An acquaintance messaged me today. He's having a rough time with life and wants some direction because, to him, it seems like I have it all put together. I wish I had all day to sit and write without distraction, but I don't. Critter boy is at daycare, and I was planning to take today to get life back in order after returning from a trip out west to see Sunshine's family. I was also hoping to have ample time to just write... or watch movies... or nap... or do absolutely nothing. Somehow it doesn't happen that way. So, I'll sum it up with this, and I'll tell him probably the very same thing:

Those who've only met me within the last few years only see the last few years. They don't see ALL the wrong turns prior to the last few years. They don't see the work, the breakdowns, the depression, the anxiety, the drunken stupors, or all the people I've hurt while stumbling through life.

People also don't know, unless they happen upon these ramblings, how much I continue to think about death even as life is good. Note, I do not think about suicide. As my therapist confirmed, the way I think might be somewhat unusual, but not bad. Not dangerous. Not sad. I think my thoughts about life and death actually help me do what I do for a living; but that's all a post for another day, assuming I find the time and the clarity to write again before baby boy Critter is grown and gone. This post started months ago!

As for this evening, peace out and keep passing go.

Auntie Hatchetface's Guidelines for Sex

My Dear Littles, Tinies, Monsters, Kiddos, and Critter,

I've seen all kinds of blogs addressed to parents of boys and parents of girls, separately, about sex. Many of those articles and blogs have been excellent in my little opinion, but I don't like the division. To me, it seems like if we want to erase these double standards, we need to address everyone with the same guidelines. So, that's what I'm doing.

I'm pretty sure we can all safely assume that some day you are going to want to have sex at least once. Yes, I know, it's a very long way off, but what the hell. This is a big soapbox of mine, and what if I kick the bucket today or tomorrow? How else will I haunt you (it is the season, after all) with all my opiniony opinions and pearly pearls of wisdom, for what they're worth? So here you go...

1. Sex can be super wonderful and fantastic and can brighten up your day and your relationship.

2. Sex can be super anxiety, fear, and depression inducing and can absolutely ruin your day, your relationship, your health, and even kill you. Yes, sex, in a sense, can kill you if you're not careful. See #16. Not joking, my loves, which brings us to #3....

3. For all the potential joy and misery and excitement and every other emotion that can come with it, sex is a BIG responsibility both physically and emotionally, so do your best to be ready for it.

4. Sex with the opposite sex is how babies are made. If you're reading this and you...
   a. Still live with your parents
   b. You don't have a decent job with benefits
   c. You're still in school
   d. You don't have a really solid, supportive partner and community
  ...then you're not ready for babies, and your life will be flipped upside down, backwards, and sideways if you end up with one. And that's true even when you are ready!

Are you feeling awkward yet? That's ok because...

5. Sex, too, can be awkward.

6. But the awkwardness doesn't have to bother you if you RESPECT each other and keep your sense of humor.

My personal point of view, you ask? Why, of course! Let me just raise my soapbox a little higher.... A sense of humor can improve just about everything in life. It's like bacon and/or whipped cream. A little goes a long way, and it goes with everything.

But back to that respect note...

7. Manipulation, coercion, guilt, or force of ANY kind is toxic and unacceptable. Part of respect is knowing, remembering, and behaving according to your body being yours and theirs being theirs. You get to determine when you say "yes," what you say "yes" to, when you say "no," what you say "no" to, and so does your partner. For that matter, you also get to change your mind at any point. Just remember, the NO always gets the benefit of the doubt and anything that isn't a crystal clear YES should be interpreted as a NO. Blueballs isn't deadly, and neither is whatever the female version might be called. And, besides, see #20.

8. Sharing your body--whether it's holding hands, snuggling, kissing, heavy petting, or any kind of sex--is a gift. It should be as much a joy to give as to receive.

9. The idea that "if I don't do it now, I'll lose him/her" or "I'll never get another chance" is bullshit. If you'd lose that person for NOT having sex, then that person is an asshole, wasn't going to stick around anyway, and you deserve better. Refer back to #7.

10. Just because you have sex once, twice, three times, or 693, that doesn't mean you have to have it again. Again, refer back to #7: your body is YOURS.

11. A little rule of thumb on honesty and cheating in an exclusive relationship, since some people seem to have different perspectives: If you wouldn't do it with a blood-related family member, it's probably cheating.

12. Also on cheating: if something's not right in the relationship, work on it or break it off. I don't care what other people do or don't do. Don't tarnish your own integrity with lies, betrayal, and deceit. Don't be an asshole.

13. Know that at some point, your heart will get broken. It might be because you fell for someone who doesn't live or play according to the same guidelines, or it might just be you weren't quite the right match or you grew apart. Either way, your heart will heal and get put softly back together if you allow it to. It might just look and beat a little differently along the way.

14. Communicate. You don't just take gifts and you don't insist that others receive them. You wait for the invitation to the party, so to speak. I know I'm getting (even more) repetitive here, but see #8.

15. Wrap it up. Remember #3? Well, if you're going to choose to have sex, USE A CONDOM. Like I said, sex is a responsibility, and you're not only risking YOUR life and health, but the life and health of your partner, which also goes back to the respect thing. I don't care if she says she's on the pill, or if he says he's infertile, or if anyone says "I'm clean. I've been tested" or "I've never done this before." Until you're certain (about them AND you), wrap. that. shit. up. Oh, and if you're too shy/embarrassed/etc to buy, have, use, or even talk about using a condom and the risk of STIs, then you're not ready for the responsibility, emotional or physical.

16. Get tested for STIs. Have your partner get tested for STIs, especially if you're considering riding bareback. Even with testing, though, not everything will always show up, even if you or your partner is carrying it. Some things never show up. Other things might not show up until months or even years after someone gets it. Some STIs are treatable, some are curable, some your immune system will flush out on its own, and some are life threatening. So, my little loves, you have a universe of information at your fingertips. Get informed and try not to freak out too much about stuff. Not every STI is created equal. In the meantime, see #14.

17. Rape jokes aren't funny. Ever. Neither are stories about coercion or someone being "so fucked up...," because those are also glorifying rape and exploitation. Whoever is telling them might actually just have a horrible sense of humor and they would never actually do such a thing as take advantage of another person's vulnerability. If that's the case they need to wise up and shut up. Or, they could be an asshole who would and does do such things, in which case they also need to wise up, shut up, and possibly be locked up. I hope, when faced with such an opportunity, you will have the courage to tell them so, even if you feel like the only one, and even if the person gets defensive. Speak up and act in defense of cruelty and exploitation. I have the same hope for you when it comes to being confronted, in any way, with all or any of the 'isms and/or bullying. Passive bystanders are often mistaken for supporters of atrocity, and it is by such inaction that atrocity thrives.

18. Virgin isn't a bad word or a bad status. A person's sexual activity or lack there of is their business, which also means if someone has a lot of sex or quits having sex or starts having sex or has sex with males or females, that's their business too. *This all assumes all consenting partners are within an appropriate age range of one another. If not, it's a WHOLE different story.

19. The double standards between men and women are bullshit. NUMBER SEVEN. Your body = yours. Their body = theirs. Respect, explore, and have fun. Just don't be an asshole.

20. Masturbation. Everyone does it. Just don't do it in public or at school/work, okay?

21. You will make mistakes. You will hurt others and you will also be hurt by others. Just do your best to learn from mistakes and try to minimize the hurt by being honest and accountable. 

Obviously, I'm assuming that by the time you read this, if ever, you will already have a base knowledge of sex and you will already be well into developing your own moral compass. So, maybe I should've just left it at this:

Sex and love can be complicated. Get informed. Don't be an asshole. Be a good person. Question. Communicate. Share, respect, have fun, and keep your integrity in tact.

motherhood, 8ish weeks

Sleep is amazing, and elusive these days. That said, the last 2 nights you've had 4 hour chunks of sleep, which means I'VE had 4 hour chunks of sleep, which means all of us are crying a little less. Thank you, Critter. Lets make this a starting point with minimal backsliding, shall we?

And (another day later) you actually slept what could be considered AN ENTIRE NIGHT! Amazing how the spirits are lifted and how much better stress is managed when the body and brain have had an opportunity to reboot and decompress. Sunshine says you went to bed at 9 last night, and this morning you let me sleep until 5! Thank you, Critter. Let's hope we've really turned a corner here, unless you want me to lose all my hair and have a sleep-deprivation induced psychotic break before you're even 3 months old. The only challenging thing about last night and actually sleeping? I woke up with a soaked shirt. Your midnight snacks were spilling everywhere!

I wonder if having sworn off gluten has been the trick to your more peaceful nature. It wouldn't surprise me, but I will admit that while I'm eating more veggies again, I do miss that full, sedated feeling that shitty, gluten-packed food induces.  Sigh. Life is bigger than a pile of biscuits and gravy, right?

Also and by the way, in my sleep-deprived, anxious state of going back to work and having to leave you for the first time since you were born, I broke my foot. Yup. Damn I'm smooth (maybe you'll get the Beavis and Butthead reference later, assuming, you know, you're cultured and all). I ate it on your grandmother's front step, luckily AFTER I'd already set you down. So, now, almost 2 weeks later, I'm hobbling around, but grateful it doesn't seem like a bad enough break to need a doctor. We're guessing hairline fracture, but so far I'm too stubborn to see a doctor. Wah-wah.

Speaking of going back to work, I miss you. I'm lucky enough to love my job-- and I have a small soapbox, or perhaps a few pearls of experience-earned wisdom to share along those lines too-- but I still miss you. I drop you off with your daycare at "Grandma Linda's" house, and I trust you're in very good hands, especially considering that's who took care of your sister when she was a baby too; but I'll say it again. I MISS YOU. Not being home with the family, at least in the evenings is tough.

As I drive to work, I glance in the rear view and expect to see you there. Instead I see an empty car seat base. Then, driving home from work, there's an all together different kind of lonely feeling. I was already 6 months along with you when they hired me (and THANK GOODNESS they did!), so every night I drove home, you and I would have a little dance party along the way. You were most active at that point, so I can only imagine the slick moves you were throwing around in there. Rides home these days, I still have our little dance party with you in mind while you chill with your dad and sissy, and/or toot and coo and giggle peacefully in your sleep. At least, that's how I like to imagine it. According to your sweet father, things might go a little differently many evenings, but that's his story to tell.

And I'll end with that note, as you really are swaying peacefully in your swing and as I look forward to a fulfilling, good day at work and to a great weekend with you and the family. I love you, my little red Critter.

Then and Now

A year ago, as I've mentioned in previous posts, my thinking was quite different. I've never been suicidal, but I can't say I worried too much about staying alive. It's not like I engaged in intentionally dangerous behaviors or impulses. I didn't play in traffic or jump, parachuteless out of airplanes or off buildings. I didn't play on tight ropes. In fact, besides those impulsive adolescent years and perhaps more than my fair share of risky drunken shenanigans, I've taken pretty good care of myself. I never invited death or pain, but I also didn't despair at the possibility of getting some kind of terminal illness or losing my life (painlessly?) in some sort of accident. Now, as I've previously mentioned, my perspective has changed. I have a son and he has given me new life. I love my husband and my friends and family, but there's just something different with my Critter. There's the sense that not only does he need me, and his father needs me; but there's also this shiny new sense of excitement and curiosity that comes with the overwhelming love for my child. I WANT and APPRECIATE this life. That's not to say I believe people who are depressed or otherwise struggling should put all of the emotional weight of their lives on their children! Our children are not here to save us from ourselves. That's not fair to the kid and it will only cause problems for everyone down the line. All I'm saying is that my life feels more complete. More exciting with more potential for both joy and heartbreak and adventure and so much learning. My baby boy doesn't have to carry the weight of being my life, in its entirety. He simply and beautifully enhances and brings a new light to every nook of it. He makes life luscious and full and too big to take for granted. He brings zest to passing go.

And with all that said, I got a call from my nurse midwife yesterday. My post-baby pap smear came back abnormal. Uh, what?? I tested positive for high risk (read: possible could lead to cancer) HPV. Luckily, I've already done my research, so I haven't freaked out. Most of the time, people's immune systems crush the little bugger virus before any damage is done; but then, again, there's the possibility it won't. In that case, first step is still not to freak out. HPV does not equal cancer. It just increases the likelihood that I could get cancer. So, second step is to get check for pre-cancerous (or cancerous, I suppose) cells. Pre-cancerous get scraped, I get a follow up to make sure they don't come back, and done. Poof. Worry gone. Back to routine care o' the business downstairs. I guess I'm not really worried about step three. Step three assumes steps 1 and 2 don't work, and that seems unlikely.

It does make me think in my new way about mortality. BC (Before Critter), I don't know that I would have sought treatment in the event of a necessary third step. I figured (knowing full well that I might very well change my mind given the reality of imminent death) that I might just let the cancer take me. My step 3 would have been about finding peace within my community, tying up emotional and logistical loose ends, and securing palliative care for the pain. I would have peaced-out of this joint, figuring it was just my time. But now.... I have my Critter. My little love. Now things have changed. Now I would fight it. I would get treatment. I would hold onto the very last shreds of my life to watch him along his journey for as long as possible. And that's it. Life is harder, more fulfilling, and wonderful; and I would no longer fold so easily to hand it in.... I don't know how to end this entry. So how about:

FUCK YEAH. I'm a MOM!

Dear Critter

Dear Critter,
As I'm both exhausted, because you won't sleep, and sad, because I'm at work instead of at home with you and your dad and sister, I'm just going to start this entry with some memories from your first 6 weeks of breathing air instead of sucking amniotic fluid.

• Soy formula is evil, but at least you're off it now. As mentioned in previous posts, you tested positive for a rare genetic disorder called galactosemia. It sounds fake, doesn't it? When I heard it over the phone I wanted to yell PRANK CALL PRANK CALL and hang up.... but it was real. Three and a half weeks later we got the good news that you are just a carrier and that you do not have a symptomatic strain of it. You get back on the boob! That said, someday, if you are planning to have your own biological children with someone, you might want to have them tested for it, just to know what you might be up against.
• Pumping sucks, but it's worth it to make sure you get at least mostly good stuff.
• Your dad almost left you thumbless (look closely at your left one) when I was too scared to trim your fingernails. It's ok. It grew back. Besides, how many thumbs would you REALLY have needed anyway? Neither one of us has attempted to trim them again since. You get mittens instead. It's a good look, kid. 
• One morning, after you slept on the couch with your dad, you smelled like an armpit. Your dad's armpit, to be clear. He'd been working out and it took 2 baths to get that smell off of your head.
• You LOVE snuggling with your dad. He plays with you and soothes you in ways that I can't, and it's adorable, melting my heart every time I see it. I guess you're not holding any grudges over the thumb thing.
• Sleep is rough. You seem to do best in the mornings, but nights are a different story. First (besides the simple fact that you're a newborn) was the soy and not being able to poop which kept you awake and screaming. Then came the gas, which we discovered was also HUNGER pain because the boob diner wasn't producing enough milk. We've fixed the hungry tummy thing, but you fart like a grown man after downing a 6 pack, and the grumble guts you get while working up to said flatulence is apparently pretty damn uncomfortable. We're hoping you'll feel better if I give up certain kinds of food like gluten and dairy.
• Have I mentioned that you sound, we can only imagine, like a pterodactyl when you're upset? You have the most blood curdling, eardrum shattering, heart breaking scream I've ever heard. And, unless you're fully in a food coma or asleep, you employ said scream with each diaper change. It seems, my little love, that you would much prefer stewing in your messed britches.
• You've pooped in my hand. You've projectile pooped on the changing table. You've pooped all over yourself and on me in public. You've pooped explosively. You've pooped pellets. You've pooped skid marks. You've pooped calking. You've pooped paste. You've pooped soup. Poop has been the most prevalent theme in your life so far. Poop and gas. And I'll admit, even having grown up with your grandmother's strict anti-bathroom-humor perspective, I maintain that your gas is HILARIOUS.... when you're not crying, that is. This will no doubt change as you get older and know better. Please don't be "that guy."
• I've had breakdowns, wishing I could do more to soothe you. I've cried with you when neither of us could sleep. Well, in all fairness, I could have slept if you'd have let me! But I hope you always know, my little love, that I will always be here to hold you through your pain. Even after I die, I hope memories will help lighten your load and ease your suffering.
• Your smiles and laughter are the most beautiful things I've ever seen and heard. You melt my heart into a messy little puddle.
• I hate leaving you to come to work. I love my job. I just hate leaving you, especially with someone other than family. No offense to Grandma Linda's Daycare. I think maybe, probably, it will never feel like there's enough time. You are my world. I wonder if I could just bring you to work with me... you could hang out in the office, getting snuggled by everyone in turn. Four days into being back at work, and I miss the hell out of you, Critter. At least someday I'll get off this night schedule and I'll be home with you and everyone in the evenings again.

I guess that's it for now. I'm so tired my eyeballs feel like they're falling out of my head, and coffee has taken on an entirely renewed appeal; but you're already getting too big too fast. I didn't give you life, little love. We've given each other life. I love passing go with you.

Love,
Mama

Soy formula vs. the Boob juice

I thought instead about entitling this entry "Soy swill vs. the grand and glorious Boob," but I decided to stay a little more neutral. Anyway, Mom said I should write everything down because I'd forget the little details that I wanted to remember before I knew it... so here I am, finally taking a priceless quiet moment to write while little man slumbers and I can't remember all I'd wanted to write. I also want to get a baby book. The convenience of doing everything online is great, but the tangibility of hard copies, of actual photos, of memories written in pen, is priceless. Those are the things you pass down the generations. Not websites and blogs. In the meantime, however, here's today's blog entry....

First off, we FINALLY got the last galactosemia results back-- a urinalysis as the last part of a "milk challenge" to see if the sugar in question was building up in him or if he was processing it-- and he's clear! Our Critter is just a carrier of the gene, but is not impacted by it in any other way, so he's back on the 24 hour booby diner!

That said, we had to keep him on soy formula for a miserable 3 weeks while I tried to keep production up by pumping, just in case his results came back clear. SOOOO glad they did (and remind me to go on a rant about doctors later). Here's the breakdown and why we're so glad to have him off of that shit:

Soy formula ingredients: "CORN SYRUP SOLIDS (39%), SOY PROTEIN ISOLATE (15%), HIGH OLEIC SAFFLOWER OIL (11%), SUGAR (10%), SOY OIL (8%), COCONUT OIL (8%);" and less than 2% of a whole bunch of other stuff. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  I'm sustaining the life of my newborn on a highly processed concoction made up primarily of SUGAR? Don't get me wrong, if the diagnosis had been legitimate, we'd have made do with it until/unless we could take advantage of other options; but still.... Awful. And I'm not just saying this because I don't like the ingredients. I've said it in a previous entry, and it rings especially true in the delicate system of babies, but what we put in our bodies IMPACTS our WELL-BEING. For 3 1/2 of the 5 weeks of Critter's life, he had blue rings under his eyes due to poor sleep, LOTS of gas, and difficulty pooping. He'd fall asleep right after he'd have a bowel movement, which was once or twice a day, and then he'd wake up screaming. So, we dubbed him our little pterodactyl, and I've thus lost probably 90% of my hearing and now carry an ear horn around in the diaper bag. By the last week of soy he COULDN'T poop without significant help from (doctor/nurse approved and dosed) prune juice and/or rectal stimulation and/or warm baths with baking soda and/or tummy massage, but the discomfort would return within a matter of hours when his body was ready to go again.* He also got a mean case of baby acne, really chapped lips, and his color seemed off. Suffice it to say, baby boy was miserable and so were we.

*For the record, we kept rectal stimulation, especially, as well as juice to an absolute minimum, wanting to mess with his little body and system as little as possible. In the event that we would have had to stay on soy, we were crossing our fingers that his body might eventually adjust. 

Now, as of a very well-received and expected phone call Wednesday afternoon, we have officially ditched the soy (and prune juice) and put Critter back where he belongs on breast milk. Even accounting for some readjustment crankiness and having to nurse pretty much constantly to build production back up (we are supplementing with saved, frozen breast milk) things are SO VERY MUCH BETTER. By Thursday morning, our tiny person was starting to poop regularly again and seemed much happier. And, as of this morning, he is sleeping better (and so are we!), his skin has already mostly cleared up, his lips are fine, and his color is back within healthy tiny human range. Amazing. Cheers to boobs and their wonderful elixir of life, and FUCK soy formula. I hope, for anyone who ever has to take their child off of milk, that better options come to light. We were told by the doctor that there was no other option, quality of life be damned.

In fact, that brings me to my rant about doctors. I appreciate and respect them (I mean, hell, my amazing and wonderful older brother is one) and all that they do and know and take on in helping save lives and maintain health and wellness; BUT, as in any profession, not all doctors are created equal or share the same strengths, knowledge, or even (maybe especially) sense of empathy or respect for their patients. Maybe we can call that interpersonal savvy and humility?

The doctors at the hospital were great. They were professional, respectful, and communicative. They didn't dismiss our opinions or concerns, and they didn't underestimate our competence as parents and patients. The first doctor we saw after getting the initial galactosemia results, however, was a different story. By all appearances, she was professional and empathetic, but I can't shake the feeling that she was negligently non-communicative and condescending. She was apologetic about the diagnosis, but dismissed any question I had with "you'll have to ask the specialist." Her tone oozed of implications of poor parenting because we chose to talk to her--fewer than 24 hours after being told to switch to soy--before jumping on the soy wagon. Granted, we were told to switch immediately, but given the arbitrary nature of clinical time frames, along with the fact that our boy was showing ZERO symptoms of anything, as well as the possibility that we got a false positive, we made an educated decision to choose to wait for confirmation. Her demeanor and tone took on a shaming vibe also when I suggested that I would swing by the store to get the mandatory soy on my way home. "Oh no," she said (at least this is how I remember it). "You don't want to take him into any really public places until he's at least 2 months old," she informed me, talking about how his immune system can't handle it.

So, of course I left that doctor's office feeling completely incompetent, dismissed, angry, sad, frightened, worried, helpless, and hopeless. I had Sunshine pick up the formula on his way home, feeling grateful that Critter didn't get hungry before that. Feeling hopeless, I almost gave back the breast pump and threw away all the storage bags. I was told, afterall, that there was no other option than soy. I was told "Get him off milk immediately."

Then, I came to my senses, and remembered that disorders generally fall somewhere on a spectrum of severity. Maybe, just maybe, given his distinct lack of symptoms, he only had a mild case and we could reintroduce breast milk at some point in some quantity. This is where I have the biggest beef with that doctor. How difficult would it have been to advise me to go cold turkey and give the kid soy only, but to also keep pumping just in case the specialist cleared us? If I had taken that doctor's word --and unwillingness or maybe inability to inform me of possibilities-- as gospel, we'd be screwed into formula as our only option right now.

All is well that ends well, though. I've taken a break from ranting, and I've lost my steam for it. I'd rather marvel at my tiny person and thank my lucky stars for giving me life. Passing go is good. Life is good.

This is life, seriously

He's here! That little wad of Critter baby that I'd been cooking finally arrived, at 41 weeks, exactly, on August 9, 2013. Weighing in 7 lbs, 6 oz, THE CRITTER met the challenge of birth and fought me for a good 11 plus hours from our arrival at the birthing center, but contractions actually started about 6 hours before that.... But rather than repeat myself here, I'll just paste the email I sent to family (with some edits and additions) after labor was all said and done and the next challenges had set in.

Hi all,

Please forgive the mass email, as it just makes the update easier.

To start, baby boy Critter has, by all outward appearances, been thriving. He was born at the hospital soon after we got transferred from the birthing center, where we'd initially planned for a completely natural birth. Yup, due to decelerations in his heart rate at the end of each contraction, we ended up one of those rare cases that was too risky to stay the course without hospital monitoring. Turns out, his cord was wrapped around his neck, so kudos to the midwives for making that call! Admittedly, at the mention of the need for hospital transfer while I was in what seemed to be an eternal transition period (PAIN), my thinking was split (much like my body was feeling): "What?? Huh?? Really?? But..." (read into this as worry, concern, anxiety, and most definitely panic). Simultaneously, the other half of my thinking was "Yes, DRUGS!"

So I got my first ride in an ambulance, complete with oxygen to address hyperventilation that I couldn't, for the life of me, get a hold of on my own. Deep breathing and zen, my ass. I was shaking uncontrollably and losing it. Cheeks and hands were numb, and talking myself down seemed a whole lot more possible in the imaginary, fictional easy birth realm. All the while, the poor paramedic, just trying to do his job kept asking me impossible questions: "When's your birthday? What's your social? What's your address?" In that moment, he might as well have been asking for the precise number of hairs on my head or to recite lines from obscure Shakespeare. Somehow, I must've spat out the needed information though, because he did let me out into the capable hands of the hospital upon our arrival. He did not give up and chuck me out the back of the vehicle for being difficult.

From there, I was wheeled to my first very own hospital bed where my water FINALLY broke as soon as they got me on it. There, they told me it was probably "only a couple more hours." No. Body was trying to push, staff was telling me not to. Impossible not to push, but nothing was happening except, you know, pain. "Um, just so... (ouch) you... (wheeze) all know, I'm no longer... (grunt) opposed... (OOOOOUCH) to drugs. What are... (whimper) my options?" A lifetime later (probably more like 20-30 minutes), I received an epidural. It didn't take long for the clock to no longer feel like it was submerged in thick molasses. Time was back to normal, I couldn't feel my butt or anything else for that matter, and within literal minutes (rather than the hours the staff was quoting) our little pink, slimy, slippery baby boy finally made his debut into the world and into my arms. Seven pounds, six ounces. Nineteen and a half inches long. RED hair! Our perfect little boy, of course, melted both Sunshine's heart and mine. He, by the way, was amazing the whole way through. Augustus and I are very lucky to have him.

A little about my wonderful husband through the process: He stayed up with me from 2:30 am, on, timing my contractions and contacting the birthing center when my contractions started piling up on each other. He was the only person I wanted with me, other than the midwives (and what turned out to be a whole team of hospital staff). He held my hair when I puked. He offered to help me go to the bathroom (somehow my modesty remained partially in tact when it came to attempting to poop on the toilet!). He patiently held my IV bag while I slowly dosey doed endless circles around him in the birthing room. He tried to make me laugh to take my mind off the pain. He whispered sweet, encouraging words. He held me. He dealt with staff. He kept me warm. He tended to my mother, and held the ground for me that no one else--including her--would be permitted in the labor room and in the hospital. And, not once then nor since then has he made a single comment about the multitude of hideous faces, noises, smells, leakages, crying, and panic he experienced while holding the world together for me. And then, as our sweet boy was nestled into my arms, I got to look up and see the most beautiful tears in his eyes as he looked down at what we'd just brought into the world.

Although, I think he's still adjusting to the shock that our perfect little guy is a ginger. We're thinking, if he maintains the red, we'll get to give him his granduncle's (grandfather's brother?) nickname: BRICK!

Fast forward to today, and we're all a little worn out after an emergency appointment with the pediatrician yesterday. He's been eating well, he's growing like a weed (already up to 8 lb 1 oz, 20 inches) no jaundice, and seemingly normal everything else too. But, his enzyme and DNA tests came back positive for a rare genetic disorder called galactosemia, so... well... we're trying not to freak out. Adjusting our hopes and dreams and expectations to account for possible developmental delays and health issues has hit us pretty hard, but we're hopeful that little man, given the distinct lack of symptoms, has a mild version and can therefore be spared the more severe potential lifelong challenges and effects related to it. We've been doing our own research online (for better or worse), but we'll also be calling the specialist on Monday to make an appointment to learn more about what we might realistically expect for now as well as in the long run.

In the meantime, we have been well informed that the only "treatment" for him is soy formula. No milk of any kind from any source. Needless to say, with as much as he was eating before, Augustus and I are both pretty torn apart with the shutting down of the 24 hour boob diner. We're adjusting though. He roots. I cry and attempt words of encouragement for both of us. I give him his bottle of soy swill. He scowls, spits it out, and wears more of it than he drinks. Then we're crying together. Yeah, mother-son solidarity! I will say, though, he sleeps really well when he finishes crying, and my skin has that special, puffy glow only achieved through excessive weeping. So there's a silver lining? And then, of course, there's Rand. He's just as worried as I am, and still just as wonderful as ever. I think his silver lining is that now he doesn't have to give up holding his son just 'cause he can't offer him a nourishing boobie when he's hungry. He can feed Augustus just as... ahem... easily as I can.

So, that's it in a large nutshell. We'll keep you posted on little man's prognosis. In the meantime, the pediatrician we saw was NO help at all, as she just responded to my questions with "you'll have to ask the specialist," and the specialist was probably going to take at least weeks to see! So, I'm still pumping to keep milk production up, just in case his condition is mild enough to continue with some breastfeeding. I mean, not to be too uptight or anything, but what would have been so hard about informing me that it COULD be mild and I should keep milk production up, just in case? I had to decide to keep it up, based on my own research because I'd rather keep pumping and have to dump it all than stop only to find out that I could've still fed him a little. 

Anyhow, perhaps this email is filled with TMI, but it's where we find ourselves right now. Hunkering down and holding it together 'til we find our footing and effectively adjust our expectations.

Thank you all for your well wishes and support, we hope everyone is doing great; and, Wedgie, I want to drive out to see you first chance I get!

Lots of love and gratitude,
hatchetface

P.S. Here's one of the websites with some good info:

http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/galactosemia

Current update: I'm going to do my best not to see that particular doctor again. Nincompoopery! As it turns out his condition IS mild. As in, super mild. As in, he's ONLY A CARRIER and they don't think he has the active form of the disorder. I'm SO grateful to the specialist's office for being so prompt in analyzing his test results and getting back to me. I talked to his scheduler and told her I'm still pumping, and it seems she immediately jumped on top of getting me the info I needed. I haven't even seen the specialist she works for yet, but they've got me back on partial breastfeeding to test his system before going full boob again. The way things are looking, we probably won't even NEED to see him. Hooray! 24 hour boob diner is back in business!


And then there's this pic with Grandma. A picture can speak a thousand words, right? We're pretty sure this is more or less how Critter was positioned most of his time in the womb. What you can't see is the other knee sticking up; and he usually has both hands up at his face, one of which I frequently felt graze, tickle, and even seemingly squeeze the hell out of my bladder.


A few weeks before Critter was born, Sunshine asked me for a candid response, once little man arrived, to a question about love. Even though he already has a daughter with his ex wife, he wanted to know if, in fact, the love for partner (him) really does diminish when compared to the new, overwhelming love of a child. I've heard from other women before that the partner/husband essentially becomes chopped liver once the baby arrives, but, honestly, I think there's probably something amiss in those relationships. Critter has, in fact, given new light and a never before experienced overwhelming love to my world, but it has in no way negatively impacted my feelings for my husband. Rather, it has intensified my feelings toward him. Before Critter (can we call this BC?), I feel like I fell a little more in love with Sunshine every day; and now that Critter is here, the rate at which my love and gratitude grow seems to have an exponential acceleration.


That's not to say I haven't been dive bombed by insecurity birds or had the irrational, fearful hobgoblins scratching around chaotically in my mind, especially when dead tired. It doesn't mean we won't have our challenges and disagreements.


It DOES mean I miss him when one or the other of us can't come to bed because we're tending to our son. It means we're navigating a major shift in family dynamics. It also means I adore and respect him for being my partner in this amazing, and sometimes challenging, journey.


With the exception of the momentary terror that my son might be sick, and all that would have gone with that possibility, I have to say it's not a bad way to pass go these days.