Have I ever written down the story of O's birth? Maybe I have. I'm in a reflective mood these days, so why not. Someday little O may appreciate knowing all the details of her birth that only a mom could tell.
I still have a teeny weeny bit of regret that we rushed O into this world. Sometimes I wonder if that's why she didn't nurse well, was such a bad sleeper for so long (two long years of tumultuous nights), and still so very small.
Olivia was induced at 39 weeks and 4 days (plus or minus a few). We induced her for many reasons, one of which was her little belly showed slowed growth on the US. But also, I got tired of waiting and my OB was on call on the night we selected.
I was scheduled to check into the hospital at 7pm. S and I ate dinner at a little Canton restaurant. We knew vaguely this would be the last dinner we would have as a family of two (I had a spinach salad), but didn't dwell too much on the fact our life was about to change forever.
We arrived at my little hospital and settled in. From the first moment until my epidural twelve hours later, induction was PAINFUL. I had agonizing contractions but was not dilated enough for an epidural. When I finally did get an epidural around 7AM the next day, I promptly fell asleep. Epidural is magical, period the end. My water broke shortly after and Olivia was born at noon. If I could sum it all up, it would be induction, do not recommend. Epidural, highly recommend.
First impression of this baby - so dainty. Little ladylike features, little face, little lips, and translucent skin. She slept very soundly those first 48 hours. So much so that I somehow thought - we got this. We took her home after only one day in the hospital (a decision I would come to regret for years). By 2pm next day, we packaged her up and headed home. Her going home outfit consisted of a strawberry onesie and a purple cardigan. I remember S driving very slowly home.
Once we got home... how do I put this... all hell broke loose. Six years later, I still remember these first few hours, days, weeks, with a lot of PTSD. Olivia would not sleep unless held. This means I somehow cannot tend to the tedious OCD order of my life that I need in place in order to function. Simple things like laundry (between spit up and poop, we went through ALL of her clothes in the first 24 hours), figure out how to use a breast pump (I was obsessed with bf from the get go), and unpack the hospital bag (I have always been someone who needed to do the unpacking as soon as I get home. It's almost like a ritual) loomed over me, slowly driving my post partum mind crazy.
Breast feeding was a hurdle that I could not get over (actually I never did with this first baby). When would my milk come in, would I make enough, is Olivia hungry and therefore not sleeping? We had brought home little bottles of infant formula from the hospital that I was convinced we wouldn't need. Around 7pm on our first day home, S popped one open, and O downed the 2oz bottle like she was starving. This sounded off a loud panic button in my brain. MY BABY IS STARVING. I have been "nursing" her with my empty boobs every three hours all day. I immediately tore open my breast pump set (I needed to see what was coming out) and found, to my horror, that one of the funnels was broke. I cry not for the first time that day. I call the hospital in panic. I tell them I am Dr. so and so (used in this context o persuade influence and attention) and I was sent home from the hospital with my new baby and a broken pump. How did they expect me to keep her alive?! I spoke to the charge nurse who calmly told me that she would get a new set ready for me. I then sent Steve to the hospital (by this time it was around 10pm) to get this new set.
A working pump did not end my anguish. At some point S held O in football position and said "look at her, she is fine. You need to calm down". O's eyes open and stared at me the whole time. Steve's mom was there that night too, I can't even begin to guess (or care at the time) what she thought of me.
O would not sleep well for the first two years. S and I decided early that he would sleep in the bedroom down the hall. It was the only way he could get some rest and I see no point in having two zombies around the house. One of us had to carry on. Now, two babies in and six years later, he is still int he bedroom down the hall. No regrets in that decision. We make it work.
O turned six years old a month ago. She could win a contest in sleeping through the night and loves her room (she was four and half when she slept on her own). I will never look back onto those early days with anything other than desperation and anxiety. I did the best I could, that I know for sure.
This is 6! Thriving in Kindergarten.
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