As I’m starting this post, I have
just removed my Firstborn Child (“FBC”) from his S$29.90 “Eagle Brand A Symbol
of Quality” net chair (obviously made in China; I contemplated washing the
netting in boiling water but settled for piping hot water from the tap instead) and placed him in his cot after he
realised that said chair rocks when he moves, prompting him to let out an
unhappy squawk or two. He has also just been fed 3 ounces of Similac from an
Avent bottle with a “breast-shaped teat” designed to prevent nipple confusion
(they’re probably patented, which I suppose justifies their exorbitant price,
thank God these were gifts) and although I have just changed his diaper and
he’s not even in the same room as me, the smell of baby poo fills my nose.
But more on life with FBC later.
The long and arduous 37+6 weeks deserve a round up.
***
For the most part, being pregnant
was awful (although I am willing to go through it at least once more because I
firmly believe that FBC should have sibling/ s). Some instances of awful
include throwing up right until the day before I delivered (I felt so cheated
when the 13th week started and the throwing up intensified. It did
taper off somewhat but I never knew what would set it off), and feeling guilty
every time I went for RPM or a long walk because people would stare at me in a What is this irresponsible Chinese (not
angmoh, angmohs can do what they want)
pregnant woman doing to her unborn child?!! manner. I couldn’t eat medium
rare steak or sashimi or have a gin and tonic, and the exhaustion was
overwhelming.
There were good days of course,
days when I had tons of energy and didn’t worry about whether FBC would have
birth defects or die in the womb because of something I ate or my heart rate at
RPM was a tad high, days when I remembered what his conception meant to me and
Jon and trusted fully in God’s faithfulness in our lives. Nevertheless, it was
a relief when I woke up the morning of 12 September at about 6am with
contractions that started coming five minutes apart. I’d always wondered what
it was like in the days leading up to delivery – it seemed that women were
supposed to sit around waiting for the signs (there are three main ones. Google
them). Life had to go on, didn’t it? What if you were doing something like
having a haircut, or watching a movie? I suppose I’ll only know if it happens
with my next child(ren). But it’ll probably be anti-climatic – just go hospital
lor.
Duh.
The contractions stopped being so
regular by the time we got to hospital, but my gynae decided to induce labour
because my amniotic fluid level was low. At 8pm that night – yes, I had
contractions throughout the day and yes, we waited that long for me to have a
scan and for her to make the decision – after I’d had my dinner, the induction
of labour (is that what it’s called?) was performed. Essentially, a pill is
stuck up your nether regions, and you wait around as the pain intensifies. They
even tell you to “walk around!”, because this will help! The registrar on call,
a nice man whom I shall call Dr Funny Snarky, came round once or twice as the
contractions grew more painful, looked at the graph which told him the strength
of my contractions, and cheerily-sadistically informed me that the contractions
weren’t strong enough and I wasn’t that dilated yet. He then left me, no doubt
assuming that because this was my first child, that I would probably require
another pill up there before I dilated enough to have an epidural.
A couple of hours later (two?),
Dr Funny Snarky returned, and I snarkily asked him “Are you going to tell me
that the contractions still aren’t strong enough?” To which he replied in the
funny snarky manner which earned him his nickname from me: “You want the good
news or bad news? The good news is, your contractions are strong enough, and you’re 3.5cm dilated. Enough to have an
epidural!”
(At this point, all prior
thoughts about toughing it out without an epidural had flown out of the window.
I never got to hear what the bad news was because I was enthusiastically telling
Dr Funny Snarky “YES PLEASE NOW”, but I suppose the bad news was that no one
had any idea how long it would be before I was actually in active labour.)
Having the epidural needle
inserted was one of the most pleasant experiences in my life. Happy-dural, Dr
Funny Snarky called it. The pain melted away enough for me to demand that Jon
buy me toothbrush and toothpaste so I could welcome FBC into the world with
minty-fresh breath. I recall (as I settled in for a bit of a nap after said
teeth brushing) telling myself that I would push as hard as I could when the
time came so that Dr Funny Snarky wouldn’t order the level of pain-killing
drugs coursing through my system reduced so that I would be goaded into pushing
by the contractions.
The next thing I knew, the
epidural had stopped working.
“It’s not called a happy-dural
for nothing”, Dr Funny Snarky said. “We must see to it that this problem is
rectified at once!” (no, he didn’t really talk like that, that’s just my addled
memory). The anaesthetist was roused from his slumber (why was he sleeping in a
room ten minutes away when I was in such pain?), and he came flying back and
reinserted the epidural needle. “It happens, you know, some peoples’ nerve
endings are just [rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb]”.
What? (I really do not remember
what he tried to explain to me. JUST MAKE
THIS PAIN GO AWAY.)
As the pain continued to
intensify, Dr Funny Snarky re-entered the room and said he had called my gynae
down to the hospital. He also declared that the moment had come to burst the water bag.
It was excruciatingly painful,
worse than the worst menstrual cramps I’ve ever had in my life – and believe
me, I have had some periods where the pain from the cramps turned my lips blue
and brought me close to fainting. A fat, jolly nurse came in and suggested I
try the laughing gas which everyone had told me didn’t work. To my surprise, it
did! (Had I known it would be more effective, maybe we could have saved that
S$800 or so on the epidural. As if.)
I giggled and talked so much
nonsense that Jon kept trying to pull the gas mask away from me.
“This is how Yik must feel when
he’s high! Or Soon Tat when he morphs into Tat Soon!” (both visited me in
hospital and were duly amused to hear of my last few thoughts before FBC arrived)
“You’ve had enough!”
Try going through labour, dude. I
snatched the gas mask away from his hand and held it to my face myself, even
managing to ask Dr Funny Snarky whether I could use it as I pushed (a firm “no”).
Active labour, i.e. the pushing part,
thankfully came some two to four hours later. I remember the midwife insisting
that I “take a look” at my baby’s head coming through because I would be filled
with love and be inspired to push (she really said that). I protested vehemently,
but she was adamant, and before I knew it, she had placed a mirror at a key
position and asked Jon to stick my glasses on.
He had hair. I had seen enough. I
took my glasses off.
Forty-five minutes to an hour
later (thank God), a small struggling creature was placed on my breast,
squalling to the high heavens. My gynae congratulated us, and then proceeded to
ask me whether I wanted to see my placenta, which she held up at eye level on a
silver platter (stainless steel, really. I only said “silver platter” for effect).
***
[Continued a number of diaper
changes, a poo-ed on changing towel and a couple of feeds and milk – sorry, mixed
Similac and breast milk – regurgitations later. Do you know that baby poo
stains can never be removed from
light coloured fabrics completely? FBC is back in said chair which has been
adjusted to not move and is peering at the sofa which I am sitting on. Or
rather, gazing in that general direction. This part may turn into a semi-rant
about breastfeeding, so you are welcome to not read on, and jump to the last
third of this post, especially if I have told you all these things in real life]
FBC was a mere 2.49kg at birth.
He apparently came out with his eyes wide open, looking curiously around,
before he started bawling.
Back in the ward, I approached
breastfeeding with vigour. Not because I really believed “breast was best”, but
this was my FBC after all, so why not give it a shot? My first shock with the
breastfeeding business came when the paediatrician randomly assigned to us came
round and said she needed my consent to feed FBC formula because my milk was
unlikely to come in so soon and he was born small so he couldn’t lose too much
weight. Uh, yes, please go ahead and feed
him formula? Why would I potentially endanger the life of my child just so I
can breastfeed?
I think the nurses in the
maternity ward were really happy that I was going at it so enthusiastically
(pretend only). My nipples cracked and bled slightly, but I applied lanolin
liberally, and continued on. One of the nurses who came to my bedside at 2am
even commended me on being “so hardworking!”, and wheeled baby back to the
nursery so I could rest.
We were discharged uneventfully,
and told to return three days later to see the paediatrician.
On FBC’s second night home, some
blood appeared in his poo. It wasn’t a lot, and about two poos later, no more
blood appeared. Having asked Google whether there was anything wrong with this
and being told that that no, it was common, especially from cracked nipples, I
disposed of his diapers.
The next morning, we went back to
see the same paediatrician who had asked for my consent to feed FBC formula in
the hospital. (They should start instituting home visits, does anyone even
realise how nerve-wracking it is to bring your newborn all the way back to the
hospital when you have only just delivered and are severely sleep deprived?)
When we told her about the blood in FBC’s poo, she immediately jumped up and
down and ordered a bowel x-ray. She also said things could potentially be
“catastrophic”, and a number of other things which I have blocked from my mind
but reduced me to tears (you were expecting any less?).
FBC was in any event readmitted
for jaundice, and I felt really silly crying all over the place about FBC’s
blood in poo problem because I knew the nurses would judge me, thinking I was
crying because my baby was readmitted for jaundice.
Which goodness knows how many other Asian babies, myself and Jon included,
suffered from. Anyhow, I got myself admitted with him, and proceeded to make
the best use of my time asking questions about breastfeeding, etc. (between
bouts of crying)
All’s well that ended well
re FBC’s jaundice and blood in poo issue. When we left the hospital after his
jaundice cleared, and at his next check-up three days later, we were told (by
different paediatricians, and the lactation consultant – you should be able to
clearly tell who said what):
1. Supplement
with formula until your milk comes in! Your baby is small and cannot afford to
lose so much weight.
2. Let
your baby feed for as long as you want! Isn’t it better if he feeds more, then
he will sleep longer?
3. Don’t
let your baby feed for more than forty to fifty minutes. If he is still not
settled by then, supplement with formula. If he feeds longer than that, there
will be a negative calorie effect.
4. Go
ahead and supplement with normal formula, not hypo-allergenic formula, because
we want to rule out a calf milk allergy. Which actually doesn’t manifest itself
so early, but you never know.
5. Why
do you want to substitute feeds with formula? (because I am severely
sleep-deprived and my baby has no issues at this stage differentiating between
a bottle and my breast) Anyway, if you do, you should supplement with
hypo-allergenic formula because of the blood in poo. And again, why do you want
to substitute feeds? You’ve been de-conditioned! (what do you mean?) Don’t come
crying to me six months later asking for a wet nurse when your baby has no
antibodies (or whatever it is that gets passed on in breast milk).
The only voice of reason was my
gynae’s. She quietly told me not to worry about the blood in FBC’s poo, that my
milk would only come in about two weeks later, and not to worry about things,
especially supplementing with formula. I cheerfully told her I had no issues at all with supplementing, and
she gave me a worried smile. Then, I naively thought that I would be impervious
to what I would come to realise was one of woman’s ways of playing My Dick Is
Bigger Than Yours.
Breastfeeding was actually pretty
alright for a while. I watched the clock dutifully, and if FBC wasn’t
done in 40 minutes, I would prepare a bottle of about one ounce of formula
which he happily drank unless he was too sleepy to do so, and his feeds were
somewhat regular the first few days he was home – every 2 to 3 hours or so.
I can’t remember when the long
feeds started, but it must have been around the end of the second week, at the
supposed start of a growth spurt. I had stopped supplementing by then. From a
record of two hours, they grew to three, and between weeks four to six,
sometimes up to four hours. I tried, in vain, to unlatch him when he seemed
done, only to have him rooting again about ten minutes later and yelling the
house down. Or worse, I would unlatch him and he would fuss and fuss and try to
latch himself back on. Sometimes he also kept slipping off and crying in
frustration, trying to get back on. His upper lip became so callused that the
skin started peeling. Surely this was not normal?
In retrospect, a lot of it may
have been comfort sucking, and his cues may have been an indication that he
wanted simply to suckle, not feed. And I may have just read his cues wrongly. But
I had been told, had read, believed, that babies would know when they were
done, would reject the breast if they were not hungry, would unlatch
themselves, and I should let him go on – to his credit, sometimes after two to
three hours he would actually push himself off my breast with his little fists.
And of course, I was terrified like anything that he would lose weight and if
he was genuinely hungry and I deprived him, and since I seemed to have enough
milk (he pooed and peed like anything), so, alright, I would just let him have
as much time at the breast as he wanted.
I was, needless to say, extremely
unhappy. Other mother friends kept saying it would get better and I had to
persevere, but it got worse and worse. I felt chained to the sofa, felt guilty
that I felt that I wanted him to quickly fall into a regular pattern so I could
bring him out without worrying that he wouldn’t unlatch, guilty that I thought
incessantly about getting back to the gym and running when my body was telling
me NOT YET and FBC’s refusal to unlatch. And – this made me feel the most
guilty of all – I did not want to become attached 24/ 7 to my child, to have
someone depend on me so entirely for nourishment (this was not helped by horror
stories of nursing strikes and bottle refusal).
Things started coming to a head
after one long night feed – I think I posted about this one on Facebook – and I
called the NUH breastfeeding hotline. The lactation consultant told me not to
be stressed, to think of the love I felt for the baby because that would
stimulate my milk supply, to believe in said supply, and then demanded to know
why I supplemented with formula. If you
supplement with formula, his stomach will expand because of the formula, and
you will not have enough supply to meet his increased demand. I was close
to tears then, thinking because my baby
was crying in frustration, was obviously tired, the skin on his upper lip was
coming off, and when I squeezed my nipples no milk came out. Why wouldn’t I
give him a bottle? Which mother would deprive her child of food when he was so
obviously hungry? And I had been so assured of my decision when I finally gave
him one after 3 hours or so of feeding, proud that I had overcome the
psychological formula barrier because I had done what was best for FBC in the
situation.
After that, I was determined to
not supplement and ride out the long feeds. Everyone was breastfeeding. And after
all, I could run long distances. What
was so difficult about breastfeeding? Each feed was just like going for a long
run.
But as my mood worsened and I
started resenting Jon for being so “free” as I sat up night after night
nursing, I started questioning my motives for breastfeeding. I’d never actually
thought that breast was best, having been totally formula fed (my mother had
had an operation for another medical issue on top of the C-section, and she
couldn’t breastfeed me) – and I’d made it to law school. I spent hours reading
up (whilst nursing), and purchased a book called Bottled Up: How the Way We Feed Babies Has Come to Define Motherhood
and Why It Shouldn’t, which chronicles the fall and rise of breastfeeding
in America and the extremes to which the Breastfeeding Nazis are going to there
(regulating formula, anyone?). It’s an interesting read and is available on
Amazon for US$16.99 if you have a Kindle.
Things really came to a head the Monday before Deepavali. It’s all a haze
now, but I think a couple of days before that, FBC had spent three hours or so
nursing in the morning, and four hours in the evening. I was full of resentment
for Jon, hating every minute of nursing, and had spent most of the day in
tears. Every single issue I had about having a baby and being a new mother
became linked and magnified in my mind to breastfeeding, not just hormones
(FYI, the worst thing you can do is tell someone hormonal that all their
problems are just due to hormones!). Jon came home from work that fateful day,
and I told him we had to talk. At that point, I think FBC had been feeding for
close to three hours or so and still did not seem satisfied. He was crying, I
was crying, and I finally gave him to Jon so I could shower and continue the
feed if he needed. I spent some time in the shower thinking things through and
realised that it had come down to a matter of my pride or my marriage. Yeah
okay, stop with the melodrama already right? But I’ve always been somewhat
dramamama I think. Too bad.
I came out of the shower just as
Jon came into the room and after clearing some misunderstandings (which cannot
be talked about in this forum), we prepared four ounces of Similac which we fed
to FBC, who had continued his yelling whilst I was in the shower. He guzzled it
down in less than ten minutes, and fell into a sound sleep for four hours.
Whereupon he was given another bottle of formula by Jon, and FBC and I slept
soundly for the first time in days.
I decided that day that I would
wean FBC early, and although I’m still coming to terms with my decision and
dealing with the annoying problem of engorgement and leaking because of
substituted feeds, I’m actually starting to enjoy the other aspects of
motherhood, even the crying. And especially FBC’s post bottle overdose face,
and the realisation at times that it’s him and not Jon who has farted so
loudly.
It may have been an issue of FBC’s
latch, or one of low supply. One of slow flow, or comfort sucking, or simply a
lack of patience on my part. Maybe it’s because he was born small and was
catching up. It could be all of these reasons, it could be none of them. Maybe
I should have seen a lactation consultant, maybe the hospital should have
provided proper breastfeeding education if they wanted to push it so
aggressively. I’ll never know what sparked his long, long feeds, but each day,
as I see FBC grow and actually see him awake and not exhausted and crying from
suckling, I say, Sod Off and Suck It to the Breastfeeding Nazis.
(Don’t get me started on pumping.
I never got more than two ounces and am at this point in time too exhausted to
try again. But not too exhausted to write this, of course not.)
***
[Jon has come home at the time I
am typing this. FBC has had a mini meltdown, probably because he overdosed on
formula and the uncomfortable feeling in his tummy shocked him from his sleep –
but it doesn’t matter, because at least I know he has been fed, I can stop
guessing whether or not he’s full because he most definitely is, and I can
eliminate one need that may be causing the crying, the most important one of
all, because I keep hearing, over and over again, that my baby is tiny.]
When the midwife told me to think
of my love for the baby so that I would be inspired to push, my “thoughts of
inspiration” turned only to Jon, who was holding my hand and looking pained
that I was in pain. Some girls may have had dreams about getting married and having children, but my dreams
always ended at getting married (and
later on, cooking). Having children would be a natural progression, of course, but
it was never something I thought about when I was younger. Given what was going
on in our lives around the time I found out I was expecting, I thought of Jon
and of my role as his wife more than ever. Thoughts of how FBC was a clear sign
of God’s faithfulness in Jon’s life tided me through some of the darkest days
of my pregnancy (when my gynae told me that I had to stop running, couldn’t eat
sashimi, and finally, that I had to REST because my amniotic fluid levels were
getting low, putting an end to RPM at 35 weeks. Yes, I had to boast. Ignore me.),
and they have tided me through these first few weeks of FBC’s life and guided decisions
I have made for him – well, okay, a decision.
Frankly, looking after an infant
is Incredibly Boring. Even when said infant smiles, you know in your heart it’s
involuntary because when you tell him things like “Hello, do you know me I have
been feeding you for the past few weeks!”, he just looks around to see where
the sounds are coming from, avoiding your face completely. You tell yourself
that he will grow up and recognise you, you should enjoy these days when he
does nothing much but cry, eat, poop, pee and sleep; one day when he becomes
more aware of his surroundings, sleeping may become well nigh impossible
without a battle. But the feelings of Incredible Boredom persist, and you find
yourself going slightly unhinged, guilt (not denying some of it is Wallowing In
Self Pity) that you don’t feel more loving
and maternal joining the mix
every so often.
And then you do something like drop
hot escargot sauce on the infant’s finger when he’s curled up in his Boba wrap,
tied to you during dinner, and after managing to calm him down outside the
restaurant, when you think he’s calm and no real harm was done and you make it
through the rest of dinner and home uneventfully, you realise that there is a rather
large blister on the finger you dropped the hot escargot sauce on, and feelings
of guilt and oh dear I am not a very good
mother am I assail you even though you know in your heart that these things happen and you shouldn’t
bother your paediatrician friends at an unearthly hour with pictures of your
child’s finger. Then proceed to drive to the 24-hour clinic at midnight and
demand that they sell you an antibiotic cream which you need a prescription
for. (The red-haired auntie manning the counter refused, insisting that I had
to bring FBC to see the doctor. I went back to the car, rang my mother and
cried, then sucked it up and knocked it down like she suggested and went back
home to FBC and Jon, who were both soundly asleep.)
And you realise that feelings of what’s
probably love are developing, and it’s okay not to feel much for him now, because
after all, he is just another person I have yet to come to know, and may
probably never know fully. Because love is a choice, and I choose to continue
changing diapers, monitoring poop, cleaning up pee, fretting over nappy rash,
and carry on long, rambling conversations with thin air when we go for walks.
Happy start of your seventh week
of life, FBC. Mummy loves you, Daddy loves you, Jesus loves you. Mummy and Daddy
promise to distribute ang ku kueh and butter cake soon.
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