The snow was falling hard and fast. It was a heavy, wet snow that we typically get here in New England, and we are accustomed to several inches of snowfall. This being the first storm, being on Thanksgiving eve, with me 39 weeks pregnant, we were leaving nothing to chance.
Powerlines and tree branches were snapping as we packed our hospital bags with toothbrushes and cell phone chargers. We had at least half a foot of unplowed snow to bust through to get to the hospital and my contractions were 17 minutes apart.
We jumped into my husbands truck with glorious 4 wheel drive and skidded out onto the road to make “early” headway to the birthing center.
My contractions were four minutes apart after only half an hour of driving and checking in.
Two hours of ouchholymotherofgodwhatinthefuckishappeningtomybodygetthebabyoutnow and we met our beautiful baby girl.
It was a lot of swearing, the nurse asked me to tone it down and I was all “no way motherfuckers, I don’t have any drugs, you are going to let me swear.”
We relaxed in the hospital and the nurses helped us change diapers and burp the gas out of the baby so I could sleep and breastfeed Delilah. We ate Thanksgiving dinner at the hospital in our room, which turned out to be perfect and mellow. The staff was not the least bit annoyed to have to take care of me on Thanksgiving, which I appreciate.
We stayed for 48 hours and then were released, bringing baby Delilah and a bundle of new baby nerves with us.
To my absolute joy Delilah did nothing but sleep for a bunch of hours. She didn’t even poop the first day she came home. She was nursing like a champ and my milk production was through the roof. She was my dream child.
I’ve spent the last five days at home in a hazy postpartum state. I cried all day yesterday for the hell of it. My body and my hormones are trying to make sense of things, and sometimes it just results in a good hard cry.
I’ve had my Grandma here helping with food and cleaning and my husband stayed home for half of the week to assist with the older boys. When my husband goes back to work tomorrow I’ll probably be reduced to another pile of tears and ashes.
My nipples are taking the abuse of feeding the newborn with a lazy latch. All of my babies had a lazy latch and I crack and bleed and feel abused and used up. My poor vagina was ripped open like a Christmas present and I gingerly bathe my battered body and dab shea butter on my boobs when everyone is sleeping at night. My kids put Christian Grey to shame and make him look like a total pansy.
My belly now holds the remnants of Chinese takeout and zero life. No kicks and jabs. My postpartum body is flabby and loose and I don’t care. There’s a little freedom to having sprung life from your loins and you’re allowed to look a little fat. Plus, it’s the holidays, we all feel a little fat. I get to cover it up in a cozy sweater and forget about it until April. Plus, nobody has a muffin top if they buy the right yoga pants.
Viva la cookies!
My bladder is perhaps the most mixed up organ of all. It was used to going pee every five minutes, regardless if there was a toilet or not. Now I no longer feel the urge to pee and instead get a cramp in my abdomen that alerts me to use the potty. I can hold it for hours baby. Yeah, I’m bragging.
It’s physically been a relief. Since expelling the fruit of my womb I am no longer swollen and sweaty. I can take three steps without a pee leak, I can eat a normal amount of food instead of the metric shit ton I was shoveling in during pregnancy. My varicose veins are already starting to flatten out. Goodbye vulvar support hose.
My stitches hurt, but hey, you can’t win ‘em all.
My kids are adjusting as expected to our new baby. We brought her home over Thanksgiving break so we all bonded for a few days (read, my four year old drove me bat shit and I’m so glad he has school today). My toddler thinks the real baby is a doll and I have to protect her accordingly, otherwise he’d smash his toys into her and step on her head. Delilah never leaves my protective custody during the toddlers waking hours, making him insanely jealous so I hold him too and risk busting a stitch. My four year old now acts two. And he’s being a nasty little shit who needs attention but seeks it like a desperate chick in a failing relationship. He whines and begs and throws things. I placate him with ice cream and TV.
Hey, I’m not trying to win any parenting awards or get a reality show; I’m just trying to survive.
Perfection and expectation can suck it. It’s cold outside, we have a new baby and we are all regressing rather well here.
I haven’t moved our Elf on Shelf for three days, but I did buy him a cute sweater to make up for it.