Poo-poo head

On Saturday, I dressed Kaylee in one of my favorite outfits for her: a onesie that says “little monkey” and has a picture of a monkey eating a banana. When I saw it in the store, I just had to buy it -- even though I was in a Gymboree, where the clothes are much too expensive when you consider that the baby will grow out of them in 10 minutes. That’s how much I love this onesie.

So imagine my horror when I realized that, 15 minutes after I dressed her, Kaylee had a diaper explosion. And not just any diaper explosion –- a sick baby diaper explosion. That’s the worst kind, I’ve recently learned.

I had to call Rob in for reinforcements while I cleaned poo off her calves, thighs and back. I didn’t actually need him to do anything other than cheer me on, but his laughter was a nice counterpoint to my frantic chanting of “ew, ew, ew, ew.”

After I’d properly mourned the staining of the monkey onesie and sent Rob off to throw it in the washing machine, I dressed Kaylee in something else and started trying to forgive her for the incident.

Later, I carried her into our bedroom to talk to Rob, while I nuzzled her and pretended to eat her neck, face and head. Then I held her out to Rob and said, “Here, kiss your daughter.”

He gave her a peck on the side of the head, and then as I pulled her away, he said, “What is that on her head? ... Is that poo? Does she have POO on her HEAD?”

I turned her around and there it was. Poop. Right there in her hair, most likely deposited there when I took her onesie off.

And Rob, sweet husband that he is, had one more thing to say.

“You really are going to turn her into the stinky kid, aren’t you?”

Survivor

If my family were characters in a post-apocalyptic sci-fi/horror novel a la The Stand, Kaylee would be a survivor and the rest of us would be dead.

Because she was able to giggle and play immediately after episodes of Exorcist-style vomiting, Rob and I attributed Kaylee’s trouble last week to “air in the tummy” or difficulty digesting her new solid foods. We were wrong. Very, very wrong.

Kaylee apparently brought the superflu home from daycare, and she managed to pass it on to all of her Colorado Springs-based family within 24 hours. I never thought a 12-pound, 10-ounce little person could wreak that kind of havoc.

On Friday night, we had dinner with Grandma and Uncle Tim, and Kaylee exploded all over a previously clean eating establishment. On Saturday, we had a picnic with Gram, Papa, Uncle Jamie, Aunt Laura and cousins Hope and Evie, and there were no major bodily-fluid incidents.

By Sunday night, Grandma, Uncle Tim, Gram, Aunt Laura, Rob and I were all in the grip of a nasty stomach bug, and Papa was feeling kind of queasy.

That’s right. My baby took out four households.

And while we were all incapacitated with misery, she was bouncing in her Jumperoo, laughing her little head off.

Daycare 1, Mommy 0

When I picked Kaylee up from daycare last Friday, she was asleep in a bouncy seat with a blanket wrapped around her. She looked peaceful and serene, but when I went to pick her up I realized the blanket was essentially acting as a straightjacket.

Her arms were pinned to her sides so securely that she couldn’t move them at all. As I was unwrapping her, I thought, “Jeez, she’s not a cannibal. It’s not like she’ll lunge for your throat if you let her use her arms.”

My annoyance quietly smoldered for the rest of the afternoon, until I decided to try to get Kaylee to go to sleep. She’s reached a point where she fights sleep with every fiber of her being, and she’s mastered the art of squirming off of laps when she thinks an evil adult is trying to put her under. (Unfortunately, she can’t sit up or crawl, so she just squirms off to the side and then whines because she’s landed herself face-down on the couch.)

Anyway, as I cuddled Kaylee and rocked her, she was in her full-throttle I’m-never-going-to-sleep-again mode, even though she could hardly keep her eyes open. Her legs were kicking, her arms were flailing, and she kept yanking out her pacifier or smacking herself in the face.

So I decided to try the daycare’s methods and wrap her up in a blanket. (I used to swaddle her when she was a newborn, but she quickly figured out how to break out, so I stopped.) I couldn’t get the blanket straightjacket-tight, but I was able to keep her arms under control.

It was like magic. Within seconds her eyes started to close, and she was sound asleep within five minutes.

All right, daycare people. You win this round.

I should know better

I took a big risk this morning.

In honor of my 29th birthday, I decided to dress Kaylee in a new “I love Mommy” onesie. As soon as she was dressed, I sat her down and we had a little talk about how important it was that she not throw up all over her nice shirt.

I’m pretty sure she was listening intently, even though she was staring at a ceiling fan. Here’s hoping her shirt makes it through the day.

UPDATE: She managed to make it through her entire school day without spitting up on her clothes ... and then she threw up on them at home.

Huh.

While we were visiting Rob’s mom the other night, someone had the great idea to lay Kaylee in the portable crib in the living room and stick a pacifier in her mouth. Her cynical mother saw this and thought, “Yeah, that’s not going to last long,” but I sat down for dinner anyway, expecting to be interrupted at any moment by a whining baby who wanted to be held.

Then about midway through dinner, something strange happened to my baby.

She fell asleep.

What’s this? No rocking? No smothering her with attention? No holding a bottle in her mouth for half an hour?

She just fell asleep? That’s it?

I had no idea she could do that. We must find a way to use this new, powerful information to our advantage.

Feed me feed me feed me FEED ME!

I’ve read that after a while, parents learn to discern their baby’s different types of crying. Depending on the sound she makes, a mom can tell if the baby’s hungry, sleepy, etc.

Apparently, there’s now a machine that can figure that stuff out for you. This device claims to identify exactly why a baby is crying in 20 seconds, using handy little smiley faces and frowny faces, all for $65. To me, this seems kind of silly. Ask me again in a few months, though.

So far, I’ve been able to identify approximately two of my baby’s noises. There’s “I’m bored.” And there’s “Oh my God, I’m starving to death. Please FEED ME. Are Mommy and Daddy EVER going to feed me???? I’M DYING HERE!!!! Help! Someone please help me!”

We’re still working on interpreting the rest.

The other children

In 2002, Rob and I fell under the spell of an adorable puppy gaze and came home from the mall with a 2-month-old Pembroke Welsh Corgi that we named Bella. A year later, we found ourselves with a second one, named Kody. We’ve spoiled them rotten ever since, and they’ve been like kids to us – kids that we could leave at home in kennels while we were at work, and who had an annoying habit of nibbling on the edges of the carpet.

Up until about May 14, the dogs really could do no wrong (other than the time they tore up the kitchen floor in our apartment). Sure, they barked a lot and occasionally had accidents on the floor, but they were our babies and we didn’t mind.

Since bringing Kaylee home, however, they’ve suddenly become capable of doing wrong. Lots and lots of wrong.

That habit of being constantly underfoot now means that I’m worried about tripping down the stairs while carrying the baby. Their need to alert me every time a car door slams three blocks away now carries with it the danger that they’ll wake Kaylee from her naps. Their desire to lounge on every piece of furniture in the house means I’m constantly picking dog hairs out of the baby’s mouth.

Sigh.

When I was about five months pregnant, my uncle told Rob and me that we’d probably exile the dogs to the backyard after the baby was born. I assured myself that wouldn’t happen, because our dogs held highly important positions in our household.

And now… well, now the dogs keep up their doggie duties, alerting me of visitors and keeping an eye on the household – from their stations in the backyard.

Five things I learned in my first week as a mom

One: Spare time is but a distant memory.

Astute readers will notice that I’ve actually been a mother for two weeks. I started trying to write this blog about a week ago, but I kept getting sidetracked. There’s always a diaper to change or a bottle to warm, so I can’t seem to get around to checking e-mail or writing thank-you notes for all the flowers and gifts people have sent. The only reason I managed to vacuum the floor the other day was because my mom was watching the baby.

Two: It’s not about me anymore.

For the past 28 years, I’ve had the luxury of being selfish. If I wanted to go to the store, I went to the store. If I wanted to take a nap, I took a nap. Now I have to consider how everything affects my little Kaylee. This has been a weird transition for me, because I’ve gotten used to being narcissistic and relatively carefree. Now I have this needy (albeit very cute) little person around me 24 hours a day, and she always comes first. Before long I’m sure this will seem perfectly natural, but right now it’s taking some adjustment.

Three: Breastfeeding isn’t a cakewalk.

Nobody warned me that nursing could be messy and kind of painful. Whenever my daughter latches on, I feel like I’ve been captured by the enemy and am being tortured for top secret information. I worked with nurses and a lactation consultant to try to remedy this, but nothing has changed the fact that breastfeeding really, really hurts. (A note to other soon-to-be moms out there: I don’t think this is typical, so don’t panic. You’ll probably be fine.)

In order to keep me sane and my daughter fed, she’s almost entirely on formula now. We started this switch after I found blood around her mouth during a particularly painful nursing session, when we were faced with an important question: Which is worse, raising our daughter on formula, or continuing to breastfeed despite its tendency to make me cry and the possibility of giving our daughter a taste for human blood and turning her into a vampire?

Either choice is an unhappy one. If I go ahead and breastfeed, I feel like a bad mother because feeding my baby makes me cringe and cry. If a don’t, I feel like a failure for giving up on breastfeeding. This has been a big source of stress for me, but I’m almost at the point where I can think about it without crying.

Four: Diaper Genies fill up fast.

Before now, I never would have guessed that I could regularly encounter someone else’s bodily fluids without being grossed out. But now I’ve been peed on, pooped on, sneezed on and spit up on, and none of it has even made me flinch. I guess when the person doing the peeing is really, really cute and cuddly, you don’t mind so much. In fact, earlier today I said this: “Yay, Kaylee pooped!” I never thought a sentence like that would come out of my mouth.

Five: Fathers are much more capable than TV would have you believe.

I’ve seen a lot of TV shows featuring bumbling fathers who don’t know how to change a diaper, so I had minor fears that my husband would be timid around the baby – afraid to pick her up and play with her, and unwilling to help with the late-night feedings. But from the very first moment, he’s been eager to take care of her and be her daddy. It’s like he was born to play that role. With both of us on the job, maybe, just maybe, Kaylee will turn out ok.

P.S.

Oh, and just because I felt like it, here’s a picture of Kaylee wearing a bunny hat.

Tough

One of the questions I often hear nowadays is this: Do I plan to have an epidural, or do I want to do this childbirth thing as naturally as possible?

I’ve always thought that maybe, just maybe, I’m tough enough to get through childbirth without pain medication. I mean, women have been having babies for thousands of years. Surely I can do it, too, without the need for pharmaceutical assistance.

Then, sometime over the weekend, I slept in an awkward position, and I’ve had some highly uncomfortable back and hip pain ever since.

If it were allowed, I would have an epidural right now.

I guess I’m not as tough as I thought.

What? You mean television lied to me?

Rob and I were seriously addicted to the show “Friends” when it was on, and I distinctly remember the episode when Rachel had her baby. She spent a good 30 hours lying around in a hospital bed, complaining because it was taking forever for her to dilate to 10 centimeters. Other women came and went in her shared room while Rachel lay around, bored and whining. For Rachel (and apparently all the other pregnant women who briefly shared her room), the actual pain didn’t start until it was time to push and deliver the baby.

Our last childbirth preparation class was yesterday. Now that the class is over, I have to say that the biggest thing I learned about childbirth was that movies and television have lied to me my whole life.

I’ve been led to believe that all the early labor and dilation stuff was a cakewalk – that labor doesn’t get painful until it’s actually time to deliver the baby. I was all prepared to bring a book, or even “Friends” DVDs, to the hospital to pass the time while I waited to do the real work at the end.

No such luck.

In fact, the teacher said something last night that seemed completely unfathomable to me: “Pushing doesn’t really hurt.”

What? But that’s the part where the female character always screams and crushes her coach’s hand and curses him for getting her into this situation in the first place.

According to our teacher, the really painful part is when you’re having all of those contractions to work your way up to 10 centimeters. Once it’s time to deliver the baby, pushing the kid out just comes naturally.

So, let me get this straight.

First, I go to the hospital when the contractions are three to five minutes apart, and NOT the first time I feel a uterine twinge. (TV misled me on that point, too.)

Then, after I get to the hospital, I won’t be lying around for 20 hours, calmly awaiting the moment of delivery. I’ll be walking around, sitting in a chair, maybe taking a shower, breathing my way through painful contractions every few minutes, and generally not lying around watching TV. And if I’m going to crush my husband’s hand and curse him for doing this to me, THIS is when it’ll happen.

And finally, when it comes time to deliver the baby, it’ll be a relief.

Well, then. I may bring a book with me on the off chance I actually have down time while I’m in the hospital. But I think I’ll leave the “Friends” DVDs at home.

My list

Before I started taking childbirth classes, I had the impression that they would be some sort of profound experience for me. I kind of expected to be taught how to make childbirth painless, as if that were even possible.

Instead, my to-do list for dealing with labor is two items long:
1. Relax.
2. Breathe.

We learned the physiological reasons for why it’s so important to relax as much as possible, and we’ve talked about different breathing techniques for helping achieve that relaxation. But those are just details, as it all seems to boil down to those two instructions: Relax. Breathe.

I’m supposed to be practicing my breathing techniques on my own at home, but most of the time I find myself watching TV instead. But I’ve found that these breathing methods do come in handy in other situations, so I get a little practice in anyway.

If something minor happens at work to set off my pregnant-lady waterworks, I can stave off the tears by taking those deep, deep breaths. If someone cuts me off in traffic, I hold back the swearing by focusing on patterned breathing. And when I see a coworker getting angry about something trivial, I find myself thinking, “He could really use a Lamaze class.”

If only everyone could learn those two little words. Say them with me:

Relax.

Breathe.

Mommies on ice

We had our second childbirth class on Sunday evening, and the instructor introduced a new element to our relaxation exercises: extreme discomfort.

She had a point, really. She said that all the breathing exercises in the world don’t teach you much if you’re relaxed and calm. You have to practice them under duress if you want to know their real effect.

So she had our coaches get plastic bags and fill them with ice. Then she’d say, “Ok, a contraction is coming,” which was the mothers’ signal to hold the bag from underneath with one hand, and put the other hand directly into the ice. We’d keep our hands there for the duration of the so-called contraction, and then set the bag down afterward.

It seemed kind of funny at first, eliciting a few giggles from the moms in attendance. I think we were all thinking, “Ice is no big deal, we can handle that.” But after the tenth “contraction,” I was ready to renounce ice forever, sticking to warm drinks for the rest of my life and, of course, moving to a warmer climate.

As my husband calmly rubbed my back and tried to help me relax, all I could think was, “Why don’t YOU sit here with your hand in this bag? Why don’t YOU take deep breaths and stare at a freaking focal point??”

And that was just ice.

I’m sure I’ll be an absolute joy to be around on the day I give birth.

A note to my husband, my doctor, my nurses and whomever else crosses my path that day: I’m very sorry for how mean I will be to you. I’m usually pretty nice, I swear.

The faint of heart

Since before Rob and I got married, my family has joked about what we can expect in the delivery room the day I give birth to our first child. The family consensus is that I’ll be pushing, swearing and doing the mom-in-labor thing, and Rob will be passed out on the floor.

Quickly after meeting Rob, my family discovered Rob’s deep squeamishness when it comes to all things gross and/or painful – including surgery, horrific injury and needles. Thus, when I announced my pregnancy, my mother very quickly suggested that I have a back-up labor coach. At one point, when I assured her that Rob could handle the job, I could almost swear I saw tears of worry shimmering in her eyes. I know she just wanted to be sure that her daughter has someone, well, conscious to help during the labor and delivery, but I didn’t know how to convince her that she had nothing to worry about.

Yesterday, Rob and I attended our first childbirth class, and Rob confirmed what I already suspected – that he’s more than ready to see me through that long day when our daughter (or son) finally arrives.

Much of the class was taken up with a childbirth video, which I had been awaiting with a certain amount of dread, certain that watching women give birth would make me start bargaining with God, trying to figure out some alternative plan for getting the baby out of me. And I had some fear that the entire class would be disrupted by my husband vomiting on the floor during the worst scenes.

None of that happened.

Instead of revulsion, we experienced nothing short of complete awe. Something clicked inside both of us, and we finally realized that not only is this baby the most important thing we’ve accomplished so far in our lives, but that bringing her into the world is something we CAN do.

Both of us.

Without fainting.

Probably.