Autumn

Autumn is a magical time for everyone I know.  I don't think I have ever met anyone who didn't enjoy the fall.  Fall means cool weather, fabulous color, flannel scarves, knee high boots, coffee with heat you can see wafting in the cool air, and finally, finally, a fire in the fireplace.  Anyone who knows me, knows this is my favorite time of year.  It used to be for all of the reasons above, and maybe it still is a little, but mostly, fall means the opening ceremonies to time spent cherishing your family.  It's really unlike all the other seasons. Summer--that's an ode to the self--darkening your tans, vacationing on the beach, finding the perfect bathing suits, cocktails and June brides.  Spring is about newness and fresh starts--with warmer weather and cherry blossoms (a beacon of light after the seemingly never ending cold), spring cleaning, gardening, and if you're like me--some Allegra-D.  And winter is about introspection.  Resolving and spending lots of time indoors, finding joy in solitude, good books and old movies.  But fall is different.  Fall is Halloween, gushing over your neighbors' kids.  It's about Thanksgiving--gathering together and loving one another, knowing it isn't always going to be this way and to cherish every second of it.  Fall is about Christmas shopping. Making a list of all the people you love, and finding a token to represent that love.  Fall is about festivals and travel plans.  It's about screaming when your team scores a touchdown (unless you're me--because I hope every team loses).  It's about gathering kindling while you push the stroller, pointing out squirrels to the baby.  It's about crunching in the leaves with your dog at the dog park.  It's grandma's pictures of her cat, Muriel.  It's about warm pie over the sink with your mom.  It's about the pumpkin you carve and attempt to thrust your unhappy baby into (sorry Ezra) before he kicks it off the counter.  It's about the spice scented candle your husband lights in the bathroom so you can enjoy your warm shower by it's glow.  It's about that extra latte you buy for your coworker.  Fall is about everyone else.  And it is so, so magical.

This year, we celebrate with our Ezra.  He is surrounded by so many people who love and cherish him.  His being punctuates what I have been feeling for the last several years: a sense if urgency to enjoy this time. To savor it, hold on to it, appreciate it.  Though it is painful to think of, I know it won't always be this way.  The people we love won't always be gathered around our Thanksgiving tables.  The voices on the other end of the phone won't always belong to healthy, happy loved ones.  There is going to be sadness one day.  I know that.  So this year--and maybe all years--I'll enjoy the cozy fire, flannel scarves, and hot coffee, but that's not what it is really about.  It will be about extra hugs, extra cuddles, and another piece of pie over the sink.

Things I've learned in the first month of motherhood

I often wonder how I'll look back on this first month.  Will I recall it wearing rose colored glasses?  My sleepy baby snuggled in my arms, or cooing at me from across the room, or smiling at me for the first time.  Will I think on it with a sense of dread?  My very awake baby, inconsolable and screaming at me, or that tired ache in my chest when I hear his cry at 3 a.m.?  Regardless--here are the things I've learned in the last month of my life.

Breastfeeding:
Maybe you've heard that breastfeeding is hard.  Maybe you've heard that in passing or maybe someone told you of their personal woes.  But of course you read all of the literature, took a class at the hospital, and set a plan to nurse for at least the first 12 months.  You're prepared.

What you won't be prepared for is when you are partnered with a newborn who just doesn't get it.  He won't latch or he won't suck or he will fall asleep approximately seven seconds in.  Or he'll be jaundiced or underweight and you'll have to give him a bottle and he will never even attempt to latch again.  Or you'll get a mastitis (don't google that).  Or your nipples will crack and bleed, or maybe they're flat and there's nothing to latch on to.  Or your new baby will want to scream at you for 30 minutes before every latch, and your resolve will buckle at 2:30 a.m. and both of you will just cry and cry until you finally peel back the seal on that sample can of Enfamil you got in the mail.  Or maybe you just won't enjoy it.  You just hate it just because you hate it.

Breastfeeding is hard.  But not hard like running a marathon or carrying a king sized mattress up three flights of stairs.  It's hard like waterboarding a sleep deprived, injured, hormonal woman.  It's a mental game.  You read everything telling you that this is the best and really, only way to nourish your baby and you'll dread the sanctimonious looks (or comments!) from other moms as you shake that bottle full of formula.  And even if they only silently cast their judgement, you'll want to justify yourself and scream, "I tried!  I really tried!"  And every time you grab that little plastic scoop, you'll feel a pang of guilt and failure.

But the truth is, once you release yourself of that pressure, once you realize that it is not worth your sanity or the tears, it gets so much better.  You are not alone.  Formula is not going to doom your baby to a lifetime of half formed brain cells and a constant struggle to problem solve.  Your baby is going to be wonderful, if not better, for having a mother who realizes she can only be the best mother when she knows when enough is enough and when it's just not worth the heartache anymore.

Sleep Deprivation:

One of you will get to sleep quite well.

 

I thought I was prepared.  That's the first thing people talk about when you tell them you're pregnant.  "Oh, sleep now," they say.  "You'll never sleep again."  While that isn't true, those first few weeks are a complete nightmare.  Babies eat every 2.5-3 hours, for at least the first two weeks.  Your pediatrician may give you the go ahead to let your baby sleep 4 hours if they want to at three weeks.  But damn.  Sleeping, even in four hour increments, is rough, rough stuff.  It gets better.  I don't know if your body just gets used to it, or if you learn to sleep differently.  But it gets better!  Take a few deep breaths, pass the baby off when you can, and just get through those first two weeks.  It gets better.


Your baby is the best baby:
Everyone thinks their baby is the best baby.  Your baby is a special snowflake.  And when you have him in your arms, you'll realize, without a doubt, that your baby is the best, cutest, smartest, funniest, most charming baby that was ever born.  It's just the way it is. 

Jason and I both gushed the first time Ezra kicked his little legs to propel himself forward during tummy time.  So, so smart!  And when he rolled over for the first time at two weeks, I explained to Jason how simply amazing it was.  When he smiled for the first time, we both squealed and told our parents.  Even coming out with a full head of hair was the most amazing thing that ever happened.  And when I style it one way or another (I like to make him look like Rush Limbaugh), we force everyone to see and gush and tell us just how adorable he is.  Every accomplishment is a mountain climbed and your baby will be the best. 

Sanctimommies:
Strap on your boots, mommy!  When you encounter these gems, it's going to floor you.  If you thought, for one red second, that you have the right to parent your child how you see fit, you've got another think coming.  Breast feeding, formula feeding, baby wearing, front facing car seats, crying it out, pacifiers, daycare, cloth diapering, making your own baby food, sleep training, vaccinating, co-sleeping, crib sleeping, screen time, organic baby soap, baby sign language, Montessori education, public schooling, private schooling... chances are, you are going to meet a mom who feels so strongly about at least three of the items listed above, and she is going to accuse you of child abuse and imply that she is obviously a better mother than you, because she breastfed her baby until he was 2.  And sometimes they travel in packs!  Lay on the mommy guilt.  Every decision you make is wrong, and if you aren't walking around for the first three months with a baby strapped to your chest, literally trying to re-create a womb for your baby's fourth trimester, you should never be allowed to reproduce again.  Because really, how dare you?

How to combat this?

This is the look you should give a sanctimommy

Step 1:  Don't become a sanctimommy.  You are allowed to judge silently.  You're allowed to have an opinion about child rearing.  But if there's one thing I know about babies and children, it's that they're all different.  What works for one might not work for another.  As much as you think you've mastered the art of baby raising, you have not.  You're a jackass if you try to make another tired, hormonal, struggling mother feel guilty and like less of a mother.  Believe that everyone is doing the best they can and acting in the best interest of their kids.  Okay?  It's not hard.

Step 2:  When you encounter a sanctimommy, be unapologetic, but graceful--and disarm them immediately.  You don't have to justify yourself to anyone.  Have an arsenal of phrases at hand and be prepared to be caught off guard by someone with an unsolicited opinion.  Here are some that work for me:

"I'm glad that worked for you.  That's just not my style, but thank you."
"I'm not currently looking for a solution to a problem I don't have.  I'll be sure to find you if I do have a problem, though."
"I'm not one to debate my parenting choices.  My husband and I feel very comfortable with our decisions and aren't soliciting advice."
"That is an interesting fact!  I'm confident we could both search the internet and find a study to support our parenting choices.  I appreciate the advice, though."

Or simply, "No, I'm not doing that."

Step 3:  Don't be an innocent bystander.  When you see a sanctimommy, or worse, a pack of them, isolating a mom, intervene.  When you rip off that sanctimonious facade, you'll find just another insecure mom worried that she's failing her child--just like the rest of us.  Shut down those conversations and find a way to be encouraging to a worried mom.

Being a sanctimommy and engaging in mommy wars is one of the most damaging thing we women do to one another, short of that time that middle school clique stole your clothes while you showered after gym class in the 7th grade.  Don't be an asshole and don't tolerate assholes. 


Postpartum Recovery:
I cannot testify to cesarean section recovery as I did not have one.  But I did have one of the most horrific vaginal deliveries a person can have.  My mother in law reads this, so I don't care to detail my injuries exactly, but it wasn't awesome.

Peeing your pants
Alright--so you have no pelvic floor and won't be able to control your bladder for a while.  You'll get home wearing a gigantic pad inside of a gigantic diaper and you'll turn on the sink to get a glass of water or wash your hands or boil a hotdog, and the running water will trigger your bladder, which you have absolutely no control of, and you'll haul ass to the bathroom only to have urine filling your diaper.  Big sigh.  Quick shower.  Don't worry--in a week, you'll be able to make it to the bathroom.  In two weeks, you'll have your pants around your ankles in time.  Four weeks out, I still have to go to the bathroom before I get a glass of water.  Not sure when that will get better, but I'm doing my kegels. 

Tending your wound
Don't look.  Nothing good can come from looking.  Just wash with the peri bottle, spray that epi-foam, line your underwear with those tucks pads they give you, and don't think about it.  It's awful.

Romance after baby
No. 

Your Pediatrician Might be a Jackass
Alright, so you get home with this tiny wiggling baby, and everything is wrong.  There are no nurses to tell you what to do and the internet basically tells you that you've doomed your baby and he's probably going to die tomorrow.  Sweet.  So you call your pediatrician, panicked that his circumcision is still bleeding, or that he's crying and just won't stop, or that he won't eat.  His response?  "Ah, whatever.  Come see me in the morning."  And gives you an appointment time.

Actual conversation with my pediatrician:

Me:  We had such a hard night.  He's so stuffy and he cries all the time and It seemed like he was rubbing his ear.  Does he have an ear infection, you think?
Dr. Tact:  *rolls eyes*  A baby. does not. rub his ears if he has an ear infection.   And--we always check a baby's ears when they come in for a visit, so I'll always tell you if he has an infection.
Me:  Okay.  Well... he won't eat.  And I read online that sometimes babies get really upset and lose their appetite after they are circumcised.  Is that true?
Dr. Tact:  *rolls eyes*  Does it really matter?  Your job is to keep feeding him.  So keep feeding him. 


Alright, jackass.  I've been a mom for approximately five minutes.  Can you cut me some slack?  I spend the majority of my day in tears, trying to keep this tiny person alive.  Throw me a bone, I'm struggling here.  Can you be nice to me?  Jesus!


At least in my town, a pediatrician who accepts new patients is a miracle from the Lord.  So you might be stuck.  So you'll have to suck it up for the sake of your sweet baby who needs some silver nitrate rubbed on his gross looking umbilical cord. 


Daytime Television
It is kind of the worst thing ever.  Kelly & Michael are the most unintelligent people on television and I can't believe they actually have an audience.  Today with Kathie Lee and Hoda?  Kathie Lee is intolerable.  The View, The Talk, The Chew.  What people watch these shows? 

I suggest you illegally download all of your favorite shows now, because 6 weeks is a long time to have to endure Robin Roberts and Rosie O'Donnell. 

Month One
Motherhood is terrifying.  But it gets better, or you get better at it, or you just get a routine that works. Whatever it is, I hope I remember these days fondly.  I hope I remember the first time he rolled over.  I hope I remember laughing as my husband changed his first diaper.  I hope I remember how much Ezra loved to look at the fan or the blinds.  I hope I remember the nights spent rocking my sweet baby, and watching him sleep.  I hope I remember the evening hours on the couch with Jason, were we remained awed by our son and thanked God to be here--recalling a year ago where we were desperately trying to conceive.  I hope I remember these days as they are: beautiful. 

The First Two Weeks: Baby Blues

We left the hospital on a Sunday.  I wanted the morning to slow down.  The hospital felt safe.  Everyone knew what they were doing.  And though Jason and I had tried for Ezra for two years, I still felt ill prepared to bring my baby home.  I wanted to stay there and have nurses bring me juice and pain medication and take Ezra to the nursery if I was tired.  But the morning went by quickly.  Ezra was circumcised and 30 minutes later, we were released.  We packed all of our bags and passed families in the waiting room, took the elevator down three floors, and popped Ezra in the back seat and that was it.  We drove home slowly, awed that we left home as two people and returned as three.

Nothing can prepare you for having a newborn at home except experience.  People will tell you that you'll never sleep again.  Or that you should sleep when the baby sleeps.  Or that breast feeding is difficult.  Throw all of that out the window.  It doesn't mean anything.  Until you experience it, those words mean absolutely nothing.

A thousand things worried me on the first night.  Ezra had no interest in latching.  He was fussy and angry and not the baby I had in the hospital.  He had been circumcised that morning and also diagnosed with jaundice.  All around miserable.  When I called the nurse, she suggested I give him a bottle.  And there is where I ruined my breastfeeding relationship with my baby.  He didn't sleep, I didn't know what to do, and as I rocked him in his nursery, I wondered out loud, "What have I done?  I have made a HUGE mistake.  I am not meant to be a mother."  And I cried.  And he cried.  And we rocked like that for an hour.  The hours of that night seemed like days and I came down the stairs in tears the next morning.  And that afternoon.  And that night.  Everything set me off.  I couldn't do anything right and my baby surely hated me, my husband thought I was a failure, and CPS was going to come take my baby from me. The first 24 hours were the worst.

On Tuesday, I went to a lactation class, and cried through the entire thing.  They were helpful and had lots of advice.  But Ezra was a show off and pretended like we didn't have any problems, but the second we got home, he wanted to fight.

On Wednesday, I cried all day.  Jason hugged me and told me he loved me and that I was doing a good job, but I just couldn't get it together.  I cried.  And I cried.  And I cried until I was exhausted.  And then I made an appointment with my midwives to talk about the baby blues.

On Thursday, I met with the midwives while Jason watched the baby on his own.  I cried on the way there.  I cried in the waiting room.  I cried when they weighed me and took my blood pressure.  I cried when they had me fill out a survey.  And I cried through the whole appointment.  She patted me and told me that every mom feels this way.  Every mom goes through this emotional phase while the hormones are leaving your body.  What is making me sad, she wanted to know.  Everything.  I feel like failure.  I feel like because it took so long to get pregnant, I'm not allowed to feel anything but positive about it.  I feel scared that I'm doing things wrong.  I feel horrible that breast feeding isn't going well.  I'm tired.  I want to know when it will get easier and no one knows.  I cry because I cry and I'm embarrassed.  I just feel sad and hopeless.  I left with a prescription for Zoloft.

On Friday, I decided not to fill the prescription and to wait it out and see if it would get better.  Antidepressants seemed like a big trigger to pull.  We celebrated one week home and the hardest week of my life.

On Saturday, we started the new week.  I talked to Jason about the possibility of giving up exclusively breast feeding.  The stress, the pressure was too much.  He hugged me and told me he would support whatever I felt was best.  And I cried big, big ugly tears into his chest.

On Sunday, we stayed home.  I felt like I turned a corner and only cried once.  Ezra and I spent the day on the couch and the pressure seemed to lift.  I took deep breaths and loved my baby.  His umbilical cord fell off and totally grossed me out.

On Monday, my mom came back and we gave Ezra his first bath.  He enjoyed it for about a full minute, and then he did not enjoy it anymore.  I kissed him and loved him and he slept beautifully.

On Tuesday, we went to the doctor and Ezra was cleared of his jaundice but now had a blocked tear duct.  He got some eye drops and a visit to The Fresh Market where everyone in the store cooed over him.  He also had his first blow out in the Walmart parking lot.  I didn't know someone so little could produce so much poop.

On Wednesday, we went to a pumpkin patch.  It was hot and Ezra was a good sport for about 10 minutes.  And Ezra did not sleep well that night.

On Thursday, I went back to the doctor and told them about how Zoloft wasn't for me.  I cried throughout the appointment and the survey indicated that I was still in the worrying range for baby blues and gave me another prescription.  But I was too tired from my late night to fill it.  Jason changed his first poopy diaper.

On Friday, today, we celebrate two weeks.  Ezra and I have turned a corner and have reached a mutual understanding. 

They say it gets better and you won't believe them--but it does.  Nothing prepares you for a newborn.  But once you let go of being perfect, you can focus on being enough.  One hour, one diaper change, one feeding, one night at a time. 

The Arrival of Baby Ezra

I wrote this two days after his birth while we were still in the hospital. 

Ezra's Birth Story

Labor was intense and a lot different than I expected. We tried all of the tricks, and I finally started contracting on Thursday, September 18th at around 8 a.m. A few hours later, we made the call to go to the hospital. I was 3.75cm and having contractions every three minutes. The midwife asked if I wanted her to make it continue--as in, if I wanted her to give me pitocin and break my water if things started to slow down. To which I replied an emphatic yes. And so they did.

I am fuzzy on the time details, but I got pitocin a around 11. It was nice, but contractions slowed even as they upped the dose.  My parents arrived around 9 p.m. and that's when Jason decided to go get a cheeseburger with my dad. While he was gone, the midwife asked if I wanted her to break my water, which would surely bring my contractions closer together and harder. I agreed, though I immediately wished Jason were there with me again. I wanted him with me every time something happened. She opened me up (only 4cm), stuck a long crochet hook in me and poked around for about a minute (it wasn't painful at all) and then there was a huge gush. The midwife cleaned me up and left, and I was fine for a few minutes and then Oh. My. God. I made my mom go find Jason because the pain was unbearable. The contractions got worse and worse by the minute. Jason finally came to me and held my hands and rubbed my back and my head and whispered sweetly into my ear--and five minutes later, a nurse popped by and I asked for my epidural NOW. I had to wait 45 minutes for a bag of fluids to go through my IV and for them to order the epidural and that was the worst 45 minutes of my life. Literally, the worst pain I've ever felt in my life. I was crying and shaking and Jason was there, solid as a rock, knowing exactly what to say, petting me and loving me and getting me through each contraction, which were seconds apart and minutes long.

The epidural. 

I have yet to hear a positive story about getting an epidural. Almost everyone (everyone?) said that having it put in was miserable, having it work was miserable, the whole thing--miserable. That was not the case for me. My anesthesiologist was no nonsense. Jason and a nurse had me lean forward and tell them when I was contracting so they could tell the anesthesiologist. She pushed on my back, told me I'd feel a pinch and some burning, and maybe that was the worst part, but it was about as bad as getting my IV (which was nothing). Then she told me I'd feel the needle, the catheter, and then nothing. And it was nothing. 2 minutes later, my toes were tingling, then my knees, my hips, and then I couldn't feel anything below my breasts. From then on, a nurse would come and flip me into position, lift my leg here, lift my leg there. They spread me open like a baby getting a diaper change to put my catheter in. You can't have any shame when giving birth. Girlfriend saw everything. All up in my business. 

And then no progress. I was happy, feeling wonderful, but no progress beyond 7cm. I slept on and off throughout the night, when I woke, I made Jason get himself some breakfast.  He tried to fight me, saying he'd go hungry in solidarity, but I wouldn't let him.  I’ll allow him to be hungry or tired, not both. By 28 hours, I was starving and so tired and nothing was happening and I started to get emotional and tired and hormonal--and my midwife came in and gave me a straight talk about a c-section. And I burst into tears and lost it in front of everyone. The midwife said we'd try a few things, but the baby's heart rate was dropping after each contraction, and his head was turned the wrong way, making it hard for him to get out of my pelvis. So she got me a giant inflatable peanut and had me lay on either side for an hour, hoping he'd turn and de-stress. During that time, the OB came in to introduce herself and again, give me a straight talk about the csection. Which I cried and cried through. My family seemed to really support the csection and my mother, after everything, said she really wished she would have fought harder for the csection. I’ll get to that later. While we were waiting for some change and some hope that I could push, I sat upright in my bed and just cried. They would ask me what was wrong and I would tell them that I was scared and sad and hungry and tired and anxious and I’m not sure if I’m really ready to be a mom and I’m scared and sad that things aren’t going how I wanted them to go, and anxious because I want Ezra to be okay. And Jason would hug me and kiss me and comfort me, the nurses would tell me it was going to go exactly how it was meant to go, and that I’d end with a beautiful baby, no matter how he was delivered, and everyone else just kind of looked at their feet—uncomfortable with me crying (because it’s happened approximately 7 times in two decades, and now the waterworks wouldn’t stop).

They were still nervous after all of my positions and moving, but at 100% effacement and 10cm, they decided to let me push and see how it went. Up until the very last minute, I spent the whole time thinking they were going to go “NOPE,” and wheel me into the OR. I was so tired from 30+ hours of no food, no sleep, and just being emotionally drained, but I would have gone 30 more hours if it meant no csection. So they grabbed my ankles, I’d have a contraction, and they would push my ankles towards me, and I pushed as hard as I could, while holding my breath, to the count of ten, three times each contraction. I asked for a light at the end of the tunnel and the midwife said I could be pushing anywhere from 3-5 hours and I said, “Oh hell no.” And after every other push, I gave it everything I had. My whole body was shaking, I was crying, and I was later told that my lips and face would turn blue and veins were popping out of my neck and face. Time went by so quickly. Each push seemed like hours, yet minutes when they were done. They filled me full of apple juice until I thought I might throw up, so I traded for ice chips instead. My mouth and lips were so dry and the ice was something to focus on in between contractions. Sometimes Jason and a nurse would hold on to my legs while the midwife put her fingers into my cervix to see where and how Ezra was coming out (was his head turning the right way?). I’d push and she’d look deep into my vagina and nod. I finally had the courage to ask her if he was face down like he ought to be and she said, “No, I wish you wouldn’t have asked that. He’s posterior,” (meaning sunny side up. Babies are supposed to be born face down, and being posterior means for a longer, harder labor, more tearing and hemorrhaging for moms, the head may have a hard time, if the ability at all, to leave the pelvis—and many doctors will only deliver posterior babies via csection because of the complications that can arise.). “But it’s okay. You’re pushing perfectly.” And that was the only commentary I got on the subject. The midwife wanted me to calm down and stop asking questions and just know that it was going perfectly and when it wasn’t going perfectly, she’d let me know. I think that was really good for me. I needed to stop worrying, though I knew I wouldn’t until I saw him. So I pushed. And I pushed. And I pushed. And after an hour and a half of pushing, they were no longer feeling inside my vagina—just looking inside of it and nodding. Then the midwife and the head nurse gave one another a knowing look, the nurse disappeared and reappeared with a team of at least 8 people. They brought in tables and scales, they laid out blankets and suction cups and tape measures and ink pads. One of the nurses began dressing my midwife. The nurses put on glasses and everyone was covered in blue plastic gowns and snapping on gloves. I gave it another push and the midwife looked at me and said, “This is it! Two pushes away.” I was flat on my back and the nurses lifted and pushed on my legs so I was at a 90 degree angle. The midwife put her hands on either side of my vagina, the nurse put her hands going the opposite side, almost like a # around my vagina. She said “Slow push” and lightly pushed on my vagina (his head came out), and then “BIG PUSH” and the two women said “1, 2, 3,” and with all of their weight, pushed down on the sides of my vagina and the baby popped out like a poptart (and though I didn't feel it, my worst fear came true.  I tore.  A lot). So many things happened simultaneously. Jason and my mom gasped, the nurses and midwives shouted "TIME!  TIME!  5:01!," I felt like my whole insides were just flushed right out of my body, Ezra screamed his little cry, and I let out a huge, long cry, followed by sobs from relief, fear, happiness, and a thousand other emotions I didn’t know I could feel. They held him up in front of me—he was blue and sticky and had a long white umbilical cord, and he was pulling all of his little limbs as close to his naked body as he could, just screaming his heart out. The only thing that came to my mind and out of my mouth was, “He looks like he’s from x-files!” Jason and I had just recently watched an episode with alien babies in jars of blue liquid. They asked again if I wanted him on my chest, but I wasn’t ready and I just wasn’t myself so I said no and sent Jason to see him while my mom held my hand and talked to me. I don’t even remember what she said.

The next 45 minutes were terrifying for everyone in the room, I think. I looked between my knees and the OB and my midwife and turned a shade of white and were whispering to one another in worried voices. One would nod and run out, and two would come back with this that and the other. I delivered the placenta almost immediately after the birth. And then I shouted that I was going to throw up. Jason and my mom switched places—him at my head, my mom with the baby and a bag almost didn’t make it to my face in time and I threw up everything. All of the juice, all of the ice chips, fluids I didn’t even know I had in my body—just flying out of my mouth. And while I was doing that, I felt huge gushes coming out of my body. Every time I wretched, another half-gallon of liquid would flow down my legs and butt. The OB whispered, “It’s not working,” and left the room. I started convulsing a little and I wasn’t thinking straight anymore. Jason asked the midwife if I was okay—that my face was white. She nodded. The OB came back and said, “Ashley, you’re hemorrhaging. I’m going to insert something into your rectum to stop the bleeding.” I was so light headed, I don’t think I even responded. My mother would later recount that she thought I was dying. She looked over and saw the amount of blood, and then saw my face, and and really thought they were going to lose me. Jason kissed my head and told me about our son. That he was beautiful and that I was a mother and he was a father and he was so happy, and a nurse moved out of the way and he pointed to my mom and Ezra in one of those clear bassinets. They were stamping his feet and Ezra had my mom’s fingers gripped in each of his hands and was just staring at her. He kept whispering that he loved me and he was proud of me and I just cried and cried. Mean while, the nurses and doctors slowly regained their color. They sprayed me with some solution and then the needle came out and they began sewing me up. I didn’t feel anything but sensations of warmth and cold. And then my mom brought a bundled up Ezra to my chest (at this point, it’d had been about 30 minutes and I still hadn’t held him) and I burst into even bigger tears. I don’t know what happened to my vagina after that. I just looked at him and he looked at me and I cried in his beautiful little face and loved him instantly. Then, my mom picked him up so the nurses could sit me upright. I suddenly had stitches, underwear, and the room was emptying. The midwife held my hands and told me I had done amazingly. The head nurse got me some water and asked if I wanted my family to come in. I told them I wanted a minute with the baby. My mom left to tell everyone in the waiting room, and I tried nursing him while Jason sat beside me. He latched immediately and we had about 10 minutes of an attempt before we let people come in (they had all waited a long time and really wanted to see Ezra—and my dad had to leave soon). So I leaned back in my bed and everyone passed around my new son. They all loved him, and looked at him so sweetly and rubbed his face. For 30 minutes, I let everyone love my baby and I felt so happy that Ezra gets to be around so many people who have waited for him for so long and who love him so much.

I didn’t get to hold him again before the nurse said it was time for Ezra and Jason to go to the nursery so he could get measured and get his vaccinations. They left at 6:15ish. And then they moved me to my recovery room. I had to switch beds which was so painful and difficult and was wheeled down the hall to my new room. All of the nurses congratulated me on my way, told me how beautiful my baby was, and that they were sorry my labor was so long. My new room was smaller and I still couldn’t move. My head hurt from the drugs wearing off and I was still on an IV of Pitocin to keep my uterus contracting. Holy hell, those postpartum massages… I got about 8 of them, and screamed every time. But when they were done, the pain was gone instantly. I laid in my bed and my family watched the nursery from a window down the hall, and my mom helped me settle in. Jason (and everyone) reappeared at 6:45 because the nurses were having some emergency meeting and kicked everyone out. He said they’d bring the baby by in about 10 minutes. In the meantime, Jason entertained us with all of the things he saw. How the nurse told him he didn’t have to watch as the baby was having blood drawn (which he said was the saddest thing ever!) and him getting a shot, and measuring his feet and arms. And how Ezra glared at the nurse who measured his skull. By 7:45 and we still didn’t have the baby. I called the nurse and she assured me it would be another 10 minutes only. I sent people to see what was happening, and they would come back with a report like, “he’s having a bath” or “warming under a heat lamp.” His cart came in at 8:15 and I burst into tears. Big, ugly, uncontrollable tears. I didn’t realize how much I missed him and I just couldn’t keep it together. They couldn’t put him in my arms fast enough and I just exploded with tears and melted to mush holding him. I felt like it was the first time. He was all mine and instantly became my everything. And he just stared at me like he knew me. We were both in awe of one another.

And since then—Jason and I have just been weak kneed and starry eyed at his every blink, every coo, every whimper. My heart feels like it’s three people. I didn’t imagine being able to love and be loved and feel so MUCH love. My love isn’t divided, but just gotten bigger. I love Jason more than I have ever loved him, or anyone, in my life. And loving this baby is just unimaginable. I can’t even think about it without crying. The sheer amount of love just moves me to tears.
Motherhood is everything I thought it would be and so much more. I’m so happy. Jubilant. And I can’t wait to do it again.

Ezra was 8lbs even, 20.5 inches long, born September 19th at 5:01 p.m.  He came out crying and so alert, and with a full head of hair.