pant bottoms around my waist and I sigh, “I’m still pregnant and fat.”
“No, no dear. Give me a break, you just had a baby.” This is a new, more empathetic Rose. “Let’s do it together. You are superhuman; I’m so proud of you. Look what your body did.” She is speaking in a new warmer tone, one I haven’t heard before.
Seemingly like magic, I’ve transformed in Rose’s eyes from a boring, entitled pregnant woman to a unique, super-powered birther. I feel the pride she’s shining on me. I sit up a little taller. I survived this. She hugs me the way a mother would hug her daughter after she gave birth, and I feel bad that I sent my mom home. Rose offers to help me dress Fiona for leaving the hospital, and I realize I don’t have a proper going-home outfit for the baby. Gordon says, “We threw some baby clothes from the pile of gifts into the hospital bag a week ago.” He pulls out a long-sleeved white top with brown baby track pants and hands them to her.
“Don’t you have any sleepers? All you brought were these day clothes?” Rose complains as she pulls a little brown knit hat over Fiona’s little baby head. “They’re not suitable for safe baby sleep.” In my post-birth fog, I have no idea if I even own a single safe sleeper. I feel like I didn’t study for the exam. I brought the wrong clothes to bring my baby home from the hospital in. Already I suck at this job.
“We didn’t pack socks or a sweater,” says Gordon. “Do you think we need them? It’s a damn heat wave outside.”
“At least wrap Fiona in a receiving blanket, for an extra layer against the damp night air.” Rose sounds exactly like my mother would in this situation. We are failing as parents already. The outfit made sense for a summer afternoon, but less so in the middle of a rainy night. I didn’t plan for all possible scenarios after all.
Rose sends Gordon to bring the car around and I’m wheeled out of the labour and delivery ward, not four hours after Fiona arrived. A bubbly young doctor who was in the operating room during my delivery waves and congratulates me on the new baby.
“I love her name!” she calls out as Rose wheels me past the nurses’ station. That was my discharge ceremony, I guess. The entire labour and delivery floor looks foreign to me, like a place I’ve never seen. Was it today that I checked in? Is this the same life? The same planet?
It’s still pouring rain when we get downstairs. The rain creates steam on the hot city street asphalt, a symptom of summer. Rose waits beside Fiona and me until Gordon pulls up. He struggles to squeeze the car seat into the back of our little two-door car, and I climb into the passenger seat, my right leg still a little numb.
Rose hugs me one more time and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “You did it.” She closes the door and blows us a kiss goodbye.
I love this post-birth Rose. She is high on adrenalin and exuding pride. She’s also way more loving than she was yesterday. I feel like I’m the only person in this city who gave birth tonight.
We don’t live that far from the hospital, but on our ride home I insist that Gordon pull over. Then I do it again two more times. I’m checking that Fiona’s breathing. He makes a sharp turn onto our street and I need him to stop the car before our driveway so I can check on her. I can’t hear anything he’s saying; all I can do is listen for the sound of her little breath in the back seat. We’ve definitely killed her. The seatbelt is too tight. It’s too cold out; the rain has dampened in her lungs already. Rose said two fingers of room between her chest and the seatbelt. I didn’t double check.
“Please, please, Gordon, stop the car!” I plead with sharp desperation.
I should give credit to my husband for obliging my incoherent requests in the car ride home at 12:30 a.m. on what I believe must be the longest day of parenthood.
June 18, 2014
I SIT IN MY LIVING ROOM rocking Fiona in the car seat while Gordon makes phone calls to three sets of parents — his mother, then my father and stepmother, followed by my mother, who left us a few hours earlier. I can hear my mother’s tears when he puts me on the phone to assure her I am doing okay. I’m sure she’s upset with me, but I need to centre myself tonight. I’m a mother now, too.
It’s time to go to bed. Four hours ago I was throwing up into my lap in a delivery room, and now at 1:00 a.m. I’m thinking about how to sleep with this tiny human in my arms. Gordon suggests we try to set up our co-sleeper bassinet between the two of us in our queen-size bed so we can all sleep together. He gently lays Fiona down on her back in the bassinet. We leave her wrapped in the receiving blanket and clothes we brought her home in.
Twenty minutes pass and I can’t sleep. Why can’t I sleep? I’ve been awake for close to twenty-four hours. I delivered a healthy baby girl. I did it. The worst is over. I’m exhausted. Gordon has fallen into a deep, snoring sleep. I look down at Fiona — she’s also quietly sleeping. My mind starts to reel. What do I do if she wakes? Do I pick her up? Rock the bassinet? I need to make sure she doesn’t get upset. I won’t know what to do. I scoop the sleeping baby into my arms and take her down the hall into her bedroom. Sitting in her dark, unfamiliar, and newly painted nursery, I am stunned by this immediate transition to motherhood. Maybe I’ll never sleep again.
All my shifting and rocking in the chair wakes the baby, and she begins to cry. Her cries get louder. I try to breastfeed her, but I can’t quite get the hang of placing this new human onto my breast. Desperate for a solution, I stick my pinky finger in her mouth and she suckles for a few minutes, calming down. I stand in her room, swaying back and forth, awkwardly holding my daughter, this stranger, in my arms. I’m still in the same mesh hospital underwear I was given days ago, holding an overdressed baby in total darkness. This is motherhood, I guess?
I head back to my bed and return her to her bassinet. Gordon is still snoring loudly, though, and I wince at the thought of him waking her. I scoop her back up immediately and head downstairs to our living room. I decide to set up the pull-out couch as a bed, then maybe I can get a little sleep downstairs with her. She starts to cry again. I feel panic, realizing I can’t pull out the couch unless I put the baby down. Where can I put her down safely? I spot the bucket car seat and gently place her in it. Then I quickly pull out the couch, scoop her back up, carry her back over, and sit down. She fusses a little at being moved. As Fiona falls back asleep, I realize I’m stuck in this sitting position upright on the couch. I didn’t think to lie down before she fell asleep, and now that she’s stopped crying, I don’t want to move. Even if I did lie down, she might fall and be smoth
ered! I’m not that tired really, I tell myself. I can wait till the morning’s arrival. When the sun comes up and my mother inevitably arrives, I’ll know I’ve survived this night.
The middle of this night is scary. The quiet creeks of our house startle me. The earlier storms are causing power disruptions. I hear the power go out. Even though the lights are off, when the power shuts down, our street swallows the city’s rumble and leaves us in heightened silence. I can hear my next door neighbours’ steps when the air conditioning and house appliances shut down. With the power off, the baby’s breathing is surprisingly loud, reminding me of a subway train passing through a station. I can’t put her down and try to sleep. I can’t even lie back. I sit straight up, with no support for my back, and hold her in the powerless dark and wait. I sense my exhausted brain getting cloudier and cloudier. I wait for the baby to wake up so I can shuffle in my seat. Every second feels like hours. The power flickers on, then off again. She finally stirs and begins to cry. I try to latch her onto my nipple, but I can’t get the hang of the perfect seal Rose demonstrated while also holding Fiona’s tiny head. My hands shake as I shuffle the baby in my arms, pressing my nipple to her chin, hoping she will guide us both through this. Breastfeeding feels unnatural. Isn’t this supposed to be one of nature’s most instinctual acts? I let her head fall away from me and try to squeeze a little milk out of my breast and into her mouth. I’m hoping if I squeeze my sore nipples hard enough I can get a drop of milk to fall out and land on her lips. She squirms impatiently and I’m so frustrated that I can’t settle her. Why can’t I do this?
After another seemingly endless crying and rocking interaction, she finally settles back to sleep and I move into a more comfortable seated position on the pulled-out couch. The power is back on; I might as well send an email from my phone.
Sent: June 18, 2014, 4:07 a.m.
To: Mom
From: Amanda
Subject: I need
Depends or the thickest pads you can find
Some kind of soft battery transportable nightlight. Our lights are too bright and the power went off four times tonight waking her up. I need an easy way to move rooms. Maybe Walmart?
Watermelon and more fruit please
I wait for her reply. She’s probably awake. Aren’t all mothers awake at 4:00 a.m.? It doesn’t come for over an hour, but the ding of my phone makes me feel better. I peel myself off the couch with the baby and head back to our bedroom. I have something to keep me distracted in bed until the sun comes and I have permission to be awake again.
Sent: June 18, 2014, 5:15 a.m.
To: Amanda
From: Mom
Subject: Re: I Need
NP
Keep thinking of more stuff you might need. I’ll leave here after rush hour this morning.
Sent: June 18, 2014, 5:15 a.m.
To: Mom
From: Amanda
Subject: Re: I Need
Advil regular strength
Cold compress for my stitches — I’m in a lot of pain
Cold cuts — salami and buns
Something else with protein
Sent: June 18, 2014, 7:20 a.m.
From: Mom
To: Amanda
Subject: Re: I Need
I’ll probably leave here after nine.
How do you spell Fiona’s middle name?
Sent: June 18, 2014, 7:25 a.m.
To: Mom
From: Amanda
Subject: Re: I Need
Fiona Adrina Munday
This is the first real conversation I’ve had with my mother since becoming one and it’s nothing more than barking orders between 4:00 a.m. and 8:00 a.m. A few weeks ago, Gordon and I agreed that he would be the point of communication with all of our family members once the baby arrived. Communication would be something he could own while I rested. I created an email mailing list of all our family members and close friends for him.
As I lie back in my bed and watch the sun rise, with Fiona sleeping in her bassinet and Gordon beside her, it occurs to me that I could send the birth announcement myself. I’ll need a great photo. I’ll wait until the sun is a little higher in the sky and take a photo of the sleeping baby beside her brand new father.
I wait as the sun climbs into the morning sky. I wait. I listen for the sound of leaves swaying — a signal of morning’s arrival. People are heading off to work. I hear car doors opening and closing, the familiar hum of engines starting, radios being turned up. Children are heading off to school; I can hear their giggles outside my window. How can they all carry on with their lives? Don’t they realize I’ve had a baby? I’m surprised my neighbours haven’t come to the door yet to see her. Maybe they don’t realize I’m home yet. Or do they think I died in childbirth? I could have died, I suppose.
My body parts ache. I’m not sure I can continue lying on my back. It’s making my insides sore. I wish I could turn over, but the sound of the squeaking mattress might wake the baby.
A few more minutes pass, and I decide it’s time for the official birth announcement photoshoot. I haven’t slept, and I’m annoyed by everyone’s lack of productivity in this room. I take twenty photos of sleeping Fiona on my iPhone and get to work editing them right there in bed. I change the photo filter and lighting on the one I like best, and I craft the following email:
Sent: June 18, 2014, 7:25 a.m.
To:
From: Amanda
Subject: introducing
Last night around 9:30 – 10 p.m. (we think) we welcomed Fiona Adrina Munday, 7lbs 6oz, to the world after 12 hours of breech labour, five pushes and a brief hospital recovery. She’s beautiful. We’re home and exhausted but sleeping as much as we can. Details from Daddy Munday soon xoxox
It’s not a perfect photo. It’s as much about Gordon’s sleeping as it is about Fiona’s presence. One could say the photo signals my jealousy at his ability to rest. My terrible swaddling skills are evident by all the slack around Fiona’s sleep sack, and her slightly red face likely a sign she’s overheating.
Ding.
It’s my best friend, Jackie, responding to my note. Her email makes me giggle. I wait for more replies, picking up my phone and checking my messages after each familiar ding. An endorphin rush of attention.
I decide to post the news on Facebook. I launch the app, and I see a post from my mother-in-law announcing the birth of our daughter, tagging Gordon and me. The tag means all my online friends saw her post before I could make the announcement myself. I’ve already received a few direct messages of love and celebration from people I don’t even know all that well. Equal parts rage and disappointment fill my heart; I feel blood rushing to my face. I’m hot, furious, upset, devastated. She has taken this announcement moment from me.
My switch from ecstasy to rage is so quick. The emotions feel similar, actually. I want to wake Gordon up to tell him, but I know I should let him sleep. I feel a sense of responsibility to post my own birth announcement on Facebook despite it not being the first. I’ll need a better photo, and I want to change Fiona’s clothes first. I’m scared to move the baby, though; I’ll have to wait until Rose gets here to help me. Where is Rose, anyway? How can I be left alone, sore and bleeding, with no one here to help me? Gordon’s asleep, the neighbours are off to work. I am alone here. I also ache for Max to get here before my other family members arrive. I wish he had followed us home from the hospital so he could help hold the baby. How can I even think of handing the baby off to anyone else? She might die. I resolve to keep her beside me at all times.
My mother is here. I hear her truck before I see it, and for a brief moment, I’m relieved. The feeling disappears as quickly as it arrived as I consider that she might not be alone. I lean over and nudge Gordon.
“My mom’s here. You have to go downstairs and open the door. She better be alone.” He grumbles, coughs a bit, and stumbles out of bed to go unlock the door. My mom more or less flies up the stairs, and I immediately burst into tears. The emoti
ons sitting on my chest are heavy. Nothing about the day is normal. She’s alone, thankfully.
“I can’t believe you have a baby,” she says. “I can’t stand it! Let me hold her. She’s beautiful. She’s so beautiful.” I lift the baby carefully into my mother’s arms, not completely certain she won’t drop her. I lie back in bed, snapping the first photos of my mother’s first grandchild, and look to Gordon to manage the situation. Our bedroom is a mess. There’s laundry on the floor. But it’ll have to wait. I ask Gordon to move Fiona’s rocking chair from her room to ours, since this room seems like it will now be my primary home.
While I was pregnant, I read that many women stay in bed for weeks after delivery, and in many countries, they don’t leave the house for forty days. But instead of seeing my teal-blue room as a place of rest, I’m already starting to view it as a prison.
Rose is here now, too. She introduces herself again to my mother in an awkward way that calls direct attention to the fact that my mother was absent for the birth. At least that’s how I interpret it. I cringe at the presence of both my mother figures together. One is a superficial caregiver. I want my own mother to leave the room. Rose is here on a house call; it’s a medical appointment, not a social visit. Does my mother need to be in the room for my doctor’s appointments? I’m thirty-one years old. My mother doesn’t hear my internal protestations, of course, so she sits back in the rocking chair while Rose examines the baby.
Her first comment is, “Why do you have this child all wrapped up? It’s summertime! She should be naked. And you, Amanda, should be naked and holding her. Skin-to-skin contact is how this baby bonds with Mama. What is going on here?”
I’ve failed again. I look over at Gordon, who quickly makes up an excuse about being exhausted and us all heading quickly to bed once we got home from the hospital. It’s a lie. I’ve been awake all night. I thought about changing her, but I was scared to. Skin-to-skin contact did not occur to me as I was rearranging the living-room furniture. Or pacing the hallways or emailing my mother. I didn’t think to associate Fiona’s outfit with her cries. I’m a terrible mother.
Day Nine Page 4