We’re measuring our lives right now in millilitres and dirties, in the tiniest of yawns and loudest of yowls.
I’m thinking about how I used to wish for a few more hours in the day, and realizing that they’re actually tucked into the feeding cycle of an infant, snuck sometime between when the rest of the world is fast asleep and when the birds begin to chirp. They are sweet-cheeks-resting-on-bosom-hours, nodding off in the rocker hours, blurry-eyed hours not meant for productivity at all. My body is not quite ready to accept this new arrangement of time.
Hours. Labor for me was not as I’d envisioned. It was a 30 hour event, begun at about 2 a.m. Wednesday and carried through until 7:26 a.m. Thursday. I ended up getting an epidural after all. Here, I’m still coherent enough to stick my tongue out at the camera and be amused reading “Dadspin” posts. (Thanks Tim and Gretchen!)
The baby was “sunny side up,” as they say, and after three and a half hours of pushing, he finally came out with forceps. Apparently they called a “Code Pink” and our hospital room filled up with nurses and midwives and doctors in all-hands-on-deck-during-shift-change mode. (Side note: Nurses are amazing. I have no idea how they can see so much and pretend it’s not a big, disgusting deal.)
Absolutely none of that would have been in a “birth plan,” but eventually I came to understand the labor and delivery process more as a “Choose your own adventure” type of experience than something that can be worked through in advance.
Emmett wasn’t breathing on his own at the start (he’d gotten meconium in his lungs and I’d started to run a fever) and gave us quite a scare. Well, I say that, but I didn’t know that something might be wrong until I realized how long the pause had been before his first scream. Our first few days were spent being monitored the NICU, but we got to come home on Father’s Day afternoon and just have a few more tests to confirm everything is A-OK.
In the meantime, we’ve been falling in love. Can you blame us? I’m trying not to be one of those moms who only posts photos of her baby to Instagram (@brianne_sanchez), but I can’t resist.
This poem shared by Cup of Jo rang true today:
“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.” ― poem by Mary Jean Irion