Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Obscene
So i'm not quite at the male equivalent of wanting a porsche at a certain age, but I did have a "moment" the other weekend when I considered spending an obscene amount of money on a pair or leather leggings. Instead, I spent the equivalent amount at Sephora, trying to preserve my fleeting youth. Seriously, obscene.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Ass Crack
It's befitting that on my birthday I wanted to reminisce about my days at CPMC and how painful my recovery was. I guess it's so that I can be grateful for my recovery and distract myself from the fact that I'm another year older. So back at CPMC, 24 hours after delivery, every fiber of my being was in pain. My body was sore from delivery, my guess was that world war III took place around all my lady parts, and it took every ounce of energy I had to brace my body up out of bed, to hobble on over to the bathroom to use the facilities...which is just a sad and sorry sight. I guess it's a preview to what I have to look forward to in my senior years.
So there's this cream that they give you on pad, to wipe on your booty to soothe the DISCOMFORT, and it is a dream cream. I asked for more, and they said that they can only give it to me twice a day. WHAT??? Forget the ice packs, hot packs, doughnut pillow, I WANT THAT CREAM. Can they write me a prescription for it? I thought it was nurses being difficult, I mean come on, it's a cream, they're suppose to be in the business of helping patients, no? So I ask the doctor the next morning. Get this, they can't write me a prescription for it, but they can give me a little bit more on the hospital version of tucks pads for later. They can't because the cream is a narcotic with cocaine in it! So, in all my years, I have never done any drugs, a cigarette has never graced my lips, and all I've had is an occasional drink and now I'm like a junkie begging the doctor for more ass crack? Motherhood did change me.
So there's this cream that they give you on pad, to wipe on your booty to soothe the DISCOMFORT, and it is a dream cream. I asked for more, and they said that they can only give it to me twice a day. WHAT??? Forget the ice packs, hot packs, doughnut pillow, I WANT THAT CREAM. Can they write me a prescription for it? I thought it was nurses being difficult, I mean come on, it's a cream, they're suppose to be in the business of helping patients, no? So I ask the doctor the next morning. Get this, they can't write me a prescription for it, but they can give me a little bit more on the hospital version of tucks pads for later. They can't because the cream is a narcotic with cocaine in it! So, in all my years, I have never done any drugs, a cigarette has never graced my lips, and all I've had is an occasional drink and now I'm like a junkie begging the doctor for more ass crack? Motherhood did change me.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
mini, major milestones
This post is a catch all for all that's happened when we brought Dylan home. Like most moms, there are few moments when I have linear thinking, so this post might be all over the place, but I will do my best to report on them in chronological order.
Jaundice-free.
We came home from the hospital on a friday night, about 44 hours after Dylan's birth. I was a mess, and was very unsure about a lot of things. A few things at the top of that list were: how am I going to take care of this baby, how am I going to go to the bathroom, when am I going to recover from labor, etc. Since I had really limited mobility, we tried drawing a bath in Dylan's bathroom, since it had a lower tub. An hour into our return home, the bath water started leaking though the floor/ceiling onto the family room floor, seeping through our crown moulding. Nice. The scene would be me lying helpless in the tub, staring quizzically at Dylan, Dylan in his car seat by the toilet and Brian searching for a bucket in our garage. Painful feedings every 3 hours or so, and us going to Dylan's first doctor's appt on a saturday morning.
I wasn't prepared for Dylan to be sick. He was perfect and we had MADE it, So what do you mean he has to go to Lucille Packard? We got there and I lost it. It was the same NICU, the essence of Musubi was there, and everywhere you looked were small babies. Some were fine, some were fighting to stay relevant, some looked limp and exhausted. It was none of my business, but I couldn't help but look. And then there was Dylan, so little in his tanning bed, wearing his shades to protect his eyes. And then there was me, stressed, trying to pump as much as possible so I could feed my little starving, savage son. It was this strange, surreal time period when we were home, and it was like what the F happened? We had a baby, but he's not home? We still slept uneasily, the house was too quiet, and we were so restless. Fortunately the hospital was so close, so we were able to visit often.
Brian went back to work that monday, and mom and dad came with me to bring Dylan back home. He was doing well, sucking down formula, and apparently was given a pacifier too.
6 Weeks.
There is something magical about the 6 week threshold, when things start clicking into place. This is also strongly correlated to Dylan giving us nice 6 hour stretches of sleep at night. YES, that's right. I would feed him some time between 11-12 and he would nurse for about an hour and then wake up some time between 6-7am. Now, I'm very sensitive to parents bragging about their kids, and I'm not saying that he's extraordinarily mature, with amazing physical prowess and off-the-charts emotional IQ...but I am saying that I hit the jackpot with a baby who sleeps through the night, and for the most part still does at week 13. In the past 7 weeks, he's woken up once at 3am. SO yes, I am a big winner, First, hitting the jackpot with my husband and Second, having a baby who has half of his genes.
And have we come a long way with nursing. Now no one told me how difficult it would be, and I watched enough of the "breast is best" propaganda at CPMC to believe some of their gospel, so I forced my nipples to endure pain that was more excruciating than labor. Where is the anesthesiologist for nursing? I believe I just discovered an entirely new sector in healthcare. I will never forget waking up in the hospital with my hospital gown stuck to my left nipple, which had bled through my gown, onto the bed sheet. I remembering whimpering to several lactation consultants and writhing in pain every time Dylan would latch on. When a friend said that it gets easier, and that it takes 4-6 weeks for it to get better, I didn't think that my nips would survive. I am convinced that Dylan has chomped off my old nipples and my version 2.0 ones are better prepared to deal with the elements. It's interesting that your boobs have a mind of their own, and they leak when they hear your baby crying (did not know about that!) Which is a good thing, since for the first 6 weeks, you walk around with half a brain anyways, so with your boob brains, you get pretty close to your previous capacity. And you realize that your brain is now replaced with blobs of milk-filled fat, which is sometimes how i feel when dealing with such difficult decisions like "should I wash the dishes, get the mail, or reheat my lunch for the 3rd time."
And with the nursing, comes the pooping and the peeing. My friends who have little girls have no idea what I'm talking about. They have peaceful, neat diaper changes. I gawk with envy as they calmly change their baby in their bassinet. I can't even imagine. With Dylan, it's like an extreme sport. You just have to hold your breath, cross your fingers, and hope you survive. By week 6, you kind of get the hang of it. You learn to put the new diaper underneath the old diaper - which has a 50% chance of getting soiled during the diaper change, you figure out that the ruffles need to be out and untucked, away from his body, and that there's usually a trilogy with his poops (sharts don't count). You get less anal with pee (like usage of words?), since it's sterile, and you remind yourself that you need to do something else to save the environment, since your household now generates so much more waste...
Hello World
Weeks 9 and 10 are major. That's when Dylan started smiling and talking. He babbles and coos with incredible fluency and he smiles with such happiness that my heart just aches when I think about how hard life is...and how fiercely protective I am of his innocence. I watch him track objects in our world, and how he bats at his toys on his play mat with wonder. He's developing and growing so quickly, faster than what I'm prepared for.
Not a fan of tummy time, he rolled over yesterday, semi-assisted at 13 weeks. We'll need to practice our technique with a swaddle blanket. Another big milestone coming soon, to a flat surface near you.
Jaundice-free.
We came home from the hospital on a friday night, about 44 hours after Dylan's birth. I was a mess, and was very unsure about a lot of things. A few things at the top of that list were: how am I going to take care of this baby, how am I going to go to the bathroom, when am I going to recover from labor, etc. Since I had really limited mobility, we tried drawing a bath in Dylan's bathroom, since it had a lower tub. An hour into our return home, the bath water started leaking though the floor/ceiling onto the family room floor, seeping through our crown moulding. Nice. The scene would be me lying helpless in the tub, staring quizzically at Dylan, Dylan in his car seat by the toilet and Brian searching for a bucket in our garage. Painful feedings every 3 hours or so, and us going to Dylan's first doctor's appt on a saturday morning.
I wasn't prepared for Dylan to be sick. He was perfect and we had MADE it, So what do you mean he has to go to Lucille Packard? We got there and I lost it. It was the same NICU, the essence of Musubi was there, and everywhere you looked were small babies. Some were fine, some were fighting to stay relevant, some looked limp and exhausted. It was none of my business, but I couldn't help but look. And then there was Dylan, so little in his tanning bed, wearing his shades to protect his eyes. And then there was me, stressed, trying to pump as much as possible so I could feed my little starving, savage son. It was this strange, surreal time period when we were home, and it was like what the F happened? We had a baby, but he's not home? We still slept uneasily, the house was too quiet, and we were so restless. Fortunately the hospital was so close, so we were able to visit often.
Brian went back to work that monday, and mom and dad came with me to bring Dylan back home. He was doing well, sucking down formula, and apparently was given a pacifier too.
6 Weeks.
There is something magical about the 6 week threshold, when things start clicking into place. This is also strongly correlated to Dylan giving us nice 6 hour stretches of sleep at night. YES, that's right. I would feed him some time between 11-12 and he would nurse for about an hour and then wake up some time between 6-7am. Now, I'm very sensitive to parents bragging about their kids, and I'm not saying that he's extraordinarily mature, with amazing physical prowess and off-the-charts emotional IQ...but I am saying that I hit the jackpot with a baby who sleeps through the night, and for the most part still does at week 13. In the past 7 weeks, he's woken up once at 3am. SO yes, I am a big winner, First, hitting the jackpot with my husband and Second, having a baby who has half of his genes.
And have we come a long way with nursing. Now no one told me how difficult it would be, and I watched enough of the "breast is best" propaganda at CPMC to believe some of their gospel, so I forced my nipples to endure pain that was more excruciating than labor. Where is the anesthesiologist for nursing? I believe I just discovered an entirely new sector in healthcare. I will never forget waking up in the hospital with my hospital gown stuck to my left nipple, which had bled through my gown, onto the bed sheet. I remembering whimpering to several lactation consultants and writhing in pain every time Dylan would latch on. When a friend said that it gets easier, and that it takes 4-6 weeks for it to get better, I didn't think that my nips would survive. I am convinced that Dylan has chomped off my old nipples and my version 2.0 ones are better prepared to deal with the elements. It's interesting that your boobs have a mind of their own, and they leak when they hear your baby crying (did not know about that!) Which is a good thing, since for the first 6 weeks, you walk around with half a brain anyways, so with your boob brains, you get pretty close to your previous capacity. And you realize that your brain is now replaced with blobs of milk-filled fat, which is sometimes how i feel when dealing with such difficult decisions like "should I wash the dishes, get the mail, or reheat my lunch for the 3rd time."
And with the nursing, comes the pooping and the peeing. My friends who have little girls have no idea what I'm talking about. They have peaceful, neat diaper changes. I gawk with envy as they calmly change their baby in their bassinet. I can't even imagine. With Dylan, it's like an extreme sport. You just have to hold your breath, cross your fingers, and hope you survive. By week 6, you kind of get the hang of it. You learn to put the new diaper underneath the old diaper - which has a 50% chance of getting soiled during the diaper change, you figure out that the ruffles need to be out and untucked, away from his body, and that there's usually a trilogy with his poops (sharts don't count). You get less anal with pee (like usage of words?), since it's sterile, and you remind yourself that you need to do something else to save the environment, since your household now generates so much more waste...
Hello World
Weeks 9 and 10 are major. That's when Dylan started smiling and talking. He babbles and coos with incredible fluency and he smiles with such happiness that my heart just aches when I think about how hard life is...and how fiercely protective I am of his innocence. I watch him track objects in our world, and how he bats at his toys on his play mat with wonder. He's developing and growing so quickly, faster than what I'm prepared for.
Not a fan of tummy time, he rolled over yesterday, semi-assisted at 13 weeks. We'll need to practice our technique with a swaddle blanket. Another big milestone coming soon, to a flat surface near you.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Nursing Shoes
No, I'm not talking about crocs. I'm talking about how sometimes you're going to have to get up from let's say, a restaurant or something, or move when you're nursing, and it's a potential hazard if you have your baby and you are wearing high-heeled boots. Ergo, you need some fall/winter shoes that are appropriate for nursing. Good thing mine were on sale at Zappos today.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Labor of Love
Most women say that they have a some sort of amnesia that happens about the pain and discomfort during labor that allows them to do it all over again to add to their clan. I want to write about my experience to make sure I don't forget the details. There's no need for me to forget about the experience to convince me to have another baby. I'm still incredibly determined to outshine the universe by having more children, and I may have accepted my fate but have not quite forgiven the universe for taking my first baby away from me.
I suppose i could port all the details about my pregnancy to this blog, but I thought I'd make a clean break and write about life A.D., right before his full head of black air was exposed to this world.
Note: The following may make you uncomfortable. Skip this post if you are uncomfortable reading about bodily functions, malfunctions, and lady parts.
Prior to my decision to get induced, I was as my brother-in-law described, walking around "willy nilly" about 5-6 cm dilated. For those of you who have heard me tell this story before, you can skip this post as well. So on tuesday the 16th, I had an appt with my doc who laid out 2 options for me. 1) I could let nature take its course and see what happens or 2) he could arrange for my paperwork to be ready for me to check in to the hospital to get induced the next day. Both options had advantages and disadvantages and the decision was left to me. Huh? I could barely decide what I wanted to have for dinner, let alone decide when would be the appropriate time to bring my baby into this world. All I could do was pray for a sign.
They wanted me to call at 6am to see if they had a bed available for me. I was supposed to check in at 7am. We set the alarm for 5:30 to get ready in case they had beds open and we needed to leave at 6 to get there by 7. The night before I wore the outfit that I had planned to wear to the hospital to save time getting ready, and I was tired since the decision to be induced or not had weighed on my mind all night. I woke up and I had dropped a piece of watermelon on route to my mouth on my white shirt. Brian was downstairs, wondering what the hold up was, and I was hand-washing the stain out of my shirt at 6:15, wondering if this was a sign that i shouldn't be going to the hospital today. Fortunately he was patient and i tentatively got in the car, reassuring myself that I could still go to the hospital and then decide not to go through with it. In the car ride there, "Let's Wait Awhile" by Janet came on. Are you serious - that song never gets any airtime these day, unless it's some friday night throwback weekend romance mix. Why would it be playing at 6:45am? That's a serious sign! What am I going to do?
I started contracting a lot more when we got off the freeway, enough that i would have called the doctor and brian, although in hindsight I'm wondering if my stress caused these contractions. But the contractions really scared me. I got to this point in my pregnancy in which I didn't know if I could trust my body anymore. I got Dylan to 37 weeks and I didn't know if I should press my luck. I wanted him out, so that other people could help me take care of him. The pressure and anxiety of being the only person who could really take care of him while I was pregnant, really started to wear on me. Plus, as far as letting nature take her course, this entire pregnancy was fated with human medical intervention, why not 'til the end? So when we got to the hospital, I was ready.
We checked in at 7:20am and I was on pitocin by 9:30am. I had hard boiled eggs and the last of my mango, which I can say gave me just enough energy to make it through. And so we waited. Dr. Katz would come and check up on me here and there, and sure enough, my cervix willy nillyed itself to 8ish cm and it was around then that I think I started to loose my grip on reality because I was almost convinced to not have the epidural. To be clear, I did walk into the hospital with a birth plan. The only plan I had was that I only wanted Brian in the room, that I wanted an epidural and wanted to have a c-section if the baby showed any signs of distress. Both labor and delivery nurses tried to coach me out of having the epidural, and for a few hours I was considering it. Thinking back, maybe hunger or the pitocin makes you delusional. Dr. Katz came back at 5:30 to break my bag of waters and then the pain exponentially increased. It's like when you're standing in line at the club, waiting to get in. Every now and then the door would open to let someone in or out, and you would hear the music blaring inside. It's loud, but fine. And then you would get closer, and closer to the front of the line, and as the door would open, the music would be louder. And then you get into the club and the music was loud, but tolerable. And then imagine yourself strapped down in stirrups right next to the biggest speaker and the music is so loud that your eyeballs vibrate inside your head and you can barely think. That music = my contractions, and when my water broke, the only clear thought I had in my head was to tell the nurse to go find the anesthesiologist, STAT.
The pain of getting the epidural was not bad. Although they tell you that it takes 15-20 minutes for it "to take." So after 30 min of grimacing through every contraction, I asked the nurse if it's normal to still feel EVERYTHING, because I started to wonder if the drugs even did anything. The anesthesiologist came back, made some adjustments, and then order was re-established in my birth plan. I wasn't 10 cm yet and there was still some time to kill. I checked my email, blogged about the experience, shopped for my niece's bday gift, etc. but by 7pm I was ready to push.
My body at his point was still a vessel that was somewhat recognizable and pseudo-responsive. I was still able to feel every contraction, well before brian or the nurse could detect it on the monitor and surprisingly could still feel and move my legs and toes. Our labor and delivery nurse's husband was the executive chef at Carneros, so for awhile that was some interesting banter about food, wine and restaurants.
Dialogue:
Me: So what's your favorite restaurant in wine country?
Nurse: Oh, I like this place in Napa, PUSH, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH. But we don't eat out that often.
Me: Oh really? Have you tried... Oh wait another contraction. PUSH, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH.
Meanwhile, Dr. Katz would come in, and I'm pretty sure he was exaggerating the progress I was making. Over the course of the next 4 hours, he would slowly transform from his shirt and tie self to someone who either looked like he worked for NASA as an astronaut, or someone who deals with chemical waste, in full police riot gear. And it would be very ceremonial and dramatic, like "look I'm taking my watch off now..."
My stamina was waning and I had no more energy for culinary conversation. It was time to get this show on the road. They asked if I wanted to see him crowning in the mirror to motivate me, and then I asked them if they wanted me to pass out, because that's what would happen if I saw his head coming out of my cha-cha. They wanted me to push harder, to push longer. No duh. I wanted to too, and after 3 hours you wonder how much longer could I possible do this for? But like any other woman in labor, you push the doubt aside and you focus and you just bear down and do it. You tell yourself that this is it. That you can do this. That billions of women across eons have done this. That animals do this. And that women who think they are having bowels movements but are really having babies do this, so I should be able to do this too. And so you do it, because that's what women do. And the last time I checked before my body became unrecognizable, I was a woman, so I wiped the sweat off of my palms, tucked my double chins under, gripped my thighs and PPPPPUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHED!!!
Once Dylan's head was out, it didn't take very long to push out the rest of his little squirmy body. Dr. Katz pulled him out and placed him on my chest, and Dylan made his gender known by peeing all over me. He was perfect, even down to the golden urine arch.
We did it. Dylan Young Fong was born on Aug. 17 at 11:17pm. And so it begins.
I suppose i could port all the details about my pregnancy to this blog, but I thought I'd make a clean break and write about life A.D., right before his full head of black air was exposed to this world.
Note: The following may make you uncomfortable. Skip this post if you are uncomfortable reading about bodily functions, malfunctions, and lady parts.
Prior to my decision to get induced, I was as my brother-in-law described, walking around "willy nilly" about 5-6 cm dilated. For those of you who have heard me tell this story before, you can skip this post as well. So on tuesday the 16th, I had an appt with my doc who laid out 2 options for me. 1) I could let nature take its course and see what happens or 2) he could arrange for my paperwork to be ready for me to check in to the hospital to get induced the next day. Both options had advantages and disadvantages and the decision was left to me. Huh? I could barely decide what I wanted to have for dinner, let alone decide when would be the appropriate time to bring my baby into this world. All I could do was pray for a sign.
They wanted me to call at 6am to see if they had a bed available for me. I was supposed to check in at 7am. We set the alarm for 5:30 to get ready in case they had beds open and we needed to leave at 6 to get there by 7. The night before I wore the outfit that I had planned to wear to the hospital to save time getting ready, and I was tired since the decision to be induced or not had weighed on my mind all night. I woke up and I had dropped a piece of watermelon on route to my mouth on my white shirt. Brian was downstairs, wondering what the hold up was, and I was hand-washing the stain out of my shirt at 6:15, wondering if this was a sign that i shouldn't be going to the hospital today. Fortunately he was patient and i tentatively got in the car, reassuring myself that I could still go to the hospital and then decide not to go through with it. In the car ride there, "Let's Wait Awhile" by Janet came on. Are you serious - that song never gets any airtime these day, unless it's some friday night throwback weekend romance mix. Why would it be playing at 6:45am? That's a serious sign! What am I going to do?
I started contracting a lot more when we got off the freeway, enough that i would have called the doctor and brian, although in hindsight I'm wondering if my stress caused these contractions. But the contractions really scared me. I got to this point in my pregnancy in which I didn't know if I could trust my body anymore. I got Dylan to 37 weeks and I didn't know if I should press my luck. I wanted him out, so that other people could help me take care of him. The pressure and anxiety of being the only person who could really take care of him while I was pregnant, really started to wear on me. Plus, as far as letting nature take her course, this entire pregnancy was fated with human medical intervention, why not 'til the end? So when we got to the hospital, I was ready.
We checked in at 7:20am and I was on pitocin by 9:30am. I had hard boiled eggs and the last of my mango, which I can say gave me just enough energy to make it through. And so we waited. Dr. Katz would come and check up on me here and there, and sure enough, my cervix willy nillyed itself to 8ish cm and it was around then that I think I started to loose my grip on reality because I was almost convinced to not have the epidural. To be clear, I did walk into the hospital with a birth plan. The only plan I had was that I only wanted Brian in the room, that I wanted an epidural and wanted to have a c-section if the baby showed any signs of distress. Both labor and delivery nurses tried to coach me out of having the epidural, and for a few hours I was considering it. Thinking back, maybe hunger or the pitocin makes you delusional. Dr. Katz came back at 5:30 to break my bag of waters and then the pain exponentially increased. It's like when you're standing in line at the club, waiting to get in. Every now and then the door would open to let someone in or out, and you would hear the music blaring inside. It's loud, but fine. And then you would get closer, and closer to the front of the line, and as the door would open, the music would be louder. And then you get into the club and the music was loud, but tolerable. And then imagine yourself strapped down in stirrups right next to the biggest speaker and the music is so loud that your eyeballs vibrate inside your head and you can barely think. That music = my contractions, and when my water broke, the only clear thought I had in my head was to tell the nurse to go find the anesthesiologist, STAT.
The pain of getting the epidural was not bad. Although they tell you that it takes 15-20 minutes for it "to take." So after 30 min of grimacing through every contraction, I asked the nurse if it's normal to still feel EVERYTHING, because I started to wonder if the drugs even did anything. The anesthesiologist came back, made some adjustments, and then order was re-established in my birth plan. I wasn't 10 cm yet and there was still some time to kill. I checked my email, blogged about the experience, shopped for my niece's bday gift, etc. but by 7pm I was ready to push.
My body at his point was still a vessel that was somewhat recognizable and pseudo-responsive. I was still able to feel every contraction, well before brian or the nurse could detect it on the monitor and surprisingly could still feel and move my legs and toes. Our labor and delivery nurse's husband was the executive chef at Carneros, so for awhile that was some interesting banter about food, wine and restaurants.
Dialogue:
Me: So what's your favorite restaurant in wine country?
Nurse: Oh, I like this place in Napa, PUSH, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH. But we don't eat out that often.
Me: Oh really? Have you tried... Oh wait another contraction. PUSH, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10, PUSH.
Meanwhile, Dr. Katz would come in, and I'm pretty sure he was exaggerating the progress I was making. Over the course of the next 4 hours, he would slowly transform from his shirt and tie self to someone who either looked like he worked for NASA as an astronaut, or someone who deals with chemical waste, in full police riot gear. And it would be very ceremonial and dramatic, like "look I'm taking my watch off now..."
My stamina was waning and I had no more energy for culinary conversation. It was time to get this show on the road. They asked if I wanted to see him crowning in the mirror to motivate me, and then I asked them if they wanted me to pass out, because that's what would happen if I saw his head coming out of my cha-cha. They wanted me to push harder, to push longer. No duh. I wanted to too, and after 3 hours you wonder how much longer could I possible do this for? But like any other woman in labor, you push the doubt aside and you focus and you just bear down and do it. You tell yourself that this is it. That you can do this. That billions of women across eons have done this. That animals do this. And that women who think they are having bowels movements but are really having babies do this, so I should be able to do this too. And so you do it, because that's what women do. And the last time I checked before my body became unrecognizable, I was a woman, so I wiped the sweat off of my palms, tucked my double chins under, gripped my thighs and PPPPPUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHED!!!
Once Dylan's head was out, it didn't take very long to push out the rest of his little squirmy body. Dr. Katz pulled him out and placed him on my chest, and Dylan made his gender known by peeing all over me. He was perfect, even down to the golden urine arch.
We did it. Dylan Young Fong was born on Aug. 17 at 11:17pm. And so it begins.
Day 29
I thought I'd share a post from my old blog about my state of mind on day 29, since it's starts with a disclaimer. I feel like this disclaimer (in bold below) is important enough to state again:
Thursday, September 15, 2011
survivor
Note: If anyone reads this, please do not let this deter you from having children. There is no greater miracle than creating life, and I question myself daily if I'm capable of taking care of that responsibility.
dylan is 29 days old today, no longer a newborn by medical definition. i am, however a newborn mother, and it is still strange to me that i refer to myself in third person. "mommy needs to do this...mommy needs to wash her hands...mommy needs a time out." but everything is strange through this zombie haze I've been in since Dylan has been home.
there's so much to say, and not enough waking hours to say it. i haven't written about the actual delivery, dylan becoming jaundice and going to stanford, my first few days home, and my fragile state of mind--then and now. everything seems more difficult now. my physical coordination, my cognitive capabilities, baseline comprehension stunted. i catch myself trying so desperately to multi-task, yet failing miserably. ex. how much can i possibly do, as my food is being microwaved in 2 min: wash dishes, get the mail, mail a package, check my vmail, get water from the garage. I stand in my hallway, frozen, unable to decide on how to make the best use of my time...and then the microwave starts beeping. alas, i didn't do anything during those precious 2 min.
Some days i walk around in a stupor, with the stupid my brest friend (stupid because it doesn't not come with a waterproof cover) around my waist walking around my house in my underwear. Why wear clothes? that would just be doubling the laundry, consider the fact that dylan's poop and pee trajectory knows no bounds. Ok, most days that's the case, and there are times when I manage to get my pants on and brave the outside world with dylan in his stroller, and me being the crazy chinese lady trying to make sure that the swaddle blanket is providing enough shade and paranoid that he's too hot/cold, etc. meanwhile i'm still traumatized that my feet are so much larger than before. I suppose that they are proportional to my gigantor body, but I refuse to believe that my shoe wardrobe is obsolete. I told brian that i would feel better about myself if i weren't so grossly obese. I am the human space character in Wall-E, all rotund with sausage toes. as much as i should write more about everything that has been going on, i'm going to go for a walk now. it's one of the few things i can do before i go to my post partum check up. OCD behavior - here I come!
- posted by Y. @ 4:01 PM
Thursday, September 15, 2011
survivor
Note: If anyone reads this, please do not let this deter you from having children. There is no greater miracle than creating life, and I question myself daily if I'm capable of taking care of that responsibility.
dylan is 29 days old today, no longer a newborn by medical definition. i am, however a newborn mother, and it is still strange to me that i refer to myself in third person. "mommy needs to do this...mommy needs to wash her hands...mommy needs a time out." but everything is strange through this zombie haze I've been in since Dylan has been home.
there's so much to say, and not enough waking hours to say it. i haven't written about the actual delivery, dylan becoming jaundice and going to stanford, my first few days home, and my fragile state of mind--then and now. everything seems more difficult now. my physical coordination, my cognitive capabilities, baseline comprehension stunted. i catch myself trying so desperately to multi-task, yet failing miserably. ex. how much can i possibly do, as my food is being microwaved in 2 min: wash dishes, get the mail, mail a package, check my vmail, get water from the garage. I stand in my hallway, frozen, unable to decide on how to make the best use of my time...and then the microwave starts beeping. alas, i didn't do anything during those precious 2 min.
Some days i walk around in a stupor, with the stupid my brest friend (stupid because it doesn't not come with a waterproof cover) around my waist walking around my house in my underwear. Why wear clothes? that would just be doubling the laundry, consider the fact that dylan's poop and pee trajectory knows no bounds. Ok, most days that's the case, and there are times when I manage to get my pants on and brave the outside world with dylan in his stroller, and me being the crazy chinese lady trying to make sure that the swaddle blanket is providing enough shade and paranoid that he's too hot/cold, etc. meanwhile i'm still traumatized that my feet are so much larger than before. I suppose that they are proportional to my gigantor body, but I refuse to believe that my shoe wardrobe is obsolete. I told brian that i would feel better about myself if i weren't so grossly obese. I am the human space character in Wall-E, all rotund with sausage toes. as much as i should write more about everything that has been going on, i'm going to go for a walk now. it's one of the few things i can do before i go to my post partum check up. OCD behavior - here I come!
- posted by Y. @ 4:01 PM
Where Do I Start?
Where should I start? From my last post off of my old blog? From the description of my labor? Everything is so different now. There was life before Dylan (B.D.), and life after Dylan (A.D.). It's not life before kids, as for those who know me, life before the loss of our first son was dramatically different as well.
I will start with my need to write things down. I remember when I was in college, which I pretend was not so long ago, that I used to not have an organizer, or be very diligent about writing things down. Don't get me wrong, I took copious during class, it was just that I had that naive arrogance that if something were important, I'd remember it. If I didn't, then it must not have been that important. Well that logic went down the diaper pail when I became gainfully employed after college. I quickly realized that just because I didn't think it was important, didn't necessarily mean that others thought so too....So came the need to write things down.
Then came the desire to write. This was my first post on my first blog:
Monday, February 23, 2004
used to
I used to write. I used to do many things that I don't do anymore. Like waking up sunday mornings and letting the warmth crawl up my toes and letting the sunlight wash over me in a warm haze. Lingering just a little bit more...before I have to move. But I don't have to, if I don't want to, because that's what sunday mornings are for--when you're in love. It's listening to Alice radio's acoustic sunrise and sympathizing with the love songs that pine away for what you have, and shyly smiling when the songs are about exactly how you feel.
But like I said, I don't do that anymore.
Instead I sit in empty parking lots that overlook the bay. I look out to the ocean, the stars and the sky and try to feel small. I try to feel as if I belong to a larger order, a greater cosmic force where things make sense and even nothing means something. But it's not the truth that I'm in search of. It's the "when everything means nothing without you" that I'm after. It's the person you blend in perfect harmony with, who can finish your thoughts with a knowing smile and believes in you more than you believe in yourself when it counts.
Love. Another something that I used to -- that I'm used to.
- posted by Y. @ 8:15 PM
Some say that I have flair for being dramatic. Go figure.
I guess you could say that deep emotional experiences compel me to write, and I do find it somewhat cathartic. I guess I have a penchant for brooding about life, and I have a few friends that find my surmises amusing, so I thought that I would start a new blog on this new chapter of my life--being a new mom. And since I'm a makeup junkie and these same friends that find my pensive remarks entertaining, also know sometimes I can be a touch "fromage-y". (For those of you who didn't take high-school french, fromage = cheese. Sophisticated, Stinky Cheese.) So that's why I couldn't resist the pun in the title.
SO, I plan on writing as much as I can, when I can, wherever I can. If you have comments, questions, thoughts, please feel free to share them with me. No Haters, Please. Life's hard enough and I'd prefer you channel your negativity elsewhere.
I will start with my need to write things down. I remember when I was in college, which I pretend was not so long ago, that I used to not have an organizer, or be very diligent about writing things down. Don't get me wrong, I took copious during class, it was just that I had that naive arrogance that if something were important, I'd remember it. If I didn't, then it must not have been that important. Well that logic went down the diaper pail when I became gainfully employed after college. I quickly realized that just because I didn't think it was important, didn't necessarily mean that others thought so too....So came the need to write things down.
Then came the desire to write. This was my first post on my first blog:
Monday, February 23, 2004
used to
I used to write. I used to do many things that I don't do anymore. Like waking up sunday mornings and letting the warmth crawl up my toes and letting the sunlight wash over me in a warm haze. Lingering just a little bit more...before I have to move. But I don't have to, if I don't want to, because that's what sunday mornings are for--when you're in love. It's listening to Alice radio's acoustic sunrise and sympathizing with the love songs that pine away for what you have, and shyly smiling when the songs are about exactly how you feel.
But like I said, I don't do that anymore.
Instead I sit in empty parking lots that overlook the bay. I look out to the ocean, the stars and the sky and try to feel small. I try to feel as if I belong to a larger order, a greater cosmic force where things make sense and even nothing means something. But it's not the truth that I'm in search of. It's the "when everything means nothing without you" that I'm after. It's the person you blend in perfect harmony with, who can finish your thoughts with a knowing smile and believes in you more than you believe in yourself when it counts.
Love. Another something that I used to -- that I'm used to.
- posted by Y. @ 8:15 PM
Some say that I have flair for being dramatic. Go figure.
I guess you could say that deep emotional experiences compel me to write, and I do find it somewhat cathartic. I guess I have a penchant for brooding about life, and I have a few friends that find my surmises amusing, so I thought that I would start a new blog on this new chapter of my life--being a new mom. And since I'm a makeup junkie and these same friends that find my pensive remarks entertaining, also know sometimes I can be a touch "fromage-y". (For those of you who didn't take high-school french, fromage = cheese. Sophisticated, Stinky Cheese.) So that's why I couldn't resist the pun in the title.
SO, I plan on writing as much as I can, when I can, wherever I can. If you have comments, questions, thoughts, please feel free to share them with me. No Haters, Please. Life's hard enough and I'd prefer you channel your negativity elsewhere.
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