Made in Richmond

Other than the emotional and logistical changes that come with birthing live young (I love describing it like that, particularly around squeamish dudes), there are some major physical changes that are continuing to boggle my mind.

(Don’t worry, I’m not talking about any of THOSE changes. I had a C-section, remember? Hi, Dad!)

1. Feet
My feet are a full half-size bigger. During pregnancy, I only experienced a couple instances of swelling in my feet, and those lasted a few hours at most. But ever since several pairs of my shoes are noticeably tighter.

2. Boobage (Hello again, Dad!)
I was a 34D when I got pregnant. I wore a 34DD while pregnant. I was a staggering 34E while nursing. Now I am some unquantifiable size that left three (THREE) Victoria’s Secret employees scratching their heads before recommending specialty shops. And it’s not even that I’m huge up top anymore. I’m just odd.

3. Skin
Uggggggh THE SKIN. I had finally, FINALLY found something that worked while I was pregnant: Cetaphil. It was glorious and gentle and wonderful. And things were good for a while, but as soon as I stopped nursing, BLAMO. Pubescent skin that is immune to all products. I’m trying Philosophy’s On A Clear Day kit (which is apparently made of gold, judging by the price tag – thank you, Christmas money), and things are vaguely under control. I hear tell that I have to give it a few weeks to get things balanced out. If it doesn’t work, I will write a letter, don’t think I won’t. You don’t make promises to acne-sufferers and not deliver; it’s heartless and wrong.

4. Mah bones
JR was over 10 pounds. So that means I carried a 10 pound thing in my belly. Consequently, my hips are completely jacked up. I can’t lie in any position for very long without it hurting. And, lord, if I’m lying on my side, I require help to lift my leg so I can roll over.

5. Hair
I didn’t shed much while I was pregnant, and I had heard that all of that glorious pregnancy hair falls out after the baby is born. Well, mine didn’t fall out until I stopped nursing. And then my hair suddenly became wavy. I hear it will get wavier with each pregnancy.

I’d love to hear about what freaky stuff you went through because I think biology is weird/awesome. Do share…

Last week I noticed that things were a little tender on my c-section scar. Odd because I really haven’t had much sensation at all along the scar, which is somewhat common at an incision site. Or as I like to call it, “My Baby Exit Zone.” I’m kind of thrilled with the fact that when JR asks me how he came out of my belly I can just say, “The doctor opened my belly and got you, of course!” No awkward conversation there, and they would most certainly be awkward because, hello, have you met me?

I gave it a couple days. Things got, well, worse. As in “swollen and hurty and gross” worse. So, I thought it only appropriate to call the man responsible for the scar: my OB/GYN.

After being sent home from my appointment yesterday because the doctor had to go deliver THREE BABIES AT ONCE, I made my way back today to get things checked out. After spending 45 minutes waiting in the exam room (while listening to the woman next door go into EXTENSIVE detail about how *exactly* she recently acquired an STD from a friend of hers with whom she “just let the boundaries get blurry”), the doctor finally came in. After appropriately oooohing and aahhhing over the picture of the baby that I finally brought to him, he took a look at me.

“Oh that’s a cyst. I can take care of it right now.”

“Wait. Why is there a cyst there?”

“Sometimes that happens on c-section scars.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me that could happen?”

“Well it doesn’t happen to everyone, and if we told you everything that could happen, it would be a really long list. Better to deal with issues as they come.”

“Good point.”

He asked if I wanted him to “take care of it.” I wasn’t entirely sure what “take care of it” meant, but he sounded so breezy that I figured it couldn’t be so bad. Because I forgot that removing people from other people is part of this guy’s daily life, so most things “aren’t so bad.”

So the doctor turned to the nurse and said, “Please bring me some novacaine, an epi-thingamabob (he didn’t really say that, I just can’t remember what is was called)… and a knife.”

I then proceeded with a lot of “Whoa whoa whoas” and waving of the arms. I asked the doctor what exactly he was planning on doing with the knife and “all of this business.” Yes, I actually said that.

“I’m going to numb you, make a tiny incision, and that will take care of it.”

“But won’t that hurt?”

“Some. But don’t remember how you had a c-section 9 months ago?”

“Right.”

(I love my doctor. LOVE. We have a lovely bantering relationship.)

So the “taking care of” started. There was much stinging, much revisiting of my Lamaze breathing techniques, much praising the high heavens for numbing agents. And before I could “OMGTHATSTINGSLIKETHEDEVIL” I was patched up and sent on my way. But not without a slight warning from my doctor that the things could pop up again, so we need to keep an eye on it. I shrugged and thought to myself, “At least I still don’t have to talk to my son about him coming out of my lady parts.” Might be worth it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a tooth.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture of the tooth because SOMEONE is being a butthead about letting me take a picture of it.

(For the record, I didn’t say my child *is* a butthead. I said he was *being* a butthead regarding a particular situation.)

(Don’t worry. I’ll try to take one while he’s sleeping.)

It cut through last night, and JR is now the proud owner of a razor sharp sliver of tooth in his bottom gum.

And, guys, I’m kind of terrified.

I realize that as this tooth is on the bottom, and that as JR has a textbook latch, we’re probably not going to having any major issues with him attempting to give me some scandalous piercings.

But one tooth means more are coming. That means MULTIPLE razor sharp teeth in the mouth that is connect to my person several times throughout the day.

I’m cringing just thinking about it.

While I’m thrilled and proud (yes, proud, WHAT?) of JR for achieving this milestone, I’m a little sad because while I love nursing him now (it’s true, I do, just like everyone told me I would), I DO NOT love being sliced to bits in special places.

HALP HALP HALP!

The other day, I sent an email to Patience that basically said this:

Please tell me I should keep nursing my baby. Please, please tell me to just stick with it.

And in all her infinite wisdom, Patience didn’t tell me either way what I should do. Because I know it’s a decision I have to make on my own. I hate those.

Nursing has been quite the issue lately. I’ve spent the majority of the last two weeks with plugged ducts. For those of you who don’t know what they are, they are painful, annoying, and, oh yes, PAINFUL.

For the life of me I can’t figure out why they keep happening. I’ve tried everything that I’m supposed to do to prevent them, but alas, there they are, pretty much all the time, making me gasp with pain when receiving a hug from someone or shifting JR to the offending side. It’s gotten to the point where I automatically connect the pain with nursing in my brain and, consequently, kind of dread it when it comes time to feed my kid. If he hasn’t already, he’s going to be able to sense it soon, and that makes me very sad.

Most of me doesn’t want to stop, thinking, “We’ve made it to almost 6 months! It’ll work itself out, and you’ll be so happy you stuck with it.”

But part of me wants to stop oh so much, supported by the rationale of “We’ve made it to almost 6 months! That’s great and I’ve filled his little body with so many good things in that time.” And, despite what some people think, formula isn’t poison.

Oh there is much fretting going on over here. Over the pain, the uncertainty, and that big, fat price tag that comes with those cans of Similac.

So Jackson is almost 7 weeks old. This means I have spent almost two months sustaining him WITH MY OWN BODY. I know that I also sustained him with my body for nine months (plus 5 days, freeloader!), but that involved me shoveling peanut butter toast and cereal in my face and that was about it. Now I actually have to *do* stuff to keep his not-at-all-little body going.

Let me start by saying that we have had a pretty easy run so far with the whole breastfeeding thing. Once we worked out a few kinks in the beginning, it was smooth sailing – and, on the whole, still is smooth sailing. He doesn’t seem to have a very sensitive stomach (knock on wood) and he’s become extremely proficient at getting down to business and finishing up in 20-30 minutes (as opposed to the 45 minutes he was clocking to start out).

But Holy Lord, none of the information passed along to you in those baby classes or books on breastfeeding can prepare you for how hard and stressful the whole process can be. Because when it comes down to it, it’s you, your boobs, and your baby – that’s it. You’ve got to figure it out. Jackson’s eating has been the only thing that has stressed me out so far. Adding to it, his recent decision to drop his middle-of-the-night feeding while good news for our sleep has me completely paranoid that he’s not going to get enough to eat. And wishing that breasts had some kind of liquid volume gauge on them.

But then I remember that, believe it or not, babies are smart. Crazy smart. And not restricted by wanting to be politely quiet when they are still hungry. In the rational part of my brain I know he’s not going to let himself starve. It’s just that sometimes the crazy lady mom part of my brain is a bit louder.

I can’t say how long I’ll keep up with nursing. Honestly, the whole idea of continuing this once teeth come in makes me cringe a little bit. And really, while I love what nursing *does* for Jackson (and for me), I can’t say that I always love the act of nursing. But we’ll stick with it for now. These fat rolls seem to indicate that we’re doing just fine…

Dear Jackson,

Staying awake is kind of essential to eating. As much as I would love to just stick a tube down your throat and help you bong breastmilk, I just don’t think that’s going to work out.

Love,
Mama

I had to go see my doctor today thanks to a lovely case of tender and red boobage over the weekend.

Word of warning: don’t ever have lady troubles over the weekend. The doctor on call will either tell you to take Ibuprofen and rest or report to the ER if you have a fever. Because both resting and spending hours in the ER are doable when you have a two week old baby.

Anyway, I left Jackson in the ever-capable hands of his father and drove myself to the doctor. Drove myself. In a car. By myself. I must say, it was lovely, considering I haven’t driven myself much of anywhere in the past month thanks first to a huge belly and second to that whole C-section recovery thing.

The diagnosis was that I had what looked to be a tapering-off case of mastitis, the majority of which I had managed to nurse away (literally and figuratively) over the last couple days. But I left with an antibiotic to prevent any further flare ups. Apparently, much like my overcompensating cervix that liked to show off how well it held the baby inside, my milk flow is trying to make the point that it can, in fact, sustain my giant child as well as your giant child, and maybe even your friend’s giant child. So much that Jackson can’t keep up and things just got all wonky in there.

Hopefully we’ve corrected the problem. I’d prefer to not visit my doctor for a couple weeks. I think he might be getting the idea that I have a crush on him. Plus the whole leaking breastmilk all over the examination gown was a tad embarrassing.

But apparently not so embarassing that I refuse to share it with the Internet.

*Please note: I have to take Jackson to the pediatrician for his two week check up tomorrow. I also have to drive Ross to work and pick him up. I’m already nervous as hell about being able to do any of this on time. Good thoughts, please.*

Here’s a clue:

Sorry. It’s probably a little off color to put a picture of a speculum on my blog. But, considering *I’m* the one that had to spend some time with this God-awful instrument today, I only feel but so bad.

Yes, I saw my good friend Dr. Miller today. I love Dr. Miller, despite the fact that I shudder each time April approaches as I know it’s time for that annual exam that only 50% of the population must have. He’s a very kind man and he keeps it relatively warm in his examination rooms, which is nice. However, I don’t like how I have to spend so much time waiting in his examination rooms. I would much rather wait in the waiting room where clothes are allowed. When you are in the examination room you have to wear a hospital gown. Well, I guess it’s a gown. It’s more like the suggestion of a gown. The word “gown” implies a garment of much breadth that give you coverage. This gown opens to the back AND front and you have to sit “just so” to keep all of your goods covered. At least I’ve learned to keep my dignity and keep my socks on during these visits.

Everything went fine. Then of course he asked me when I was going to give him some babies. I thought this was odd. I was under the impression that *I* get the babies. He really should have asked when I was going to give him some more money. Then he told me that things were really “ideal” for me to start “working on that.” He even said I looked perfect. I said “Thank you?” I mean, what do you say when some compliments your reproductive health? Rather than compliments, I would prefer a coupon that excuses me from next year’s exam.

All of this took 5 minutes. Yes, 5 minutes of examining after 55 minutes of waiting. Waiting in the examining room, not in the waiting room. I guess it’s better than him examining me in the waiting room. Oh well, the walls in his new office are so thin that I got to hear all of his conversations with his other patients. I now know that the lady next door is having bladder issues and the girl across the hall will only quit smoking when she gets wrinkles. On a much more exciting note, I got to hear a woman hearing her babies heart beat for the first time. It sounded like WHUH WHUH WHUH WHUH mixed in with her saying, “Oh, wow!” over and over again. I must say, that was very exciting. I imagine it would have been more exciting to have heard it while wearing underwear, though.