Tag Archives: parenting

Bubba McTiny’s Birth Story

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Hank was born four weeks early at just five pounds, and we called him “Teeny McTiny” for  the first six months of his life (until he experienced a massive growth spurt and shot from the bottom 10th-percentile on the pediatric growth charts to the top 15th-percentile). His little brother (whom we shall call Ollie here, to protect his privacy), arrived two weeks early, already weighing eight and a half pounds. He’s a big boy, yet one forgets how small and helpless all newborns are (even the big ones), and so we’re calling him “Bubba McTiny” for now.

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Thankfully, the pregnancy induced hypertension (PIH) for which I was being so closely monitored for the last month of my pregnancy never developed, though I continued to have  proteinuria until the end. I submitted to weekly blood tests, urine tests, ultrasounds, doctor’s visits, and twice weekly non stress tests at the childbirth center until my water broke, unexpectedly, the morning of March 10, when I was exactly 38 weeks pregnant. I was giving Hank a bath, squatting beside the tub, and when I got up to get his towel I noticed I’d left a small, pink puddle on the bathroom floor. (My mother also went into labor with my little sister while giving 4-year-old me a bath, so maybe there’s something to squatting by the tub as a labor trigger, at least in our family. My sister and sister-in-law have taken note.)

I called Dr. Dalton while Penelope helped Hank out of the tub, got him ready for the day, and told Grammy (who lives with us and who would watch Hank while we were in the hospital) what was happening. Dr. Dalton was already at the birth center with another patient, so she had us meet her there. They quickly confirmed that my water had indeed broken, but I wasn’t yet having contractions. Dr. Dalton didn’t want to send me home because she was still concerned about PIH, so we spent much of the day walking around the hospital and its grounds (it was a lovely, sunny, unseasonably warm day), trying to get things started. Penelope also had a IEP (Individualized Education Plan) to write for work, so she did that on her laptop while I did yoga in our birthing suite.

Unfortunately, I never had more than a few painless contractions all day, and once water breaks, there is increased risk of infection if labor doesn’t start reasonably quickly, so at 6:00 PM, we started to induce labor with pitocin. The first problem with pitocin is that it is delivered by IV and requires constant fetal monitoring, so even though they let me wear the wireless monitors, I couldn’t walk beyond the very small birthing ward, and I had to tote the IV around with me. The second problem with pitocin is that it creates very strong, very fast contractions in a short amount of time, before one’s body has a chance to acclimate. (At least for me: my sister also had a pitocin induced labor, and she says she contracted every two minutes for three hours before she felt any pain. I, on the other hand, was getting pretty uncomfortable by 9:00 PM, when my contractions were still more than three minutes apart and I had not dilated more than a fingertip.)

Around 10:00, I was miserable enough to request pain meds (a decision we’d left for “Game Day”), and we started with the IV narcotic Stadol. This made me dizzy, disoriented, and pretty loopy, but only provided pain relief for about an hour. My contractions increased in frequency, strength, and duration, and I began to shake and vomit, which made me hopeful I was progressing… but an exam at about 1:00 AM revealed I was still only dilated to 2 cm. That was a crushing blow to my morale and motivation, as I was already in serious, unremitting pain from back labor (with almost no break between contractions). I got another dose of Stadol, but this time the pain relieving effects wore off within about fifteen minutes.

At 2:30 AM, when I was begging for Penelope to make it stop and let me go home, I asked for an epidural. I wasn’t philosophically opposed to an epidural, but I was afraid it was too early to get one and that it would slow the already interminable labor process, but the nurses suggested it might give me relief enough to rest and let my body do the work while I got some sleep. That sounded good to me. They had to call in the anesthesiologist, who didn’t arrive for another hour (probably the longest hour of my life to date), but a little after 3:30 I got the epidural. Penelope got light headed (having not eaten in about eight hours) while trying to hold me up while the epidural was inserted, so she had to sit and I held on to the nurse instead. I remember apologizing, embarrassed because I wrapped my legs around her hips during a contraction, a very intimate thing to do to a total stranger!

The epidural worked quickly, and I did get to doze, fitfully, after that — but only for about an hour. Around 4:30 (I think, I was kind of out of it), the nurse came in and put an oxygen mask on me. She told me the baby was having late decelerations with each contraction, a sign of fetal distress, and they were putting me on oxygen to see if it would help. I think she also urged me to turn onto my left side, but I can’t remember. (Penelope slept through this, so she doesn’t remember, either.)

I continued in a confused, half-asleep, half-aware haze for another hour until Dr. Dalton came in and did another pelvic exam. I had dilated to 4 cm, which was finally some progress, but not enough: the baby was still having late decelerations, and I was not progressing fast enough to risk continuing with labor. Dr. Dalton recommended a caesarian section. (I think she’d already called in the surgical team, so I don’t know what would have happened if I’d disagreed — but I didn’t. I was ready to be done, one way or another.)

It took another forty-five minutes for the surgical team to arrive and set up, but that time moved quickly, filled with consent forms and other preparations. I remember the nurse handing me a consent form and showing me where to sign. I took the clipboard from her and said, “I’m a lawyer, I have to read it,” which made everyone laugh (except me). Dr. Dalton said, “As a lawyer, you probably know that they always tell us consent forms are unenforceable anyway,” and I retorted, “Well, yeah: how many drugs have you given me tonight? Do I look like I’m in my right frame of mind?” which made everyone laugh again (again, except me).

In the OR, they gave me a spinal and draped me for surgery. I cannot describe, and frankly don’t care to think much about, the actual c-section itself. Even with the spinal and a local anesthetic “gap” medication, I felt a lot more of the surgery than I expected to. The anesthesiologist kept asking if it hurt or was just uncomfortable, and I couldn’t answer her: of course it hurt, but it was also intensely uncomfortable. Penelope was sitting next to me, trying to talk me through it, but I can’t recall a thing she said.

The anesthesiologist told Penelope when they were lifting the baby out, and she looked over the drape (something I was afraid to do, being a blood fainter, when Hank was born). She says it wasn’t gory: it just looked like they lifted a baby out of a funny red hole in the drape. (“Red hole” = gory, to my lights.) I remember everyone talking about what a big baby he was, and then I was pretty distracted by pain/discomfort as they worked to remove the placenta.

Penelope went with the baby to watch as they cleaned him up and did his APGAR tests. (He scored a 7 first, and then a 9, which is about as well as c-section babies ever do.) She says the nurses were taking bets as to how big he was (8 pounds, 7 ounces). I could hear him yelling and yelling: he was soooo loud.

Penelope carried him over to me as they were still putting me back together. I didn’t know what to say, but knew I had to say something, so I started (in my narcotic haze) reciting “The Owl and the Pussycat.”

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They took some   honey, and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five pound note…

They gave me another dose of something because I was in a lot of pain, and Penelope says I went into a narcotic nod for about 5-10 minutes. I don’t remember that. I remember them driving my gurney back to a recovery room, being greeted by the dayshift nurses (shifts changed during my surgery), and then promptly throwing up on myself and one of the nurses. After that, though, I felt much better.

They brought Ollie to me and laid him on my chest. Paula (one of the day nurses, who we remembered from our hospital stay when Penelope had Hank, and who I’d also become re-acquainted with during the many non stress tests over the last few weeks) encouraged me to try breastfeeding. Ollie latched on immediately and nursed for a long time, probably 45 minutes, despite the fact that I couldn’t yet sit up or really even hold him, being still quite numb from my chest to my feet.

I hated that total sense of helplessness and was glad when the spinal started to wear off. I didn’t need much for pain management: just Motrin. I got up on my feet about eight hours after surgery and walked back and forth across the small room. It was still very uncomfortable sitting up and standing, but I was glad to be able to move.

Hank and both of his grandmothers came to visit that evening. Hank is an excellent, proud, gentle big brother. “The baby person is finally out of Mumma’s belly!” he says.

-C.

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A Bedtime Chat

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I got home from a church meeting in time to say goodnight to Hank. I caught the end of his bedtime story, gave him hugs and kisses, and said Goodnight. As Penelope and I were leaving the room, he said, “You need to snuggle with Mumma.” Because I’d hardly seen him all day, I couldn’t resist, so I turned out the light and climbed up beside him on the Big Boy Bed.

He reached over and grabbed my nose.

“What are you doing?” I asked, gently removing his grasp and making a mental note to trim his sharp little nails.

“Mumma has nostrils.”

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“Ma has nostrils. Hank has nostrils.”

“Yes, love. People have nostrils.”

“You are a children,” he said (struggling, as ever, with pronouns).

“You are a child, yes.”

“Children have nostrils.”

“Right,” I told him. “Children are people; people have nostrils.”

“Monkeys have nostrils, too,” he noted, holding up his lovey, Ugly Monkey, to show me its embroidered nostril holes.

“So they do,” I agreed.

“You don’t eat monkeys. Monkeys are not food.”

-C.

Big Boy Bed

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Our new (old, as in circa 1850) house has three bedrooms upstairs: ours, another one connected to ours by an adjoining door, and one across the hall. The first two are plain white with some ugly faux wood paneling, in need of some paint, but plain and inoffensive. The room across the hall has ancient textured blue and white wallpaper, painted petal pink, which is cracking and peeling and water stained due to an old roof leak. The roof has been repaired, the room, not so much.

Knowing that Baby’s arrival will soon mean that Hank will move from his current room to the one across the hall, we had plans to renovate. My dad is coming for a few days next month to put up new drywall, after which Penelope and Grammy will paint (Hank chose red–we’ll see). In the meantime, though, the room is pink, and in rough shape–as you can tell from the photo.

Tonight, unexpectedly, Hank asked to sleep in “the big bed” (ours) instead of his tent. I told him, “Did you know we have a big boy bed of your very own in the pink room, when you’re ready?”

“You need to see it,” he said (he struggles with pronouns), so we went across the hall and he lay down on the twin bed that Penelope’s Grandpa made for her when she was a kid.

I thought he’d take a look and then opt to stay in his own, familiar tent, but he surprised me by pulling at the covers. “You need to get comfy cozy in the big boy bed,” he announced.

“Really?” I asked, looking askance at the peeling walls and barren decor. This was not going according to plan.

“Yes,” he said firmly.

Penelope and I shrugged. We weren’t ready for this, but we made do. We don’t have a safety rail yet, but we pushed the bed up against the wall and barricaded the other side with furniture so he won’t roll out. I gathered up the nighttime loveys from the tent. We read a story, gave him goodnight kisses, and shut off the light… all the while thinking he’d change his mind. He didn’t. He fell asleep singing himself a happy little song about being comfy cozy in the big boy bed in the pink room.

We spend so much time waiting for childhood milestones, noting with nervous anticipation as our kids get closer to crawling, first steps, first words, first sentence. As parents, we wait and coax and urge and even push for progress, when our little one might not be quite ready. Sometimes, though, milestones just happen, without warning or time to prepare. Sometimes, a kid knows when to leap to the next level, and suddenly we parents are the ones scrambling to catch up.

-C.

Obamacare = Free Breast Pump (Hooray!)

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One of the new provisions of the Affordable Care Act (also known as “Obamacare”, either derisively or with affection) that has now gone into effect requires private insurers to provide 100% coverage for breastfeeding equipment (including breast pumps) and lactation consultation services. This is fantastic news, since a breast pump costs, on average, $200-$400 without coverage.

This is a huge advance in women’s health care coverage, and I would have thought that doctor’s offices and hospitals and medical supply companies would be shouting it from the rooftops, but no. I’m now at the stage in my pregnancy when I go to the doctor at least every two weeks, and there is usually a whole bevy of other pregnant ladies shifting uncomfortably on too-hard chairs in the waiting room, and you’d think there would be signs or fliers or neon flashing lights advertising “Hey, mamas! Free breast pumps!” but you’d be wrong. Even my doctor hasn’t mentioned it.

I happened to hear about it during my morning commute on Monday, when NPR broadcast this story on how the breast pump industry is booming in light of the new law. If I hadn’t happened to be running a few minutes late, I would have missed the story, and I would still be planning to shell out $300 for a pump (if no one bought if off my baby registry for us first, that is).

It sounded almost too good to be true (and apparently there are still quite a few kinks to be worked out, as this HuffPost article describes), so I called up my insurer, Cigna, to get the scoop. And lo, it is true! I had to suffer through the confusing voice-activated menu where the choices they give you (if ____, press 1; if ____, press 2) never actually encompass the issue you’re calling about, but eventually I got through to a real person, who confirmed that yes, breast pumps and lactation consultant services are fully covered with no out of pocket deductible. Cigna has one home-healthcare-supply company that they deal with, and I was given that number. After making my way through yet another voice activated menu maze, I spoke to a very helpful woman with the unlikely moniker “Sparkle” (unlikely in that I was calling a healthcare company, not a 900 number), who started a claim for me. In about a month (still well before Peanut is due), I expect to receive a free Medela pump delivered right to my door at no expense. I didn’t even need a prescription.

Bottom line: if you have insurance, and you’re breastfeeding or planning to breastfeed, call your insurance company now and find out how to get in on the deal.

-C.

Wicked Busy

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I apologize for not posting in awhile. We’ve had an insanely busy few weeks, and the next few are bound to be just as crazy. We’re packing like mad to move, and still hoping to close on the new house by the end of the month (though the bank has not yet set a date). I will try to summarize, with pictures.

Hank likes to help pack. This is an appropriate box for him to choose, because no one ever kisses his face. Ever.

Hank’s big accomplishment of the last few weeks is that he’s had a potty-training breakthrough. After months and months of practice and hit-or-miss, he’s finally consistently telling us when he needs the potty — even when his pants are still dry. He’s now been in training pants during the day and diapers only at night for about a week, with very few minor mishaps, and we’re so proud of him. Now we’re working on advanced potty technique: standing up.

Wednesday afternoon, we met up with my Aunt and Uncle as they passed through on a cross-country road trip, at their friend Lori’s house at not-too-far-away Lake Morey. Hank loved splashing in the lake and studying the fish (minnows) that Uncle Rob caught and put in a bucket for him. (We released them unharmed.)

This past weekend we had a visit from my dad (Papa Chuck, to Hank), and we packed a ton of activity into a few short hours.

We went blueberry picking, which is insane for this time of year in Vermont: blueberry season usually doesn’t happen until August. The corn’s almost ready, too, also a month ahead of schedule. You can’t tell me there’s no such thing as global warming.

It’s been really, really hot and dry for weeks now. Hank’s been beating the heat by spending much of his time in the paddling pool in our front yard, eating pole beans and cherry tomatoes and sugar snap peas right out of the garden. However, the paddling pool is too small to share, so after blueberry picking, we gathered our suits and towels and headed for the local swimming pond. Pictured above: Papa Chuck and Hank compare their hands after a refreshing dip.

Finally, yesterday afternoon we went down to Massachusetts to meet up with one of Hank’s donor siblings and his mama. They usually live down in Georgia, but were visiting family in MA, so we met up at the Magic Wings Butterfly Conservatory. I won’t share any pictures from that introduction because it wouldn’t be kosher to post photos of other people’s kids without permission, so you’ll just have to take my word for the fact that the resemblance is a little spooky, especially around the eyes. There was one point when the boys were running side-by-side, and though they don’t share the same build at all (Hank’s sturdy, while the other child is lean and lanky), they had exactly the same gait, the same funny wiggle to their run. The mamas didn’t get too much time to talk (what with all the toddler chasing, and the fact that both boys were overtired having had sub-par naps), but it was great to make that connection in person.

-C.

Gratitude for the Sister-Wives

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A few months ago, I wrote this post about discovering other families who have conceived using the same anonymous sperm donor we used to conceive Hank. At the time, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of Hank’s donor siblings (and there have been two new additions since then!) and a bit wary about whether and how deeply we wanted to get involved with this group of mamas. (Because, as I noted in my last post on the subject, we are all Mamas — either lesbian couples or single mothers by choice. This is true even of the two new families.)

I still have my worries about the number of kids/families, and part of me worries that perhaps it should have been Hank’s choice to seek out his donor siblings when the time came, and not mine, but now that the connection is made, I am finding myself growing more grateful for these women, this community, every day.

Our donor is Mormon–though not practicing, I presume, since I’m pretty sure the Mormon faith frowns on sperm donation–and Penelope and I jokingly call the other mamas our “sister-wives”, since, like the sister wives in a polygamous family, we all have babies by the same man. This is a surprisingly intimate connection, though we’ve never yet met in person. It is hard not to feel a sense of kinship with this group of women whose life paths and choices are so similar to our own, and who are raising children so similar to our own little guy. As a first-time parent, it is wonderfully reassuring to have a group of parents we can reach out to when Hank develops a new habit or enters a new developmental stage, to ask “Is this normal?” It is fascinating, as this cadre of half-siblings age out of infancy into toddlerhood and beyond, to spot new traits that must surely be inherited from the donor rather than the mamas, shared as they are between kids being raised in different states by different mothers in different circumstances. It is entertaining to share pictures and videos of our adorable offspring, as proud mamas are wont to do, and find such an appreciative audience. While I’m sure many of my Facebook friends from high school and college and the job I had for a year before law school must get dreadfully tired of the endless updates I share about Hank, the Sister-Wives respond with the enthusiasm of a score of proud aunties, because Hank’s adorableness reflects upon them and upon their adorable babies, too. Having a growing connection to these donor families helps to fill the void of all that we don’t know about the donor, about the other half of our son’s genetic history.

Lately, I am finding myself most grateful for this group of Sister-Wives because, like me, they have all been on the emotional roller coaster that is trying to conceive a child by artificial methods. There are tons of resources and communities online for families trying to conceive–millions of blogs, dozens of sites like Babycenter.com, sites with medical advice and information on various fertility treatments–but nothing connects as personally to my experience as the community I have found among the other donor mamas. Most people struggling with infertility are traditional heterosexual couples who are trying to get pregnant “the old fashioned way.” Maybe they need fertility drugs or treatment of various medical conditions, but mostly the medical interventions they need to conceive are nothing at all like the entirely clinical process by which my baby will be conceived. I don’t mean to minimize the struggles of these heterosexual couples in any way, because I’m sure they are just as significant as my own; I only mean that it is sometimes hard for me to relate to these people when our experiences are so different. -Not so with the Sister-Wives: they have stood in my shoes and fought the same battles. Several of them, like me, are trying to conceive a second baby, and so there is a sense that we are all in this together. They have advice and comfort and sympathy that resonates more deeply than the well-intentioned but occasionally-unhelpful support offered by even my dearest friends and closest relations.

In short, these women are wonderful, and I am so grateful to have found them.

-C.

Camping in the Nursury

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Before becoming a parent, I naïvely thought babies could stay in cribs almost indefinitely. I mean, cribs are not that small: I could curl up on my side, bend my knees a bit, and fit just fine in Hank’s crib (if I were not worried about breaking it due to my weight, which is, um, slightly more than that of a toddler). I don’t recall there being rules about outgrowing the crib when my siblings and I were growing up, but then again, I don’t think we had carseats, either.

I thought the crib would last until Hank was 2 or 3, or at least until baby #2 came along and needed the space, but no. It turns out that Hank is both big for his age, and a climber, and we were afraid he’d fall out and get hurt. (The way Penelope did, diving out of that very same crib some 35 years ago, and wound up impacting her jaw.) Last weekend, I solicited advice from Facebook friends about what we should do, and learned that several of Hank’s cousins started escaping the crib as early as 7 months, so clearly, we’ve had it easy making it almost to 21 months without mishap.

The best of the Facebook recommendations was to put a mattress in a camping tent in Hank’s room, which is optimal because a) we already own all the equipment and don’t have to buy a toddler bed, b) Hank thinks the tent is fun, like his own little fort, and c) it will keep him contained when we are asleep.

Below are some pictures I took of the new big boy bed.

-C.

Tall enough to stand up in, big enough for all my furry friends: this is great, Mumma!

Fitted out with foam bumpers in case he slips off the mattress.

Of course, it remains to be seen whether he will actually sleep, or if it’s all too exciting.