Am under seige. Send tanks.

Babies are supposed to sleep more as they get older, right?

My sister flew in to help for a few days this week, and wow, how wonderful. I'm so jealous of all you people who live within a thousand miles of family. Being wrapped in the warm embrace of free labor just melts my heart. Melts it.

So, besides my heart, you know what else is officially melted? My ears. That little newtlet is still quite the crabapple, and I see more of the cold light of dawn than I ever really wanted to.

And internet, do you know what the cold light of dawn has taught me? Either I am now actively hallucinating (and that's quite possible) or my wacky octogenarian neighbor has chickens and a rooster in his back yard.

I should take a moment here to clarify that although I live in a rural state, I do not actually live in the country. Apparently, instead, I live in some kind of sitcom. Or possibly a Jane Smiley novel.

So the damn thing crows every morning (the rooster, not the neighbor), and I never even heard it in the year and a half we've lived in this house because I've never made a habit of wakefulness at 4:30 am. And 5:30 am. And 6:30 am. Puts on quite a concert, that rooster. Still no match for the baby's lungpower, though.

So, the newtlet. Poor baby is such a sweetie when he's fed and comfortable. Look at this sweet baby. I'm going to feel bad someday for all the mean things I'm about to say about him:


How about that nice baby, huh? He often raises his eyebrows like that, which wrinkles his forehead and makes him look like a little Winston Churchill. He's ready to defeat fascism, my baby. Send in the RAF.

My little curmudgeon really seems to be beating back the tummy gas problem pretty well. Pardon the explicit description of my son's colon and whatnot, but he really seems to be passing it more easily now. He makes cute little farts, poops very regularly, and generally seems to be handling the ass end of things much better. And yet he still cries. A lot. Especially during and after meals. And after meals, I should note, there is a relatively limited time until the next meal, usually about three hours. So "during and after meals" actually means "all the damn time" in baby world.

And so our attention turns from the ass end toward the top half of the baby. Reflux seems an obvious candidate, but he hardly ever spits up. And yet, he's so miserable, it's clear that something is going on in there. I don't know what, and the generic label "colic," which seems to mean "some babies just cry a lot," really discourages a person from getting to the bottom of it. But we can't just let him be miserable, right?

As the baby gets older, his crying is getting more soul-wrenching. He used to be this little red irrational screaming beast. When he cried it was a problem to be solved. Bounce him, give him the paci, turn on the hairdryer, and voila. Problem fixed. Or if it wasn't fixed, I tried not to take it too personally. Just try something else.

Now that he has passed six weeks old, that blank newborn stare and purposeless flailing are fading away. Now my son looks me right in the eye as he cries, like he's saying, "Help me, Mom--I am hurting." He reaches out and grabs my shirt. It's harder and harder just to solve the problem. He's my little baby crying out for help, and my problem-solving approach is complicated by a lot of messy empathy and whatnot. Very inconvenient. Makes me ten times more exhausted.

Last night he hardly slept and cried a bunch. So we went to the pediatrician today to ask for reflux medication. Even though he hardly spits up. Because it's all I can think of. And I can't just do nothing.

I guess there's some reason to think his tummy is acidic. Just before my sister left, she took a big whiff of the newtlet, saying she wanted to carry home that new baby smell. And that's when it occured to me that my baby doesn't really have that new baby smell. He doesn't smell like milk and sweetness, but kind of more bitter.

(I realize that sounds like a metaphor, but it's not. He smells bitter in a literal sense. In a metaphorical sense, he still smells like angel poop and happy pills.)

Later that day the baby did spit up, and all day the smell clung to his clothes, not like sour milk baby spit-up, but more like grown-up vomit, like stomach acid. So maybe it's reflux after all? Some kind of hidden reflux, where the acid usually doesn't make it all the way out when it comes up? I sure as hell hope so. I need a solution here, and also some rest.

So the pedi gave us a prescription for Zantac, and thus far the medicine seems to be making him more restful, but he might also just be worn out from not sleeping last night. I guess we'll see. If this medicine doesn't help, I'm about out of ideas for what to do.

But we'll keep looking, I guess. You know, persevere, Winston Churchill style. Gastrointestinal distress, consider this a warning: we shall never surrender.

When Buffalo Attack!

We read that you should photograph your child with the same toy every month of his first year, so you can see how much he grows from photo to photo. Seems reasonable.

So here is the Newtlet's one-month photo with Bupkis:


Unfortunately, our heartwarming photo session quickly turned tragic. No, Bupkis! Don't eat the baby!


Yeah, we're easily amused. Blame the exhaustion.

Intermission

Funny that I left off the story with me sleeping. It was the last good night's sleep I had, so I remember it so fondly. And how strange that being in labor at the hospital should be so much easier than having a newborn at home. Or maybe it's just our newborn, who has a delicate intestinal tract, and wakes up at the slightest sign of gas.

Note to the Newtling: Gas happens, kid. Come on, toughen up.

So anyway, it's taking me a while to find some time for chapter three, since my free time is limited to ten minute increments when the baby is sleeping. After ten minutes, he tends to wake up and demand that I waltz him around the room or whip out a boob or rub his tummy or peel him a grape or something. Having a baby is exactly like being a harem girl, I think, except more solitary.

And the wardrobe is a lot less glamorous, I suppose. Right now I look like a new mom cliche: drawstring knit pants, spit-up stained nursing tank, fleece-lined crocs, and a flannel shirt missing two buttons. In my shirt's defense, it was my late grandfather's, and I pull it out and wear it as a security blanket sometimes. It has been a rough few days with the gassy baby, and I felt like I needed it this morning.

On the plus side: I showered today! So I smell OK, even if I look awful.

So please pardon the cliffhanger. Instead of chapter three, I have two queries for you today, internet.

The first is this: Do you have a nickname for your baby just for when you're frustrated with him? After my newtlet's recent behavior, I've had a lot of use for such a nickname, but nothing quite right has stuck.

For instance, let's say you've been rocking your baby for half an hour, and finally his eyes close. When you think it's safe, you walk smoothly over to the crib, gently lay him down, start to tiptoe away, and suddenly you hear a little whimper noise. You turn around, and the baby has his eyes wide open, and is about to launch into full-on hysterics. You say to him, "Oh, you little ______."

Or, let's say you've just changed a baby's diaper, and just as you fasten up the last button on his complicated footie pajamas, you suddenly hear a liquidy squirt that signals the arrival of a very large poo. As you're starting to undress him all over again, you say to the baby, "You're a real _____, you know that?"

If he were an adult, you might say "asshole" or something, but even I know you don't say stuff like that to babies. The newtlet doesn't mean to be a rotten little hellspawn, he just lacks bodily control and emotional maturity. Poor thing is even more of a slave to his whims than I am. I get that. But I don't know what the baby-appropriate, non-judgmental, watered-down version of "asshole" might be.

My mom would say "Dickens." That's adorably old-fashioned, but I can't quite carry it off (despite my propensity for saying "Oh my stars and garters," which I'm pretty sure I got from my grandmother). One of my sisters would definitely say "stinker," which is nice for its mildness, if not for its playground connotations. The other sister might opt for "goof," which is what she uses with her own kids, but I'm not sure if it originated in their infancy or is of more recent vintage. Anyway, I don't think it applies here, quite. The newtling's behavior is more inconvenient than it is goofy.

So I need a word. Whatcha got, internet?

OK, and the second query is this: do you think my baby can carry off the color green? Because I don't want the other babies to make fun of him at the big hellspawn jamboree. I think he's going to get enough grief for his male-pattern baldness and extreme flatulence. He doesn't need the fashion police on his case, too.

Labor Story, Chapter II: In which Newt proposes marriage to the anesthesiologist

Ah, so where were we?

Oh yes, the Stadol. So I was finally given my hospital wrist band, and earned a trip to the promised land: my own birthing room, to which I was told the anesthesiologist was already en route. Hallelujah.

The only problem was getting there. Low Self-Esteem Jennifer brought me a wheelchair, and explained that she didn't like to push the wheelie beds through the hallways because, predictably, she wasn't very good at it. "I might run you into the wall a few times," she admitted.

I'm not sure why--if the Stadol was making me loopy or I was just in the mood to fuck with her or what--but I found myself insisting that I couldn't get in the wheelchair. Actually, I think it was because I was bleeding so heavily at this point, I didn't want to stand up and see it all gush down my leg. Anyway, I asked Jennifer if she couldn't please just steer the bed. I wouldn't mind if she ran me into a wall; I just didn't want to get in a chair. So my poor little incompetent nurse sighed heavily, propped the door open, and with great effort wheeled me down the hall to the proper Labor and Delivery unit and my very own birthing room. I don't remember if we hit any walls, but I wouldn't be surprised if we did.

Once there, I was transferred to the high-tech birthing bed, with the removable leg rests and little pelvic cut-out part thingy to let the baby out. I've included a picture, because I'm possessed by some kind of strange compulsion to document this memory in exquisite detail. I guess I want to remember every minute aspect of it later on, so I can hold all this over Wiley's head for the rest of my life. Or so I can include them in the annual love letter I plan to write to the anesthesiologist on each anniversary of our meeting.

Anyway, happily installed in the delivery unit, I was given over into the care of the gloriously competent Nurse Faith. If I were a little more clever with the fonts and whatnot, I would make her name pink and glowy, with maybe a touch of glitter. Faith was the rock-solid, comforting, kind, compassionate, skilled maternity nurse of my dreams. Maybe I did dream her? I was a little loopy at that point.

Anyway, we had definitely arrived. Goodbye, Jennifer! Hello, brave new world of competent care and painkillers!

Unfortunately, a shot of Stadol only lasts about an hour, and time was ticking away. Where was my anesthesiologist? Apparently the on-call OB had to stop in first. And she was busy. With something. Something stupid, no doubt.

So I kept breathing and whatnot, and the wonderful Faith hooked me up to an assortment of monitors. There was some high tech little doodad on my finger that glowed red, and it occurs to me that I never asked what it did, but it must have kept track of my pulse or something. Then there was a blood pressure cuff that stayed on one arm and inflated itself every so often. And two little sensors were strapped to my belly, one keeping tabs on the baby's heartbeat, and the other keeping track of my contractions.

Once I had the full Robo-mom treatment, the OB stopped in, made some small talk I no longer remember, and then, at long and glorious last, my beloved, my sublime anesthesiologist finally arrived.

As I remember it, when the anesthesiologist appeared in the doorway, backlit by the warm florescent light of the hallway, several baby unicorns scampered through the labor suite, and a rainbow appeared over the exam table. Also? The stars in the sky began to sing the Barry Manilow songbook.

The Stadol had really worn off by this time, so maybe I can be forgiven for acting a little orgasmic upon glimpsing Dr. Candyman and his cart of happyfuntime supplies arriving at my door. But we didn't waste any time with adoring gazes; we got right to work. I had to sit on the edge of the bed, my exposed back to the doctor, while I leaned forward, one shoulder braced against Nurse Faith and the other against Mr. Newt. There, I had to hold myself still through four or five painful contractions while the epi was being inserted. First came a shot of local anesthetic, which Dr. Candyman told me would feel "like a bee sting" in my back. I was supposed to hold very still during this, but I confess I flinched. I flinched big. Women who have never been in labor will be happy, I think, to hear that I am not permanently paralyzed as a result of this moment of weakness. It didn't matter at all.

Once the area was numb, the doctor inserted the real needle. Several people noted in the comments of one of my previous posts that they didn't know how the epidural works, so I'll go ahead and explain it. A needle is inserted between two verterbrae, and then a tiny flexible tube threaded through the needle. That tube is secured with some tape on the patient's back, so it's completely comfortable and you can lay back in the bed without something sticking out or poking you the whole time (why can't they do this with IV's, by the way? My IV needle pestered me for hours and hours). Then the tube can be used to provide a continuous dose of painkiller that numbs your whole lower half. It's ingenious--I don't know who thought of it, but it's a miracle of modern medicine. A miracle, I tell you.

So the doc inserted the needle to set the tube, and I felt a funny poking sensation on the right side. I had been instructed to tell him if I felt anything, so I told him I felt a poking. He wanted a better description--was it sharp or dull or burning or cold? No, it was just a poking. And only on the right side. Not liking the sound of that, the doctor pulled the needle out and started over. This time? No poking.

So, moral of the story, ladies: tell your doctor the truth. I have heard of epidurals that either didn't take or that only numbed one side of the patient's body. Me, I wanted the full monty. And once they sent that medicine coursing through my spine, boy did I get it. My belly and legs went completely numb. The monitor showed that I was having a contraction, and the doctor asked if I could feel it. "I'm having a contraction?" I asked.

And that's when I asked Dr. Candyman if he would marry me.

He would prefer not to. He beat a hasty retreat from the crazy woman's room. Still, the offer stands.

Actually, in light of this disloyalty, I should add a note about how wonderful Mr. Newt was through this whole labor experience. During my first false-alarm trip to Labor and Delivery, the nurse flippantly told me to go home and wait until the contractions were so painful that I hated my husband. Clearly, she didn't know my husband. I already hated any number of medical personnel and I'm sure I hated the dogs at one point, but I never felt anything but love and gratitude toward my husband.

Remember I was worried that during labor he would tell me to breathe or something and I would break his hand? I should have known he wouldn't tell me to breathe. He held my hand, timed my contractions, rubbed my back, filled out the hospital paperwork, acted as my advocate when I couldn't do it, made sure we didn't get a parking ticket, helped me keep my sanity through two days of pain, magically produced supplies from the hospital bags just as they were needed, made me eat half a grilled-cheese sandwich, took my pain seriously when no one else did, made me feel loved and protected and not alone at every moment of my labor, and even made me laugh a few times when I couldn't even breathe. And that's before the pushing even began, when I decided that maybe being told what to do wasn't such a bad thing after all. But that's the next chapter, so I'll save that for later.

So even though this particular love story is mostly about my love for potent painkillers and the doctors who provide them, rest assured that my love for Mr. Newt is untarnished. I am so lucky that we are in this parenthood thing together. I get a little weepy just thinking about how lucky I am.

But then, I also get a little weepy thinking about the epidural. So maybe it's a draw after all.

Anyway, enough of the sappy stuff. After Dr. Candyman left Nurse Faith did two things she had been waiting on the epi for, because she really didn't want me to feel them: she inserted a catheter and did another cervical check. Six centimeters! She could feel that the baby was sunny side-up (labor goes better with face-down babies), but Faith was pretty confident he would rotate before it was time to push. I hoped she was right.

The delightful process of settling into my new, pain-free state of existence was marred by the fact that I found myself shaking uncontrollably almost as soon as Dr. Candyman left. Nurse Faith said that was a normal reaction to the meds. Also, the baby's pressure on my cervix could cause my body to have any number of stress reactions.

That all was certainly true, but I've lived in my body for 35 years now, and I was pretty sure I was having a blood sugar crash. I had been having trouble eating since Friday, and while I'm not actually diabetic, I have always had rather dainty blood sugar stability. Skipping lunch has dire physical consequences: I shake, I get nauseated, I pass out. So I asked Nurse Faith if I could get some juice.

Officially, I was not supposed to eat anything, in case I had to have emergency surgery, because surgical anesthesia requires an empty stomach. So I asked Faith what people normally do, being in labor for hours on end without eating. She said they don't really notice or care. Seriously? Huh. Just another way I'm a medical oddity, I guess.

Generously, and possibly illegally, Faith brought me not just juice but also some graham crackers and a little tub of peanut butter. I sipped. I nibbled. Sure enough, the shaking stopped. My body relaxed. I could have cried with joy.

It was about midnight, and for the first time in two days, I didn't have any pain, hunger, or anxiety. I was limp with relief.

OK, my pain is gone, so now what? Faith suggested I sleep.

Sleep! Through labor! Heavenly.

So Mr. Newt made himself comfortable on the labor suite couch, the lights were dimmed, and we both slept. I was exhausted and it felt amazing.

The nurses kept an eye on all my monitors from the nursing station, so both the baby and I were in very good hands, even while we slept. Every thirty minutes or so, Faith would come in and turn me over, to help encourage the baby to rotate into position. Each time she moved me, I would laugh at how my legs flopped from one side to the other. "Oh, that's a good epidural," Faith would say. And I would compose another completly un-stalkerish love letter to Dr. Candyman in my head. And then I would go back to sleep.

This sounds like a happy ending, doesn't it? But wait, there's more! We haven't even gotten to the baby part, yet! The baby part is pretty cool, I promise. So, stay tuned, kiddies, for another scintillating installment of Newt's pharmacologically enhanced labor experience.

Coming soon: Labor Story, Chapter III: The baby at the end of the rainbow.