Learn from the animals

From a friend whose cat just had her first litter of kittens:

Buttercup had another baby at about 10:30pm, so 3 orange and 1 grey. She is a horrible mother, all night I would wake up to kittens crying and she would be sleeping soundly with me and not her kids. I am afraid I may end up bottle feeding them. Mercy, what a little dummy.

Buttercup, I am right there with you. What you just been through sista! You need some SLEEPSES!

Another miraculous crisis

[Ramblings of a recently postpartum mind trying to make sense of the experience. Skip unless you’re into L&D details.]

Typing up my latest birth story, I noticed something really odd: if read by an objective third party, it might not sound like such a bad deal. I mean, from an outsider’s view, the main post-water-breaking action could be boiled down to three ginormous contractions that made me wish desperately for instant death (but that were spaced far enough for me to fall asleep (!) in between), fifteen or twenty more minutes of unrelenting, excruciating back pain, 2.5 pushes, and---Baby!

Wow, what a lot of women wouldn’t give for that, huh? Although the doctor, in a post-action review, described this L&D as somewhat “surreal” even from her end of the proceedings, she still seemed inclined to classify it as not such a bad deal, considering. In my mind, however, this L&D looms large and terrifying. Go through that again, ever? I can’t even begin to mentally broach the edges of that thought without reaching for a paper bag to breathe into.

In fact, I think I was more nervous heading into this L&D than any of the preceding ones (possibly excepting the first). What gives? Am I the only one who’s actually losing confidence as she goes along? Shouldn’t the fact that babies and I have come out all right on the other side five times now make me ever more assured?

The pain is not fun. I dread the pain, but I can deal with pain, especially pain that I know is finite and productive. And there are drugs to deal with the pain (though unfortunately it seems I’m becoming less and less likely a candidate for such interventions, should I be inclined to request them).    

The uncertainty is unsettling, to say the least. Does anyone really have “textbook” labors, going to the hospital when regular contractions are 5 minutes apart, proceeding smoothly through transition, etc.? I kind of doubt it, but I’d settle for my own stories resembling each other, at least. Deliveries #2 and #3 were somewhat semblant, but that’s about it. Well, at least I can count on the fact that the doctor will have to break my water every time, either as an overdue induction, or to get things progressing in a labor that’s already underway. Oh, except for the time that my water spontaneously broke first, and then nothing else happened until they started the pit drip. Oh yeah, and the time that it actually broke on its own mid-labor.

Well, at least I know that my babies are always late, or else reasonably close to due date. Oh, except for the one that was two weeks early.

Well, at least I know that my babies come pretty fast once it’s pushing time. Oh, except for the time I spent 45 (drug-free) excruciating minutes pushing to turn a large-headed misrotated baby.

Well, at least I’ll always know for sure when it’s time to head to the hospital. Oh, except for the time I showed up for a scheduled checkup kind of thinking things were getting going, and amused and alarmed the doctor by being at 8 cm already.

See what I mean? There’s just not even a hint of a pattern to go by here.

Well, at least I know that the babies always come out OK, with no hint of delivery-related complications. Oh, except for the time a baby swallowed a bunch of amniotic fluid that I think he’s still working out years later ;P. Oh yeah, and that time a few weeks ago when I delivered a purple baby with an almost-triple nuchal cord.

And there, I think, is where the real terror comes in. Those babies were safely delivered. And statistically speaking, and as my own personal statistics have borne out, I am much more likely to lose a baby in the first trimester than in the delivery room. But—what if there hadn’t been enough slack in the cord? What if his head had still been rotated the wrong way like it was when then doctor first checked? What if I had run out of strength to push him out fast enough so that the little bit of “fetal distress” became an unbearable amount of distress? (The fastest our little hospital can pull off an emergency C-section is probably an hour.) What if? What if?  

My delivery room stories have all had happy endings. But I know that not every story does, and I ache for those who have endured a harsher turn of plot. In the delivery room, as a mother pants and struggles through what should be the most natural and fulfilling of roles for her, the bearing of new life, the words of the curse echo loud.

In the delivery room, these present sufferings, this eager longing, bear down sharply. The cursed crisis of the delivery room under which we groan is at once both intensely personal and weighted with the collective universal pain of our foremothers, indeed of all creation.We labor under the weight of the weary world: small wonder that we should groan!

In the delivery room, as the world condenses to another miraculous crisis, Eden is mere memory too distant to be anything but mockery, and the New Earth gleams just beyond the far horizon, promised rather than perceived. Between paradises, we labor by faith and not by sight. We must fight back the vivid uncertainty of What Ifs with the unseen but Realer than real, sure and steadfast anchor of the soul.

The curse is visible. The pain is tangible. The What Ifs, not just of pregnancy and delivery, but of the entirety of the child’s future life, are overwhelming. But hope that is seen is not hope. And lest we forget, Eve was called, in sure and certain hope, mother of all the living--after the Fall.

The What Ifs can be terrifying—but they cannot have the last word. As my overanxious brain would do well to remember, the last word has already been spoken. The plot of every life is watered by tears—for some a trickle; others a torrent. But take heart, o my timid soul: the Ending is happy beyond measure, its luster all the more brilliant for the gloss of each precious tear shed.     

It's not a contest

Mere days before my first became my firstborn, the church organist sought to encourage me by telling me that, decades ago, she delivered her baby and showed up to play the Christmas Eve service the next night. This did encourage me. I stood up for my baby's baptism at church four days after her birth, and have never stopped wondering what could possibly have made me think I needed to do that.

Some of us bounce back faster than others, and that's great for them and their families. I bounce faster than I used to, but I've still never come close to winning the Bounce Back-Off. The reasons don't matter; what matters is knowing that after I've had a baby, I don't owe anybody but my baby anything. I really do have to get better. Nothing drives home the counterproductivity of pushing it and consequently costing the family more time and energy in momcare.

I do not have to entertain visitors, go to the store, go to church, clean behind the toilet, or carry around any sized person my health care provider has advised me against carrying around no matter how much that person (or anyone else) whines. I do not have to feel as good as my friend/sister/great aunt/gerbil/internet pseudo-acquaintance did three hours/weeks/months after her baby was born. It is lonely, sad, embarrassing, boring, and frustrating, and the house is a mess and everyone eats junk and the girls' hair looks like wrens' nests and these things make me feel even more terrible. But it's not a contest. Feed the baby and get better.

In an old girl's brain

I weary of the mysticism attributed to various parturitional phenomena. Why does it have to be magic*? These things just make sense. Call it hormones if it makes you happy, I guess; I'd rather imagine that I still have some capacity for a valid analytical response to stimuli.

1. Nesting: a completely rational reaction to knowing that one's house will be mostly neglected for something like a year after the baby is born. No, this shape I'm in is not the most practical for some of the random projects I find myself undertaking in trimesters 2 and 3. But if I don't do them now, they absolutely won't get done later.

2. Post-delivery "high": again, a totally reasonable and predictable reaction to having a healthy baby, having L&D over with, and not being gordo pregnant any more. Freakin duh. (Not to mention that if the alleged nursing "high" were more widely or meaningfully experienced, more people would nurse for longer than three weeks. Oxytocin, the least effective miracle hormone in the universe.)

3. Pregnant/postpartum brain: The BSG "33" sleep schedule alone accounts for this; why even mention the other variables?

*I know, it's not magical, it's brain chemistry. Magical brain chemistry!

Postparty

Here, off the top of my head, are some of the best postpartum gifts I've ever received:

A week of meals (Thank you wonderful people!!)

A batch of muffins

A busket of granola

Pillars of the Earth

Sweatpants, cheeringly blue

A pint of Kopp's red raspberry custard (which, sadly, I can't hope to receive again in my current locale)

Observation 1: These are almost all food. The joy of the meals is self-explanatory, but why should I still remember so fondly a dozen muffins I received over 8 years ago? Because they were the only thing I ate for as long as they lasted. For some reason, when I have a new baby, I cannot feed myself. I stand in the kitchen, feeling hungry, holding the baby, looking at all the food there, and thinking: It's all too hard. I can't do it. And I wander back out, sad and still hungry. This has improved since my mother-in-law has made a habit of coming to stay with us for a while when we have a new baby. I awaken from a nap with the baby on one side of me and a plate full of tacos lovingly tucked in on the other. But the problem can persist for a long time, so if you want to help a postpartum lady out, unwrap a bunch of string cheeses and put them front and center in her fridge with a note that only she's allowed to eat them.

Observation 2: Pillars of the Earth caught me by surprise, but wow. I read that book day and night for a week, and although real me felt like pure junk, imaginary me was having the time of her life building cathedrals (disclaimer: there was quite a bit of yucky stuff I skipped, particularly with the skittery postpartum brain). Now I always save a giant book I really want to read for postpartum. It helps.

Observation 3: You can never have too many sweat pants, especially postpartum.

Pain

Pain is isolating. It cannot be divided and shared, it cannot in its present moment be truly understood by even the most sympathetic friend. To bear it without complaint is a costly virtue, because what the sufferer craves most after relief is tenderness and compassion. To assume an appearance which belies suffering is to deny the depth of tender compassion longed for.

While we may denounce the selfishness which drives human flesh to avoid the gifts God would give, we children of dust are feeble as frail. The woman who feels she cannot have another child is likely not thinking first of her figure, her career, her cobwebby ski equipment. Those excuses are funny and easy because they are less intimate than the truth. She is likely thinking, I don't want to be sick any more. I don't want to be crazy any more. I don't want to get more broken. I CANNOT HURT any more.

Lord, have mercy on us daughters of Eve.

Postpartitude

How long after the birth of her baby can one classify herself as postpartum? Possibilities:

1. Medical/societal: 6 weeks. Once the doctor signs off on you, people expect business as usual.

2. Emotional: varies. Probably between 3 months and 2 years.

3. Gravitational: as long as weight is going down. Let's call this 9-12 months like the professionals recommend, although public opinion considers 2-3 weeks more than generous.

4. Pileous: as long as hair is falling out. My shower drain indicates this is still going strong at 7 months, and may be related to the gravitational indicator.

5. Somnial: at whatever point the mother begins having enough sleep regularly to feel regular. Varies widely.

6. Somatic: whenever functions approximate normal/painless. I said approximate.

7. Dermal: when stretch marks fade from shades of Lent.

8. Hygienic: when mother resumes bathing at a typical cultural rate.

9. Cinematic: when mother no longer falls asleep while trying to watch a movie with father.

10. Gestational: when mother becomes pregnant again.

Timeline, Baby 5

Day 1: Mother feels galaxy-sized relief that her warfare is accomplished. That one, anyway.

Day 2: Mother is worried that Baby does not nurse well. Mother, still cautiously rational, tells herself he will figure it out soon.

Day 5: Mother completely loses it when Father thoughtfully removes Baby from Mother's sleeping area and she awakens to the sound of no breathing. Mother realizes that five babies have not earned her a pass on postpartum insanity.

Day 7: Mother is convinced sleepy Baby with poor nursing skills will die soon. Mother in following days and weeks crashes repeatedly, dramatically, humiliatingly.

Day 13: Mother rallies for Baby's sponsor enrollment in church (baptism having been performed in an emergency capacity under unsettling circumstances of birth). Mother does virtually nothing for celebration following, leaving all work to guests. Mother bids guests goodbye as soon as Baby falls asleep and goes to sleep herself. Mother wonders why it took her five babies to realize this is the only way to do it.

Day 19: Mother rejoices foggily in 2nd birthday of previous Baby, and meditates on the mystery that sleepy current Baby leaves her just as tired as the regular kind.

Day 24: Father has learned to send Mother to bed any time she starts acting that way. This makes incredible improvements in Mother's outlook on life.

1 Month: Mother manages to do a few things with older kids. Mother is very, very proud of herself.

Also 1 Month: Evidence suggests older children are largely oblivious to Mom being a wreck, even to the point of completely (and charmingly) misinterpreting major symptoms.

1.5 Months: Evidence suggests Mother's ability to simulate if not truly experience a sense of humor is returning in modest quantity.

2 Months: Evidence suggests Baby is quite large. Mother calms down about that at least.

Also 2 Months: Mother's heart sinks further, remembering that this is when you start acting like life is normal again even though it totally isn't. Mother develops elaborate sleep fantasies and wonders if this is perverse.

3 Months: Mother's heart is divided between hating still being fat and just not even giving the tiniest rip. She finds a pair of green sweat pants just like her beloved blue ones on clearance and buys them.

3.5 Months: Mother ponders story from Grandma: I think it was when the boys were about three months old, I woke up one morning and thought, "I think I felt like crap before, because I don't feel like it now." Mother realizes she is a pathetic wimp because it doesn't take twins to make her feel like crap for three months, and all she thinks about during that time is how she feels like crap.

4 Months: Mother resigns herself to having one of those babies who just isn't going to sleep all night, and tries to take comfort in the fact that every waking episode doesn't last for an hour+ now.

Also 4 Months: Mother puzzles over why other new mothers seem to pull it together SO much faster than she does. Formula seems to be a factor, but does not explain all cases.

5 Months: Mother smolders in the dark night considering a nursing personality Dr. Sears neglected to describe in his helpful list: MEAN.

6 Months: Mother realizes the huge amount of work she has been knocking off lately is due to Baby's growing solid enough to become a plaything for other children. She drinks a stiff martini to celebrate and goes to bed happy. Baby awakens and demands her attention before she has time to fall asleep.

Crosses all around

Is this the biggest thing? I don't know, it's right up there. The thing: being pregnant and/or postpartum often interferes significantly with the care of other children. This makes us very uneasy and unhappy. I don't know that there's any getting around it for the at-home mom. Having spent so much time convincing ourselves of the importance of being constantly available to our children, it doesn't feel right to be incapacitated and unavailable.

But wait--incapacitation isn't a choice. Would you feel guilty about breaking your leg or having migraines? Think like a Christian, self. Pregnancy is not a choice (or more accurately, an attempted non-veto) for a married Christian woman. It is, where God ordains it, a way of life.

So where God has ordained it, it is a way of life for children (even very young ones) to sometimes have a mom who just can't be catching toads and pushing strollers and handcrafting ravioli and maybe even keeping up with lessons for a few months. Remember: all that stuff we've read about mothering was written well after birth control and small families became the norm; even before homeschooling as we know it today looked like it does today (whatever that is). Children are Christians too. We must stop thinking of them as our personal projects and measures of our own success. They must live with us even as we must live with them, and we must all live for now on this old earth.

Which means, children also must learn to bear their crosses. It hurts to watch, but they must. This is one of those crosses, and really a more gentle one than we might think when we're mucking through it. Most of the time, Mom is still there even if she isn't attending them as closely as usual. It doesn't last forever; she gets better and comes back. They gain the experience of doing more things for themselves and each other. I'd be willing to bet that it seems a lot worse to us than it does to them.

Excursus: I remember my mom recovering from surgery when I was nine only because it was fun that grandma came to stay with us. To my parents I'm sure it was a calamity. I didn't even think about it until I was writing this. And what do I remember about my twin brothers being born weeks before my fourth birthday (with a not-yet-two-year-old sister between us)? How fun it was talking to mom in the middle of the night while she nursed the babies--which my older children and I now do.

It is not given to us to engineer our children's lives for their ease. Ease is as dangerous to children as it is to adults. It is given to us to guide them in Christian sacrifice and model for them Christian sanctity. When we are down and out as the result of a new baby (born or unborn), the best thing we can do for our older kids is not drag ourselves into the playroom and sob through a puzzle during that precious 63 minutes while the newborn sleeps, or teach the three-year-old to count by tallying Mom's vomiting sessions. The best thing we can do for them is bear our crosses in humility, explain the situation to them in a simple way that does not vilify the baby, and spend time with them as we are able while entrusting their care to God, who sends his Spirit (and maybe also Dad or Grandma or an uncle or a friend . . . or maybe not) to comfort all of his children, including the pregnant and postpartum ones.

We cannot keep bad or hard things from happening to our children. Our work is to help them through the bad and hard things that happen in life, and also to help them learn to distinguish what is bad from what is hard--a skill in which the world is thoroughly bankrupt.

Just blowing off a little steam. You can play too.

As Rebekah recently had occasion to explain so eloquently, the terrors of any given birth experience are not necessarily proportionate to the duration thereof.

While I can see why the sufferer of an extended labor might envy her more precipitous counterpart…amply sufficient unto each birth are the pangs thereof, no?

Which is why I was at least a little annoyed when one acquaintance, upon hearing that I’d entered the hospital at 11:30 pm and produced a baby by 2:50 am, exclaimed, “Oh! That’s not so bad!”

Since I’m in a rather mischievous, if not wicked, mood, I’m curious to hear your nominations for Perturbing Postpartum Comments. It’s been awhile since we’ve done a best of the worst list, after all. [In fairness, we shall recall that postpartum is a time when nearly any comment can be ill-received, to the honest surprise of the well-meaning commenter.]

That awkward phase

Not adolescence. The-baby-is-three-months-and-nothing-fits. And-maybe-I-won't-lose-it-all-this-time-anyway. That phase.

I'm not the only one who's struggling. Recently my husband and I had to attend an event and I did that thing where I stood in the closet trying on everything and determining that it all looked awful, spiralling into ever-darkening panic and gloom as the time for our departure approached. Dad really hates it when I do this. In what he claims was an attempt to be encouraging, he sized up one ensemble and, clerically clad, asked, "Are we going as a pair of cat burglars?"

Fast forward a week. I come into a dress from a kind soul. I am afraid to try it on, not sure if this kind soul has accounted for the fact that it takes me longer than three months to return to my standard dimensions. But she has and it fits. I present myself to Dad. Quoth he, "You look like a vampire."

Friends, what am I to make of this? I try to look decent though the cards are stacked against me. My husband, the only person whose judgment of my appearance matters to me for reasons beyond vanity, the person whose words have the power either to pulverize or illuminate my heart, and I may also add a perceptive and gifted communicator with the ability to choose apt words, when in my hour of deepish need is looked to for aid, characterizes me twice as a criminal.

Distinctive and interesting criminals, yes.

But???

NOW how do I look?

Hope you're not jealous

I feel very, very sorry for anyone who does not have a friend who sends her a pair of Smurf blue sweatpants after she has a baby.

Love you pants! And you, friend!