Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother: Sleep Training

In this blog series, I examine the conventions of "attachment" parenting (which I wholeheartedly embraced before my child's birth), and detail how I have fallen short of those ideals. I don't mind being imperfect. If child rearing is a competition, I forfeit.

Sleep Training

I Ferberized my baby.

Doesn't that sound so evil?

Shut up! I don't care what you think, with your stupid, judgmental face.

Okay, obviously I do care. And if you are a firmly attached mom or dad, maybe you think I've done a bad thing. That doesn't change my feeling that this was one of the best parenting decisions we've made so far.

This sleep training system is named after the Dr. Ferber who developed it. I'm not going to bother with the five minute internet search that would help me present a more detailed history of the man and his controversial method. Basically, our pediatrician, Dr. C, told us about it and we did what he said. Only later did I learn that this was that thing called "Ferberizing" a.k.a. "crying it out".  

"This is a great opportunity to begin sleep training," the good doctor said at our four month visit. "She's developing a more adult sleep cycle and she doesn't really need to feed more than once between, say, 6:00pm and 5:00am. Eventually, she won't even need that one feeding. You may just want to skip it for her."

The thought of a regular bedtime and waking up only once in the middle of the night thrilled me. I hadn't slept for more than four straight hours at a time since the middle of my pregnancy. We picked a date to move her crib out of our bedroom. On that first night, I put her to bed when she fell asleep on her own (around 10pm) and woke up to feed her whenever she cried. On the second night, we followed Dr. C's recommended formula - last breastfeeding an hour before bed, 45 minutes of hardcore playtime, warm and fuzzy bedtime ritual, a little song, then to the crib at 8:00pm. At that point, she did exactly what he predicted. She screamed and screamed. We waited five minutes, then Dan went in to comfort and smooch her. Ten more minutes of screaming, followed by another smoochy comfort visit. We were supposed to wait another fifteen minutes before Dan's next visit, but at 8:20 he blurted, "I can't take this anymore!" and headed to her bedroom door.

That's when I miraculously grew a second, fire-breathing head that bellowed, "Don't even think of going in there!" Normal Tara would never boss her husband, but sleep-deprived Dragon Tara had no such qualms. Alarmed by my other self, I stepped out to the porch for some much needed fresh air.

At 8:25, I returned to silence. Our baby was actually asleep and she remained that way until 11:00pm. I think I fed her twice that night. She had a somewhat easier time getting to sleep the following night. By night three, she was simmering down by 8:10pm.

Here's how it's been since -

- Baby has been pretty great about getting to sleep within ten minutes of bedtime, except when she hasn't, which usually happens when we  have company, which makes us feel like shitty, callous parents. The truth is that when company isn't around, it's been pretty easy to deal with her crying. Pre-baby, I never thought my sensitive soul could handle it. I was wrong.

- For the following six and a half months, I still nursed her whenever she awoke. It was twice a night for a while. Then it was just once, except when it was actually three or four times a night, and that's when I wanted to jump off a bridge. What can I say? Teething and growth spurts are a bitch. Some parents will say that the early weeks of waking up every two hours to feed a newborn are the worst, but I disagree. I was mentally and emotionally prepared for that drudgery. The worst is when baby's sleep patterns spontaneously regress.

- I hoped that she would learn to sleep through the night on her own, but that happened just a handful of times by age 10 months. That's when I finally opted to do as Dr. C suggested and just skip those feedings for her. That was a tough choice, not because I felt like I'd be hurting her, but because I felt like I'd already failed as a mom. Other people's kids slept solidly. Why wouldn't mine? But honestly, my sense of failure was more a reaction to other people's concern. I avoided talking about my broken sleep schedule because I couldn't stand those worry-faced expressions. Were they judging me? Maybe, or maybe not. The answer didn't really matter. The point is that for many months, I didn't mind that one midnight meeting with my sweet, snuggly baby girl. Getting out of bed blew, but feeling her melt in my arms as we sat in placid darkness was its own bliss. Nevertheless, I ultimately decided that I wanted at least seven straight hours of slumber more than I wanted to bond during the wee hours.  

A few times, I mistakenly tried to implement that change on the fly. "I'm just not going to feed her tonight. Simple as that." Dragon Tara inevitably reemerged when sleepy Dan would roll over in bed and say, "I have to work early tomorrow. Can you just go feed her?" Alas, the baby's screams were too much for either of us to resist and then I'd find myself stumbling through the dark. Eventually, I recalled Dr. C's more organized and purposeful method. We picked a date. We chose our strategies. We tried feeding her water instead of breast milk. When that didn't work we just let her cry. The first night sucked. The second night was a little better. She's slept through nearly every night since.
___________________________________

As I've stated in other Confessions posts, I'm not writing this as advice. I realize my methods may not work for other kids or parents. Rather, I write this for kindred Mildly Detached Parents seeking encouragement. I would like them - you, perhaps - to know that they (you) are not bad people. I'm not a bad person. At least, I strive to be a good person. But I also strive to be happy. Sometimes that means making choices that benefit me instead of putting my child's gratification first. If I always opted for the latter, I'd be a sleepy bitch with sore nipples and no time. And that wouldn't bode well for my relationships with everyone other than the baby.

Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother - Diapers, Dinner and Disgust

In this blog series, I examine the conventions of "attachment" parenting (which I wholeheartedly embraced before my child's birth), and detail how I have fallen short of those ideals. I don't mind being imperfect. If child rearing is a competition, I forfeit.

Cloth Diapers

I use cloth diapers because disposables are an ecological hazard and I can't stand synthetic materials touching my wee one's precious bum. Ha ha, just kidding! We use cloth because it's cheaper. Dan and I recently figured that we've been saving at least fifty bucks a month, which means more money we can spend on designer pork products. Woohoo! As long as the current diaper size fits, our savings will increase over time.

We're thrifty about diapering, but not stringently. We frequently supplement with disposables when it's easier (overnight, on vacation, when someone else is watching the baby, etc.). For me, cloth's major drawback is that it's inconvenient. While I don't relish all this labor intensive poop disposal, I don't find the task revolting. I feel for parents who do. I keep thinking about this Disgust Scale test I took a couple years ago. It lists several hypothetical gross out scenarios that you rate from "strongly disagree" to "strongly agree", such as:

"Even if I was hungry, I would not drink a bowl of my favorite soup if it had been stirred by a used but thoroughly washed flyswatter."
(My answer - strongly disagree. Borscht rules!)

Then there are hypotheticals that you rate on a scale from "not disgusting at all" to "extremely disgusting", like:

"Your friend's pet cat dies, and you have to pick up the dead body with your bare hands."
(Sorry, friend. I find your dead cat extremely disgusting.)

In the end, I learned that I'm not bothered by germs and dirt as much as I'm sickened by dead things and vermin. But the larger lesson was that disgust is a very personal reaction. As a new parent, I feel very fortunate to be relatively unfazed by feces. If I found poop as upsetting as cockroaches, I would definitely skip cloth diapers. In fact, I'd probably skip the baby altogether.

Solid Food

Like many attached parents, I was totally geared up for cooking, processing and storing my own baby food. I get off on that sort of highly involved kitchen project. That would be the fun part of introducing solid foods to my baby's diet. But I dreaded spoon feeding. Then I learned about Baby Led Weaning and realized I needn't bother with the project or the spoon.

Here's how it worked - I breastfed my daughter until she was six months old. At six months and one day, I started giving her chunks of solid food at mealtime (soft fruits, veggies, bread, cheese - it just had to be "gummable"). By that point, she was physically capable of putting the food in her mouth on her own. Chewing was another story. Some babies take days or weeks to figure it out. They may gag and spit out their food. But at that age their gag reflex is near the front of the mouth so there's little risk of choking. My kid learned to chew pretty quickly, establishing herself as a very curious and eager eater.

I'm glad it's working for her because I'm a huge fan of BLW for many selfish reasons -

No spoon-feeding I have no patience for it, especially those "here comes the choo choo train!" shenanigans. Dining is a cherished pastime. I don't want to manipulate her into enjoying it with me.

She eats the things we eat This is convenient. Also, I don't want to be in the habit of making a separate meal for her.

She eats a wide variety of foods Perhaps because she isn't being force fed (which is pretty annoying to all people who aren't between the ages of four and six months old*), she has a good time at the table and enjoys exploring many kinds of food. She'll probably become more finicky about colors and textures as she gets older. I figure if her scope will inevitably narrow, it's wise to start off with a wide breadth of options.  

It provides endless entertainment for grandparents My BLW book warns against staring at babies when they're eating, because it may make them self-conscious. This has never been an issue for my little ham. She loves putting on a show. Her Skype production rivals anything on your Netflix streaming queue. Dinner's broadcast is the best. 6:00 nightly.

We got to put off solid food diapers for an extra two months That's when it starts getting more hands-on and stinky. I miss those carefree days of just breast milk poo.

When my pediatrician, Dr. C, talked about introducing cereals at four months, I told him about my BLW plan. I detected a barely suppressed eye roll in his expression. Oh geez, I thought. He probably thinks this is hippie garbage. So when we returned for her six month checkup, I arrived armed with a long long list of foods she'd already tried.

"She's had cucumber, sweet potatoes, avocado, bananas, even a little broccoli."

Dr. C's eyes widened with surprise. "That's great!"

I felt my shoulders relax, but the desire to prove myself remained. "She's had some bread and cheese, but only a little. I know she isn't supposed to have too much sodium."

"The important thing is that she brings the food to her mouth on her own. You'll want to avoid nuts, seeds and saltwater fish in the first year. Otherwise, just make sure the food is finger soft. Oh, and she'll like broccoli better if it's been cooking with meat all day."

"But is it okay to season it like that? What about the sodium?" In hindsight, it seems my voice was so shrill.

He bore a squinty expression, followed by another suppressed eye roll. "Just season it how you would season it for yourself. Her pulmonary system is brand new. She'll be fine."

Duh. Of course she'll be fine, because she eats what I eat and I eat really, really well. I make it a priority. I save money on cloth diapering so I can spend more on fresh, often organic, unprocessed foods. I work at a health food store so I can get a discount on these things. Baby Led Weaning makes sense for us because we already love cooking for ourselves. I can see that it wouldn't be such an enjoyable undertaking in a less food-centric household.

It also wouldn't be much fun if you're repulsed by the constant mess. Again, I must consider my position on the Disgust Scale. Post-meal debris doesn't bother me. I do thorough cleanings at restaurants and other people's houses, but I care less at home. I'm often discovering crusty bits of my daughter's last meal stuck in the corners of her high chair just as I'm getting her ready for the next meal. Between cleaning her hands, face, table top and bibs, I get distracted. Many of her clothes are forever stained with peach nectar and tomato juices. I figure it's okay because she's a baby and her natural good looks tend to draw more attention. Heaven help her if she's destined to be a glamour queen because I am clearly an obstacle in that path. Oh, well. If in twenty years she's still willing to dine with me in public, we'll be alright.



*This is the main reason pediatricians recommend starting a baby on cereal at four months. It isn't because the child requires solid food at that age. It's because a four month old will tolerate spoon feeding, and cereal is the easiest thing for them to digest. In other words, it's for training purposes, not nutrition.

Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother: Immunizations

In this blog series, I examine the conventions of "attachment" parenting (which I wholeheartedly embraced before my child's birth), and detail how I have fallen short of those ideals. I don't mind being imperfect. If child rearing is a competition, I forfeit.

Immunizations
I thought I was supposed to be vehemently opposed to immunizations. I've known several thoughtful, intelligent, "attached" parents who refused or delayed their kids' vaccinations. And when I first started thinking about this stuff a few years ago, Andrew Wakefield's research connecting autism with vaccines was still relevant.

Since Wakefield's fall from grace, I haven't found much evidence that getting vaccinated is more dangerous than not getting vaccinated. That's not to say I'm especially well read on the subject. Honestly, I've forgotten most of what I have read. My ego wishes this were a more informative post, full of helpful links and specific arguments about each type of vaccine. But that would misrepresent the actual amount of time I spent thinking about this issue.

Here's how the decision went down - When baby was born, we refused the Hepatitis B shot they gave at the hospital because we wanted more time to mull over vaccines. In fact, I purposely avoided selecting a pediatrician in advance because I didn't want anyone pressuring us before we were ready to decide. But we couldn't leave the hospital without a pediatric check-up, so we requested any doctor who happened to be making rounds.

We were told we'd be meeting with Dr. C--. While waiting for him to visit our room, the baby started fussing so I began feeding her. That’s when the doctor arrived. He was nebbish and quite awkward. In a movie about my kid’s birth, he’d be played by Buck Henry. When he saw me, he gasped. "Oh my god, you're nursing!" and scurried away. He returned a half hour later. After examining the baby, he couldn't figure out how to rewrap her diaper. “I’m so sorry!’ he flustered. As is standard procedure, he asked us to bring her by his office for a one-week checkup. I grudgingly agreed. I didn’t want this to be a long-term relationship, but I could deal with one appointment, just to be sure baby was okay.

Fast forward to the one week appointment - Dan and I were sitting in stony silence, waiting for Dr. C. We'd just had our first big parents' fight. I felt cranky and tired. Meeting with Buck Henry guy was the last thing I wanted to do. The door opened, I braced myself, and then a completely different dude walked into the room. He bore the bear-like look and calm, funny demeanor of my cousin J, which is to say that I liked him immediately.

He checked the baby’s vitals and was pleased to see that she'd actually gained on her birth weight. We discussed the Hep B shot we'd skipped at the hospital. He was cool about it, but clearly explained the vaccination schedule he would follow if we were to continue seeing him. I said I needed more time to think it over. I was trying very hard to be politely firm and internally critical of this new doctor. But then he glanced at Dan, who was calming the baby by gently vibrating her in his arms, and said, "Hey. You're a pro." Shucks. What a kind thing to say.

Dan finally asked, "Excuse me, but what is your name?"

"Um... I'm Dr. C--"

"Oh, we thought the man we met in the hospital was Dr. C--," Dan said, offering a description of our nebbish friend.

"That sounds like my colleague, Dr. H--. Hmm, I guess he likes to impersonate me." Dan and I shared a much-needed chuckle. Before leaving the room, the doctor wished us well and said I was welcome to stay and nurse the baby as long as I wanted. He waved a hand toward the window, which faced some autumn gold-drenched trees. "Enjoy the bucolic view," he added, throwing around my favorite adjective like it was nothing.

My ego wishes I could say that I went straight home and immediately began my immunization research. In reality, Dan and I made up, then got Steak 'n' Shake burgers and took the baby to the park. The fact-finding mission actually commenced about two days before she was due for the first round of shots. Still determined to be distrustful, I specifically sought solid, anti-vaccine literature. Unfortunately, most of what I found was anecdotal, tin foil hat-y and terribly written. The best arguments were along the lines of, "I don't know, it sure is creepy how many shots kids get these days...Is this really necessary?...Weird..." I think that's a reasonable sentiment, and I think it's wise to question medical wisdom that so greatly benefits the pharmaceutical industry. (Medicine that is ideally consumed by everyone? What a windfall!) Still, I never came across any specific information that really frightened me. A tiny percentage of patients have suffered horrible side effects, but they seem outnumbered by unvaccinated kids who've contracted serious illnesses.

By that point, we'd already met with Dr. C again at the one month visit. He said so many nice things like, "Hey, girl! I love your name," to the baby, and, "A+ job, you guys," to us. That's also when I noticed his magical ability to hone in on my deepest, unspoken concerns. "Are you worried about not being on a schedule yet? Don't. Right now, it's just about meeting her needs. You can't spoil her. Just get through the days. Now, if by ten weeks you two haven't gone on a date yet, I'm going to start bugging you. By twelve weeks, mom should be starting to get her life back." No schedule okay? Date night? Me have life?! Prior to that moment, I couldn't conceive of any of those things ever being true. And suddenly, there was this huge ass carrot of hope dangling in the distance. I felt so relieved. I hadn't anticipated getting a free therapy session with the purchase of a well visit.

I always knew that if I wanted a pediatrician, I’d have to get my kid vaccinated. Once I realized that we’d lucked into an awesome pediatrician, and that I wasn't really scared of the risks, the vaccine decision was simple. I didn't even bother looking into the delayed schedule option. At the two month appointment, I had some lingering concerns about the rota-virus shot. The doctor allayed those concerns. And that was that. Baby had her first set of immunizations that day. I admit, it was awful. Listening to her scream as I watched the nurse stick her three times, I wondered, "Is this the real reason parents refuse this stuff?" Seemed like a perfectly good reason to me at that moment. But I'd be lying if I didn't also admit to loving those extra long naps that followed.

Please don't read this as a pro-vaccine or anti-anti-immunization screed. I'm not saying that the refusers are wrong. And that's beside the fact that another parent's choice is none of my business. I have just one bit of advice for anyone who is struggling with this decision: don't freak out about it. Whatever you decide, take comfort In the overwhelming odds that your kid will be just fine. Both sides of the argument speak to tiny percentages. You're a new parent. Your challenges are many. Do the tiny percentages really deserve that much of your limited mental power?

Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother

In hindsight, I'm ashamed that I spent so much time arming my child and myself against the party hostess's unfiltered judgements. Cloth diaper on baby bottom? Check. Bottle of breast milk (not formula), casually but clearly identified as such? Check. I'd already considered ways I could steer the conversation away from daycare and its inevitable role in our future. Let her tongue click later. I just had to get through this one party.

It was all going so well. She graciously offered to let the baby sleep in any one of their quieter rooms, if I felt comfortable leaving her alone. Certainly, I said. I wasn't one of those parents who had to hover over their kid non-stop. Not like my friend so-and-so with their toddler, I said.

The party hostess's face fell. Obviously, she had hovered over her kids when they were that age. In mocking my friend, I had mocked her, too. And then I just felt like an asshole.

Cursed judgment, it's so contagious. The party hostess tells other parents how they should raise their kids. And when she's not around, those other parents criticize her for homeschooling her brood. It never ends. In my ideal world, everyone stops giving a shit what anyone else thinks and everyone also keeps their mouths shut. But I don't see that happening, especially since I can't even live up to that standard.

Child rearing shouldn't be a competition, but that's how it feels at times. And I've gotta say, the attachment parents are usually the worst. I use "attachment" as a catch-all term for the generally liberal, usually middle class parents who are philosophically dedicated to at least some of the following - natural childbirth, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, organics (food, fabrics, etc.), cloth diapering, cooking their own baby food, delaying or refusing immunizations and never, EVER letting their kid "cry it out". Strict adherence to these methods requires sacrifices of time, money and sleep. And some among us seem to be keeping score. Since my days of working in nonprofits I've never met so many cutthroat martyrs. Who will give the most of themselves purely for the benefit of their child?

Answer - not me. Sure, I share many of the aforementioned values and lifestyle choices. But, my reasons for doing what I do are not always based on what's best for baby. In many ways, I am mildly detached from my child. This is how I keep myself sane. I'm proudly imperfect and in this series of blog posts, I’d like to tell you exactly how ~

Breastfeeding
For the first six months of my baby’s life, I fed her nothing but breast milk. I was able to do this because I am both lucky and privileged.

If:

• Nursing your baby does not cause significant physical pain
• You don't rely on a prescription drug to get through your day-to-day life
• You don’t have any serious issues with the mechanics (latch-on, milk supply, etc.)

then you are lucky like me.

If:

• You are able to stay at home with your baby for an extended period of time
• You work for people who are genuinely supportive of your nursing habit
• You own a breast pump

then you are privileged like me.

Breastfeeding is a fantastic experience and I’m truly thrilled if you or your partner are able to do it. But please acknowledge your luck and privilege. And if you must judge parents who feed their babies formula, please use your pre-mouth filter. It’s really none of your business.

So, yeah, I’m a World Health Organization superstar, and I continue to nurse my baby between solid food meals. Bully for me! Alas, I would probably not qualify as a La Leche League superstar, because I do not always feed my baby whenever she wants. If I know she's not needing food and I don’t feel like it, I may find another way to placate her.

And speaking of placating someone when they’re cranky - I broke out my breast pump for the first time back in December and have used it frequently since. Yet, I didn’t go back to work until last month. Why would I bother pumping if I’m gonna be around my baby anyway? So I can have a couple beers and not worry about it getting into her milk. Sometimes mommy needs her bottle, too. This is what I mean about being mildly detached. My life is mostly about her, but I get to enjoy these little patches of pure self interest. I’m able to keep my balance and I think we both fare better in the end.

Baby Boot Camp

Cross training tool for new parents?

I haven't been working out as often as I think I should, but my reasons for feeling bad about that are suddenly very different. For most of the past six months, losing baby weight has been my primary objective. But that goal just isn't very motivating. Breastfeeding burns extra calories, so If I exercise only a couple times a week I still manage to lose weight. Aside from this strange new fleshy paunch*, I'm pretty happy with how I look. Plus, life with an infant gives me plenty of great excuses for blowing off the gym.

But in just the past week or so, I've found fresh inspiration for resuming my fitness regime. This increasingly mobile baby is kicking my ass! Bernadette hasn't figured out the arm part of crawling, but I predict that she'll be on the move within days. I am half proud, half terrified. Presently, she can scoot like a mofo, but that ain't the half of it. She rolls, lunges, flails, grabs and twists. It's all my fault. I wished for her to be athletic. I didn't consider how her ability and ambition would affect me. Preventing her from hurting herself has made me a contortionist. At least a couple times a day, I find myself standing up from a cross legged floor position as I hold a squirming baby who is clenching my hair with her tiny fists. I'm worn out! I've worked with two incredibly fit personal trainers, and neither of them were this hard on me.

As she gets bigger and stronger it's only going to get tougher. I need to lift weights, work my core and run several times a week so I don't hurt myself while taking care of her. I'm up for the challenge. Hell, I consider it physical therapy. It's the best remedy for utter physical depletion. I got a flavor of that feeling during my first trimester of pregnancy, but I wasn't working this hard. As I mentioned in a post from a year ago, I'm used to having a natural font of energy. Being zonked bums me out.

Having just turned 35 and considering the years ahead of me, I now regard energy as a precious resource. I'm investing most of it in this kid, but I'd like to have a bit left over at the end of the day for myself. So, it's time to front plank, shoulder press, and stationary bike my way to a greater sense of wellness. I gotta do my homework if I'm gonna survive baby boot camp.




*I've had a prominent paunch for years. The fleshiness is the strange new part of it.

On Tots and Time

Watching my five month old daughter resist a nap has given new meaning to the phrase "falling asleep". She really looks like she's falling. Her eyelids droop, her taut limbs slowly descend toward the mattress. And just when she's about to land in a pleasant slumber, she gasps, clenches every muscle and pulls herself back into determined, cranky consciousness.

I don't totally get why she fights it, but I remember hating naps when I was a kid. I can still see the wood grain patterns on the underside of the top bunk bed on a sunny afternoon in 1981. I was bored out of my mind. If I were TIRED, I'd be sleeping right now! As I laid in my prison cell, I imagined all the fun stuff my mom must have been doing at that moment.  I can't wait till I'm a grown up and no one can tell me what to do.  Years later, I would have a similar fantasy as I stared through the chain link fence that surrounded my elementary school playground. That guy mowing his lawn at the house across the street has no idea how good he has it. He is free.

I have to admit, being a grown up is better, though I now understand that adulthood comes with its own traps and tedium. I still hate naps and take far fewer than the number prescribed to new moms. I don't always sleep when the baby sleeps, because when else am I going to write? Will Bernadette envy my writing time when she's old enough to understand what I'm doing when I make her go to bed in the middle of the day?

So, I don't look at Bernadette or my young self and say, "You silly thing, someday you'll prize this activity you once hated!" That was never true for me. I guess the one thing I wish a child could understand and appreciate while they're still young is the preciousness of time. I was always wanting to speed things up. I can't wait for this nap time to be over. I can't wait until I'm old. It's only December 14th and I'm dying for it to be Christmas Day! As an adult, I love and savor the holiday season from Thanksgiving onward. But I'd gladly do without the gift exchange, and Christmas Day tends to be anticlimactic. As a child, the seemingly eternal build-up frustrated me. Now it moves so fast. I guess the days seem so much longer when you don't have that many behind you.

I'm turning 35 in a few weeks - not so very old, but not so very young, either. In a weird and unanticipated way, I feel lucky to have a baby at this pivotal moment. Raising an infant  warps time. The days stretch and fly like a fickle rubber band. It's exhausting and enlivening all at once. I'm often immersed in vivid nostalgia but also feel excited for the future. Somehow, I'm able to ponder all that while being present for this very needy person. It's hard work, but I'd rather be this busy than be obsessing over my age. I'd rather be mowing the lawn than staring through the chain link fence.

Silly Nicknames for a Serious Baby

Bern
Berna
Berna Loy
Bernie
Bernie Kopell
Bjernadette
Dernabette
Nerdabette
Squirmadette
Turnabette
Subalternadette
Bird-a-nest
Burpadette
Bruinadette
Brunettadette
Bear-nadette
Bear
Little Bear
Sweet Bear
Strong, Brave Bear
Abraham Leakin' (when her diaper leaks)
Grabigail Adams (when she grabs our faces, hair, etc.)
Sling Thing

Miscellaneous Reflections on Life With My Daughter

Ever since Bernadette started smiling, I see a personality emerging. It's almost as if her baby-ness is gradually melting away, revealing a distinct character that isn't so much me or so much Dan. She is definitely her own person, one who strikes me as a very old soul. Sometimes it feels like she's this really cool chick who just decided to be our baby, and I get the feeling we're going to have to make ourselves a bit more interesting if she's gonna hang with us long term.


B is obviously way more social than either of us. But if she's happy, we're happy, so we've been entertaining more visitors in the last couple months than in the previous two years combined. Oh, she also makes us way more popular than we could ever be on our own. She's cuter than us, too.


Raising a baby in the Facebook age is weird but mostly awesome. I love that B's long-distance admirers can watch her grow in pictures and videos. I mean, it's nothing like the real thing but it's way better than nothing. Managing that visual stream is an odd responsibility. For grandparents alone, I feel morally obligated to post photos regularly. At the same time, I recognize that doing so is a quick and sleazy way to score something I call "Facebook fix". Facebook fix is that tiny jolt you get when you see the little red globe lit up with endless likes and adoring comments. Nothing gets you a bigger Facebook fix than posting super cute pictures of your baby. My question is, when I get off on that, how very different am I from a "Toddlers & Tiaras" mom? So if you wish that I would share Bernie photos more often, please know that I don't mean to deprive you any pleasure. I just don't wanna feel like an icky attention whore.


I can't believe that this little person is so soothed by the sound of my singing voice. "Hey, Baby! What's the matter? Oh, nothing a little cable karaoke can't fix? I'm on it." Many a time Bernadette has mellowed to my rendition of Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam's "Lost in Emotion" as I dance her in the sling. This makes no sense to me, but it works and it's fun. Then there are my Diaper Time Ditties, a cappella versions of songs I know by heart - The Chords "Sh'boom", The Beatles "In My Life", They Might Be Giants "Birdhouse in Your Soul". She really digs that last one, so yesterday I added this to the repertoire ~



She loved it so much. Her face was a non-stop smile fest, and when she's smiling she relaxes and it's easier to put her diaper on. Sometimes singing is the only way to get through diaper time without a lot of crying. Those are the moments when I find the tone of my forced happy a cappella voice a little creepy, because I know how stressed I feel inside. The repetition doesn't help my sense of frustration. Perhaps I need to add more selections to the Diaper Time Ditties catalog, just to make it more fun and interesting. I do believe we've got some Cole Porter on deck.


I'm so glad Bernadette has a really nice dad, one who can't wait to get home to her when his work is done. Dan calls B "baby drugs", I suppose because he's been jonesing for her all day.

I'm so grateful to him for busting ass so I don't have to know how that feels. With the exception of this past Sunday, when my sister M babysat and the two of us went out on a date, I haven't been away from B for more than three hours at a time. This is what my life has been these past few months and this is how it'll be for a few months more. It's awesome. I wouldn't have it any other way.


Everyone who has adult children tells us to enjoy this time. I know several parents of small children who find that shit annoying. The problem with getting that advice from the former is that they don't seem to recollect the tribulations experienced by the latter. No, I did not enjoy those evenings during the first four weeks when Bernadette would scream for two straight hours. But I do find I'm unusually present these days which puts me in a good position for enjoying the little things. For someone so prone to nostalgia, I've spent little time mourning my pre-baby existence. I do have a recurring dream in which I can't quite make it to the karaoke bar (a personal symbol for all foregone freedom), but I'll gladly leave that yearning to my subconscious. My conscious mind is mostly focused on this baby and helping her become the best Bernie she can be. I'm luckily blessed with a propensity for patience, and a baby who happens to love living room karaoke.

Planning for Peanut: Peanut! part 2

In part 1, I recapped the events of pregnancy week 40, during which I was under a lot or pressure to induce labor. I managed to avoid an induction, but made a deal with my obstetrician that I would be induced on Sunday, October 30th if little Peanut hadn't arrived by then.

Week 41

On Tuesday, October 25th, I awoke relieved. I didn't have to go to a hospital or doctor's office that day, or the next day, or the next day. I could finally enjoy my sister M's visit and work in some sight-seeing before the baby's arrival. The lower half of my body was recovering from the previous weekend's ill-conceived castor oil experiment. I was ready to enjoy my last several days of pregnancy.

Of course, I told myself the same thing I'd been telling myself for weeks - all that could change if little Peanut decided to emerge from the womb. But having been aware of that possibility for a whole month and having been through the medical interventionist wringer that was week 40, I couldn't help wondering if that was ever really going to happen. Maybe she just wanted to stay in her cozy, uterine clubhouse. With all the nonsense she'd be apt to encounter every day, I could hardly blame her.

After Dan left for work and before M got out of bed, I called my best friend S and recounted the events of the previous days. S is the father of twin toddlers and his knowledge of certain terms I used - like preeclampsia, for instance - made me realize that I was joining a special club called parenthood. I didn't know what "preeclampsia" meant a week ago. And I bet that two years ago, S didn't know what it meant either. But if you or your spouse has given birth, you just know this stuff. He knew about the castor oil trick, too. He laughed and groaned simultaneously when I told him of my effort. "I think if you want to avoid induction, it's probably best to avoid self-inducing, too."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. But hey, it gave me a preview of coming attractions. That's something, right?" He laughed at me some more. I added, "For what it's worth, I'm having contractions right now. Who knows? Maybe today will be the big day."

If this were a movie, my water would have broken two minutes later. M would rush me to the hospital just in time to avoid an automobile birth at the junction of I-24 and I-75. But the mundane truth of the matter was that I'd been feeling contractions for days, even before the castor oil debacle. I didn't know at the time that what I was sensing was more than just a strong Peanut kick until I was hooked up to a non-stress test monitor. But there it was, registering a neat, little bell curve on the pink graph paper printout. Contractions are no big thing until they start coming hard and frequent, and even then they can stagnate. I met a woman who told me she'd had contractions six minutes apart for ten days before she gave birth. Now that's a bummer.

After I hung up with S, I drank coffee and nibbled some food with M. Though I was in a good mood and happy to have some mellow time at home, my appetite remained elusive. I can't eat when I get nervous or anxious, but what was there for me to sweat? Sure, those contractions were more intense than any I'd felt before; the castor oil contractions made my uterus feel like a balloon that's being inflated, but now I felt grinding cramps rising from the cervix. But these were still too infrequent to be taken seriously. I decided to think about other things. M and I made sight-seeing plans for that afternoon and eventually rose from the sofa to get ready.

When my obstetrician Dr. B described contractions to me around week 37, he said, "It's enough to stop you mid-sentence, if not to stop you in your tracks." I was walking Dulce when I felt the first one of those. I remember standing in the middle of the street, staring at my neighbor's yard, thinking, Oh, that's what he meant. Several minutes later, when I was gathering my purse and cell phone, I felt another one. By the time we had buckled our seat belts in M's car, I told her, "I've been feeling pretty regular contractions for a little while now. I'm going to start timing them." That was at 2:30pm.

We drove up Lookout Mountain to Point Park, a Civil War memorial that boasts the best view of the city. I reminded myself of the number one bit of advice given to women in early labor - just go about your business as usual. Buy your annual Point Park pass because the old one expired. Show M the beautiful view of the city. Go to the bathroom. Nothing to see here, move along! But I couldn't help leaning against a rock or sitting on a bench every time I felt that grinding cramp, and the clock sure wasn't lying. Seven minutes. Eight minutes. Ten minutes. Back to eight minutes. I knew I was a long way from the finish line, but it seemed like this might really be happening.

By 3:30pm, I gave up any pretense of continuing our sight-seeing tour, but I definitely had to eat. Doing that would only get harder as labor progressed. We headed to The Terminal, my favorite restaurant/brewpub in Chattanooga. Thinking with respect for my stomach and the work ahead of me, I eschewed the root beer and bison burger I really wanted and ordered a water and salad instead. We sat at a high table in front of the bar. The stools looked more inviting than low chairs or wooden booth benches, though I still had to stand up and stretch as each contraction rolled across my belly. I think I caught our waiter smiling excitedly as he passed our table. If this were a movie, they'd lay me on the bar while the brewmaster shouted at his minions to fetch the hot water and towels. What's with the hot water, anyway? Is it really going to stay hot throughout the entire labor?

I'd called Dan at the start of our meal, just to let him know that something might be happening. Like me, he was cautiously excited. "Oh. Okay... why don't you call me back in a little while and let me know how it's going?" Before we left the restaurant, I did just that, telling him he should meet me at home as soon as possible.

I found the remainder of my early labor hours very difficult. Trying to go about business as usual when you know you're about to give birth seems like trying to do your income taxes while tripping on acid. How does one focus on everyday stuff when your whole world is suddenly bathed in a fresh, strange light? I tried watching "Pootie Tang" with M. I tried tackling simple household chores. But by 7:30pm, I was sitting in bed, attempting to eat crackers and apple slices with my eyes closed, bracing myself for those ever-increasing contractions. I'd phoned our doula A earlier to let her know I was in labor. She said that she would come whenever I felt I needed her there, allowing one hour of travel time. The natural birth books say that you move to the next stage of labor when you find yourself getting "very serious". Was I there yet? I mean, I felt a little uneasy but I was still able to mock Alex Trebek as Dan and M watched Jeopardy in the other room. If I could still joke around, did I really need A to come over quite yet?

I held out until around 10:00pm. By then, my contractions were three to five minutes apart and I was starting to get a little freaked out. It wasn't the pain that worried me as much as the feeling that this was all suddenly moving way faster than I could handle. A arrived at 11:00pm, along with her young apprentice E. NOTE: When I hired A in August, she knew she'd be busy in October and asked if we'd mind her bringing in E, a doula-in-training. If another client's birth prevented A from getting to us in time (unlikely, but not impossible), E could step in. Otherwise, we would have two doulas instead of one. The latter scenario came to fruition, which is greater proof that I am the luckiest of bastards.

The first thing I said to A and E was, "I think it's getting serious, but it's so hard for me to tell because I make a joke out of everything!" A nodded in her sympathetic but not exactly agreeing way, and I suddenly felt calmer. She was carrying a Pilates stability ball and suggested I use it to make myself comfortable. I got on the floor, my knees resting on a pillow and laid my chest upon the ball. I rolled gently, back and forth, as I awaited the next contraction. A encouraged me to breathe deeply as she and E rubbed my back with silken fingers. After the contraction passed, I turned to them and said, "Thank you very much. That felt really nice."

I now realize that would be like taking one bite at the start of an exquisite twelve course meal and saying to the chef, "Thank you very much. That tasted good." Between A, E, M and Dan, I had people massaging and comforting me until we left for the hospital around 7am. Sometimes I had all four of them at my side. Other times they would work in shifts, taking turns to eat, go to the bathroom and nap. I spent most of those eight hours leaning over the stability ball, my eyes shut. But sometimes I would stroll around the house, pressing my hands against a wall as I slowly breathed my way through the steadily longer, harsher contractions. I took a bath at one point. I threw up a couple times, too.

I used to think that vomiting was the worst physical malady, but labor pains gave me a new perspective on that. Puking was just a big relief. Contractions are such a different beast. I kept in mind what I'd read in the natural birth books, that each contraction brings you one step closer to meeting your baby. The best thing to do is to not fight it, but just let it happen. Early in the night, A advised me to make low, deep grunting noises as the contractions occurred. I felt a little silly at first, and then I got scared. I whimpered and nearly cried, but A cut me off. "Tara, no. Breathe deeply. Low, deep grunting sounds." That shook me from my panic and honestly - no shit - I never lost my cool after that point. Making those noises gave me a focus. When I felt the pain rising within me, I knew exactly how I had to approach it. I just had to be like the dude from Crash Test Dummies.

Throughout the night, I kept thinking, If this were a movie, I'd be screaming and saying mean things to my husband. According to my witnesses, I was actually very quiet and polite. The movies make you think that the experience of childbirth turns every woman (regardless of her usual temperament) into a raging shrew, which is okay because she's giving birth. And really, if that happens it is okay, but it didn't happen to me. And I take some satisfaction in knowing that even in those most trying moments, I was absolutely myself.

Having an attentive entourage sure as hell helped. But it wasn't until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning that I noticed the littlest helper of all. After a contraction passed, I lifted myself from the stability ball to take a sip of water and saw my cat Zenobia laying at the edge of the bed. She stared at me, with her front left paw outstretched, as if she were ready to rub my back. E said, "She's been at your side all night." And she followed me the rest of the night, too. Since then, Dan has referred to her as a Certified Nurse Midcat*.

Zenobia - Queen of Palmyra/ Therapy Cat

Around 6:00 or 6:30am, I thought my water broke. I now know that it was actually more of the show that I'd seen on Saturday night (a lot more), but that's when we decided it was time to go to the hospital. I'd told A earlier that I was afraid of the ten mile car ride. I imagined every railroad track, bump and abrupt curve, and how the contractions would magnify those seemingly minor discomforts. She smiled serenely and said, "But in the grand scheme, it's not such a big deal, is it?" It wasn't. Again, I was calm. We left at 7:00am. The earliest glimpses of dawn and the cool, dewy October air was just the refreshment I needed as we slowly made our way to the car. Believing that my water had broken, I was slightly alarmed when I didn't feel any contractions on the way to the hospital. Shit, am I almost to the pushing stage?

Alas, I still had several hours of work ahead of me. The contractions resumed after I got to my room. The nurse verified that my cervix was 6 centimeters dilated and my water bag was intact. And as the long hours passed, I knew I'd stay in a holding pattern until that water broke.

Around 11:00am, I was sitting with my chest against the inclined back of the hospital bed, my arms dangling over the edge, waiting for the next grueling contraction. If I were to fulfill most people's expectations, this would be the moment I'd be begging for an epidural. Most women get to some point in their labor when they start to think, "I can't do this." It's usually when they're really close to the pushing stage (which is generally easier and more satisfying than the stage I was in). I wasn't doubting my ability to handle the situation, but I was starting to believe it would last forever. There was no way I'd ask for an epidural; after all my fussing for a natural, un-induced childbirth during week 40, my pride just wouldn't allow that. And I didn't think it would help anyway. I considered asking the doctor to break my water bag, but my experience thus far was that every intervention seemed to involve more difficulty. Every simple test involved marathon monitoring. Every quick IV injection of antibiotics led to an hour of being hooked to a machine. No, I was determined that little Peanut and I were going to do this together. Yes, I'd have to endure more contractions. So what? You've already been through a whole day of this. Pain is just a thing and you can put it aside. Why fear it?

Eventually, A convinced me that resting on the toilet would be the best way to get my cervix to open up. I was sitting there, leaning into Dan's arms, and I could feel Peanut pushing against the water bag. By this point I was no longer just letting the contractions happen. I was actively working with that pain to push baby Bernadette toward her destiny. I buried my face in Dan's belly, grunted and pushed, and then I heard the second happiest sound of my life. Splash!

A, E and M cheered. I exhaled and laughed. The nurse barked, "Okay, that was the water. Get up! I'm not having any toilet babies today." I begged for a moment to rest, but she wasn't having any of that. As I stumbled toward the bed, she called Dr. B and I readied myself for that glorious, much-touted pushing stage.

If this were my everyday life, I would be so embarrassed right now. Forget the fact that I'm not a particularly touchy-feely person and I shy away from massages. Forget that I tend to avoid being nude around anyone who isn't Dan. I'd been walking around half-naked, falling into other people's comforting arms for hours. But now I was expelling all sorts of liquids from the space between my legs. I didn't care. The nurse was of a much different opinion. "It's going to take me hours to clean this up!" she muttered. And though I usually take pains to avoid being a bother to anyone (especially workers), I didn't care about that, either.

When Dr. B arrived, I could tell he was uncomfortable with two doulas in the room, though I'd told him on several occasions to expect them. He seemed to have completely forgotten about my birth plan, too. "No stirrups - what?!" He just couldn't handle all of this previously discussed information, so he behaved like a douchey buffoon. Out of nowhere, this trusted professional started talking to me in this weirdly bombastic, too-loud tone. Occasionally he'd take a time-out to flirt with the nurse. How did my high school gym teacher get in the room? Is this guy actually going to deliver my baby? At one point, he looked at A's DONA shirt and asked, "What's a donna?"

"Um, it's DONA. It stands for Doulas of North America."

A blank stare and "Huh," was all he could muster. He turned to me. "Okay, Tara. Now you're getting ready to push. This is the one situation where I think it's better for a woman to not have an epidural". Translation: it's the moment when it's more convenient for him that I didn't have an epidural. "I need you to take all your energy and push where you feel pressure, right here," he said, reaching into my vagina. "Push like it's a bowel movement. Okay... now! Push!"

I took a deep breath and exhaled as I pushed, but the results did not please him. "No!" he said. "C'mon, like a bowel movement!"

I was beyond unembarrassed. I felt like taking a dump right then and there. Bowel movement? Here's your stinkin' bowel movement! Thankfully, A chimed in with other advice. "Don't let your breath out. Use it to help you push. When you feel the urge, you'll probably push a few times. Just make sure to get a deep breath between each one. And take a break whenever you need to. "

Oh, how I relished those breaks! This stage is supposed to be so great because you get to take control and really make that baby move. But it requires a lot of energy and I was oh so spent. I'd been awake for 30 hours, I'd thrown up everything I ate in that time, and here I was at the end of the most physically exhausting trial of my life, trying to push a baby through my vagina. Yet, when I felt that urge to bear down, I had no choice but to give it my all.

Dr. B saw some progress. When I got some good pushes in, he encouraged me to stick with the same technique. And then he started saying, "Push through the Bern!" Well, that's a weird way to refer to my baby. How does he remember her name is Bernadette when he can't remember that I have a birth plan? Then I realized he was really saying, "Push through the burn!"

That was actually helpful. Push through the pain. Don't hold back. Each time I did, my audience would coo with delight. "Oh my god, we can totally see her. She has hair!" they told me. I'd spurned the birth mirror - I had enough on my plate without having to look at the mess between my thighs - so I only had their reaction to track the baby's progress.

Even Dr. B got excited. "Yes! We can see her head. It's about the size of a dime."

WHAT?! This much pain and all they could see was a dime-sized bit of baby head? But my body was too busy for me to stew. I pushed some more. I pushed through the burn. As everyone got more excited, I was more eager to be done. And when I heard Dr. B say, "Here she comes," I took a deep breath, pushed into the most excruciating pain I've ever known and screamed in agony. And then I heard another scream. And that's the best sound I ever heard in my life.

At 2:10pm, I cried, "She's here! She's finally here!" And there was my little Peanut, Bernadette, dangling in Dr. B's hands. By that point, there seemed to be about 20 other people in the room. Though I had wanted to hold her immediately, they took her away for a cleaning since there was meconium in the fluid (apparently, Bernadette wasn't shy about pooping either). Since all I ever wanted was for this baby to be strong and healthy, I honestly didn't mind waiting for them to get her ready. But it felt like forever before the nurse laid her across my belly, where she immediately latched to my breast and began feeding. "Well, hello there!" I said. "You're just beautiful." And then I fell into her twinkly eyes. That's how I met my daughter.

So, yeah, giving birth naturally is definitely the coolest thing I've done in my life. It gave me a new perspective on pain and a new measure of my endurance. I felt enormous pride when A leaned over the bed and said, "You are a strong woman." I certainly don't think that anyone who chooses to use drugs during birth is wrong for doing so. Rather, I wish all women felt comfortable, sufficiently informed and empowered to make whatever decision suits them best. I'm just so happy that I got to do this how I wanted, especially since my moments-old baby looked like this -

Healthy and strong, just as I'd wished.

*Contrary to our fears, Zenobia has been an absolute sweetheart to Bernadette. She seems to regard the baby with a certain maternal awe, gingerly leaning in to sniff her head before shyly backing away. Z also continues to comfort me. For instance, there was a night during the first week when B screamed for hours. Dan offered to walk her around the house while I tried to get a few minutes of sleep. I was laying in the middle of the bed with the blanket pulled over my head when I felt Z crawl under the sheets. She used her front left paw to press my hand against the mattress. Then she retracted the claw in her right paw and used that to caress me. I had no idea she was so coordinated, or so sensitive! Well that just melted my heart into grateful, sleepy tears.

Planning for Peanut - Peanut! part 1

Part 1

Week 40 - Worst Week Ever

Tuesday

Though I had no expectation little peanut would arrive on her due date, I chose to greet Tuesday, October 18th with a celebratory spirit. Though I could no longer wish for an early arrival, I took the date as a reminder that she would likely show up in the next couple weeks. And what's two weeks compared to nine months of waiting? Other than the frustration that comes with fielding the ever-increasing inquiry "Is she here yet?" I happened to feel perfectly fine.

Still, I anticipated my 40 week doctor's appointment with some trepidation. I knew that my obstetrician, Dr. B, was out of town and that I’d be meeting with his colleague, Dr. C, instead. All I knew of her was a particularly harsh online review I'd read when I was researching their practice (though I knew it wasn't fair to put too much stock in a single internet rant). And I also knew that this is when they would start with the twice-a-week ultrasounds and non-stress tests to monitor the baby's health. Though gestation is commonly anywhere from 38 - 42 weeks, as far as these doctors were concerned, 40 weeks is when you raise the red flag.

But again, I felt fine and other than testing positive for beta strep (a somewhat concerning condition that meant I’d be treated with antibiotics during labor - no biggie to me), I'd had absolutely no prenatal issues. So I was a little surprised when the triage nurse stated my blood pressure reading - "138 over 90".

140/90 is when you start to worry. I think my previous week's reading had been 110/70, so this was definitely abnormal. But since I felt fine, I wasn't too upset.

A woman wearing a loud plastic smock showed me to a room where I was hooked up to a non-stress test monitor. She was neat in appearance but quite sloppy in spirit; I immediately found her unnerving. In introducing herself, she mumbled something about "Dr. C", which led me to believe that she was the doctor (though she was dressed more like a nurse). Oh, boy I thought. This woman does not give me confidence. Dan thought I would be having just the ultrasound that day and asked her to check if the NST was really necessary. She nervously scurried away and returned a few minutes later, bearing a desperate, "Please don't scream at me!" expression.

"We have you scheduled for an NST and an ultrasound, but actually the ultrasound machine is broken so we may have to send you somewhere else to have that done or we may need you to come back tomorrow."

Ugh. I'm not a complainer and I certainly don't scream at anyone, so I decided to just suck it up and do what needed to be done. I just had to relax and get through the day. Hopefully little peanut would show up before my Friday appointment so I could avoid any further tests.

Relaxing in that atmosphere was no simple task. It seemed that all the staff I encountered were handling me with something I call "suicide watch kid gloves". That's when everyone seems to think you're about to lose your shit at any given moment, but you have no idea why. It would be like going to work on a day when everyone but you knows you're about to get fired. This was on top of the general atmosphere of mayhem that permeated the office that morning. With two physicians out and the ultrasound machine broken, I could tell they were all having a bad day. And then the NST monitor - which looked like it belonged in my elementary school's computer lab, circa 1985 - started chewing its paper printout, which could give the impression that little peanut's heart rate was plummeting. Dan alerted the lady in the loud smock, and she freaked out a bit more as she tried in vain to re-feed the dispenser. At some point, she reread my blood pressure - 138/80.

Finally, around 1pm, we were ushered to another room where I was to have my cervix checked. A few minutes later, a woman in a long white coat came in and introduced herself as Dr. C. Well that's a relief. (Later, I told Dan, "I thought that nurse said she was the doctor." He told me, "No, she introduced herself as Dr. C's nurse." Hmm.) "Your blood pressure has gone up. If you were past your due date, we would be really concerned about this. But since today is your due date, we'll let it go." Okay, that's completely arbitrary, but whatever. "We're going to send you down the road to get an ultrasound, just to check the baby's weight and fluid. That's at 3pm. And then you'll be coming back here on Friday. But I'm going to give you a list of symptoms and if you have any one of these, you need to call me immediately." I know now that she was looking for signs of preeclampsia - a headache that doesn't go away, increased swelling, upper abdominal pain, etc. I promised to call if any of those symptoms occurred. She checked my cervix and gave me one of those damned nervous smiles. "Still just one inch dilated," she said, as if this little ditty were playing in the background -

But I wasn't worried. Plenty of women go from one inch to fully dilated in a matter of hours. As Dr. B said on several occasions, "You really can't predict when labor will happen."

Since our one hour doctor's visit was turning into an all-day affair, Dan and I treated ourselves to a big lunch before heading to the other office for the ultrasound. Of course we'd hoped they would get us in right away so we could get that lousy day over with, but that just wasn't the case. As Dan pondered a Sudoku, I tried to build an interest in the General Hospital episode that was airing on the waiting room TV. Finally, a nurse approached us. "Excuse me. Are you the woman who is 40 weeks today?"

I smiled and affirmed. She laughed. "Wow, that's amazing that you're exactly 40 weeks and the baby isn't here yet. My daughter is 39 weeks and she is not happy." I made some vague pitying noises on behalf of her child. She continued, "I mean, I look at her and I look at you and I wonder, why don't you just get it over with?!" She laughed some more. Assuming she was about to take us to the ultrasound room, Dan set down his puzzle and stood up. But then she just walked away.

Friday

Since the ultrasound checked out fine and I hadn't experienced any of Dr. C's concerning symptoms, I had no worries about my Friday appointment. I dropped Dan off at work before heading to the office. Dr. B was still out of town, but I could tell that the workplace vibe was much calmer than it had been on Tuesday. But again, the blood pressure reading was higher than I'd hoped - 139/85.

The loud smock nurse was dressed in regular clothes and her hair was coifed with lots of gel. It was casual Friday. She attached me to the NST monitor again and I lazily read a magazine, knowing this could take much longer than the half hour that they generally claim. I didn't think much of it when she came back to check my blood pressure again (or the fact that it had barely changed since the first reading).

Moments later, Dr. C made an abrupt appearance. "Tara, your blood pressure is high. I'm diagnosing you with gestational hypertension and I'm going to recommend delivery."

I felt every muscle in my body stiffen. "When?"

"Tonight."

"You mean you want me to be induced?"

"Yes."

"Oh... I really don't feel comfortable with that."

"If we don't induce, your condition can develop into preeclampsia really fast and then your placenta could detach from your uterus and your baby could DIE."

And that was the first of many times I burst into tears during week 40 of pregnancy. NOTE: While I tend to have a pretty good memory, I admit I cannot remember most statements word-for-word. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that her sentence ended with the words "and your baby could die." I don't think that's something I could ever forget.

Dr. C was obviously surprised by my reaction. "I know you'd feel better if Dr. B were here for this."

Well, yes, but that's hardly the main reason I'm freaking the fuck out. "It's just that I really wanted to do this naturally. And I know I need to do what's best for the baby, but I didn't want it to be this way."

I can't remember how she reacted to that. I just know that a couple minutes later I was alone and the first thing I did was call Dan. He was in the middle of teaching his class, so I had to phone his department's office and ask the secretary to alert him. She was absolutely giddy when she realized it was me calling. She thought I was in labor. As I waited for Dan's return call, I imagined her excitement as she walked to the lecture hall. I thought of his students' reaction as she told him to call his wife, and how thrilled he would be to finally get that news. And it broke my fucking heart.

It was a terrible moment to be alone. I couldn't help remembering my wedding day, when I went to the salon to get my hair done. I'd been thinking of it as just a mundane task, not some sacred lady ritual that required the presence of an entourage. So I went by myself. And it wasn't that I suddenly wanted to make it into this special bonding moment with my non-existent bridal party. But as I sat and observed all the other brides on that June afternoon, I felt conspicuously out-of-place. The stylist was clearly confused by my being alone, and that I had no idea how I wanted my hair arranged. It would have been really nice to have a friend there, if only to say, "Hey, someone in this world thinks I'm normal for being this way."

The phone rang. My tearful greeting was a curt coda to Dan's happily anxious, "Hey, Tara!" When I told him what happened, he quickly reassured me that we were doing what was best for the baby. He asked if I had called our doula A. I hadn't, so he agreed to do so and promised to get there as soon as possible.

By the time he arrived, I was calmer but also more frustrated. Loud smock nurse had revisited my room several times and told me not to cry. "If you cry, you're going to make me cry!" she pouted, as if I cared. When he and I had a moment alone, he mentioned some of the things he and A had discussed. As a doula, A's job is to assist us in having the birth that we want. She doesn't give medical advice, but she's knowledgeable enough to express a variety of options. Sometimes, she just asks really good questions, like, "Were you diagnosed with gestational hypertension or were you diagnosed with preeclampsia?" or "If high blood pressure is the main concern, did you talk about alternatives to induction, like bed rest?" Hearing those questions made me realize that I had the right to slow down the process and at least ask for other options. It also reminded me that the ultimate decision was ours to make.

After the NST and ultrasound indicated a perfectly healthy baby, Dan and I spoke to Dr. C again. "Are there any alternatives to induction that we could consider?"

She sighed. I said, "Look, I know induction is pretty common here in Chattanooga, so it probably seems weird that I'm so upset about it - "

She became self-conscious and mumbled, "Yeah, it is really common."

"-but I really want to avoid having a C-section, and I know it's way more likely if I get induced."

In a slightly louder tone, she added, "Yeah, it's a 50% chance."

All I could say was, "Wow." I knew the rate was high, but I had no idea it was that high.

Suddenly, the doctor was open to alternatives. We agreed that I would have blood work done and that my blood pressure and the baby's stats would be monitored for six hours that afternoon. I would also complete a 24-hour urine sample (yep, that means collecting bits of urine in a big plastic jug over a 24-hour period). If there were any concerning symptoms, including a high level of protein in the urine, I would be induced asap. "And I want to go ahead and schedule induction for Sunday evening." This felt like a blessed reprieve, so I agreed. Dr. C sighed again. "If Dr. B finds out that I let you go, he's going to kill me!"

That's when we found ourselves in the odd position of comforting her. "Oh, he'll understand. We showed him our birth plan and he knows - "

"You have a birth plan? Ugh!" She actually groaned.

"It's just one page! We're very reasonable!" She whined a bit about parents with seven page birth plans, we demonstrated pity for the burden of her well-paid profession, and about a half hour later, we arrived at the hospital for my extended monitoring session.

After we got settled in the room, I told Dan that if peanut didn't arrive by Sunday night, I was willing to go along with the induction. I was a little surprised by his disappointment, but now I'm really grateful for it. If six hours of laying on a bed, hooked to a machine showed me anything, it's that being stuck in bed and hooked to a machine is miserable and a bit terrifying to me. I began to feel as if I were sick and weak, though I actually felt perfectly fine. And when I really considered why I was willing to go with induction, I had to admit that it came from a fear of confrontation more than concern for me or my baby. Frankly, I'm just really bad at sticking up for myself.

Just as I expected, the monitoring revealed no symptoms other than my higher-than-usual blood pressure. After reviewing the data, Dr. C decided I was fit to go home. By the time we left the hospital, I had decided that if my condition remained the same, there was no way I was going to let myself be induced on Sunday evening. And yet, I dreaded that inevitable confrontation with the dctor. It seemed that the best possible outcome would be giving birth before then. And that’s when I figured it would be a good time to experiment with castor oil.

The Weekend

Perhaps it seems odd to self-induce labor when an induction is exactly what I sought to avoid, but there are enormous differences between taking castor oil and being dosed with Pitocin. One of my main desires was to labor at home as long as possible before going to the hospital – not only because home is a more pleasant and comforting environment, but also because this is a smart way to avoid an unnecessary C-section. And unlike natural or even castor oil-induced contractions, Pitocin-induced contractions tend to be constant; you don’t get that rest in between that makes the experience more bearable (which is why induced women are way more likely to opt for an epidural).

Nevertheless, I jumped into the castor oil decision without doing much research, and I don’t think I'd be so eager if I knew then what I know now. I was wise enough to wait until I had completed my 24-hour urine sample before ingesting the oil on Saturday afternoon. In the meantime, Dan had enlisted our friend M in Wilmington, NC to drink some castor oil that same day, as a show of solidarity. M enjoys food challenges (especially those pertaining to hot sauce and spicy peppers), so he promptly agreed. We settled on Saturday afternoon as our “chug time”, though I was a bit delayed as I was waiting for Dan to get back from dropping off the urine sample at the hospital lab. M called me around 1:30pm. “Did you drink it yet?” When I told him I hadn’t, he warned, “You definitely want to mix it with something.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna put it in a smoothie. Why, does it taste gross?”

“No, that isn’t so bad. It tastes like wooden tongue depressors. But it’s just so slimy and viscous!”

Eww. When I poured the oil into my beverage, I saw exactly what he meant. That puddle of slightly yellow goo hung on top of my drink until I thoroughly stirred it in. Oh, well. Bottoms up!

The contractions started just a few minutes later. It was never too painful or intense, but they were consistent, coming every five to ten minutes. I got really excited, but within a couple hours they had all but ceased. I took my second dose of oil shortly thereafter. Not much happened at first, but within a couple hours I was having stronger contractions at eight to fifteen minute intervals.

Again, the pain associated with the contractions wasn’t bad. The real pain was from the diarrhea, which went from “Okay, this isn’t so bad” (at around 6:30pm) to “Oh my god, what have I done to myself!” (by about 9:30pm). At some point in between, M sent Dan what may be the best text message I’ve ever read –

“My anus is a hose. How’s Tara doing?”

Solidarity, indeed. This was a base, dirty pain, but at least I wasn’t feeling it alone.

The contractions lasted throughout the night and when I went to the bathroom at 3am, I noticed a small bit of the mucus plug (which can be a sign that true labor is imminent). I felt great joy at the pulsation in my belly and for being at home while it was happening. I knew at that moment there was no way I was going to let anyone take that experience from me.

But by 10:30am on Sunday morning, my resolve was all I had left from the castor oil experiment. Just as the diarrhea waned, so did the contractions. I made a quick decision and asked Dan to call the doctor’s office and tell them that I had been experiencing regular contractions every fifteen to twenty minutes - which was still true as of 10:45am - and that there would be no need to induce that evening. Technically, we weren’t lying (which is sadly important to my irrepressible inner Catholic) and even if I wasn’t really in labor, I’d be able to avoid the induction and another interaction with Dr. C.

Dan spoke to the on-call certified nurse midwife, who happily agreed to cancel the induction. She reminded us that it would be best to go to the hospital when contractions were every five minutes and lasting one minute in duration. If we didn’t get to that point by Monday morning, I was to schedule an appointment to see my regular physician, Dr. B. That’s when I cried tears of relief.

Ah, but that respite was short-lived! The CNM left a message for me a couple hours later to let me know that she’d spoken to Dr. C, who now happened to be concerned about my low platelet reading from Friday’s batch of blood work. Since this could be construed as a symptom of HELLP syndrome, she and the doctor were still recommending induction that evening. Just to clarify, I was not being diagnosed with HELLP syndrome – that would require the presence of other symptoms, such as high protein in my urine. When I called the CNM back, I asked if we could consider the 24-hour urine sample results before proceeding. She was silent for a moment. “Actually, there’s been a snafu and for some reason the lab didn’t process your sample. Dr. C told them to cancel it since she thought you were getting induced anyway.” Well, now I was just getting mad.

After a bit more haggling, the CNM consulted Dr. C and they asked that I go to another hospital to have my platelets and blood pressure checked again. If the platelets were still low, I would be induced. I was assured this visit would be brief, but of course I wound up being monitored for another 2 1/2 hours. Hello, uncomfortable bed and monitor cords! Haven’t seen you guys in a couple days.

At the end of that session, a young resident came to my room and essentially asked me, “What’s up?” I told him the whole story about my weekend (minus the castor oil experiment, but acknowledging that my contractions had all but ceased during the course of the day). Though I had answered all of his questions to so many people, so many times, he seemed unaware of the most basic details. “What’s your due date?”

“The eighteenth.”

“Of..?”

Sigh. “October. I’m 40 weeks and 5 days.”

He was clearly perplexed. “And you don’t want to be induced?”

I gritted my teeth. “Actually, despite the blood pressure readings, I feel just fine. And since I’d really like to avoid a C-section, and induction comes with a 50% chance that I’ll have one, then no, I don’t want to be induced.”

And as if I had spoken the magic words of the medically informed, he told me I was free to go.

My sister M was waiting for us when we got home. Our initial plan was that she would come to Chattanooga from Greensboro, NC when I went into labor. But it seemed silly to make her wait when that day seemed to be coming soon, one way or another. Her company was a balm to my increasingly angry mood, but at 2am, my rage was getting in the way of sleep.

“Why don’t you listen to the hypnobabies CD that A gave us?” Dan suggested. As he held my janky laptop on his belly, I listened to the dulcet tones through headphones. The woman on the CD cajoled me into a state of relaxation. “Breathe deeply. . . with every breath, let more tension go. . . Goooood. . . now give yourself an A+!”. It wasn’t exactly hypnotic, but I did get to sleep after that.

Monday

Having made it through the weekend without an induction, I was now eager to meet with my OB, Dr. B. We made an appointment for that afternoon. M drove me there, where Dan met us after he left work. Sitting in the waiting room, I wondered if Dr. B would push me for an induction, whether or not my blood pressure remained high. It seemed a strong possibility. But just knowing that he was aware of my intentions and that he was unlikely to say anything as brash or clumsy as, “your baby could die,” made me feel better about it. I happened to catch a glimpse of him when the door to the back swung open. That’s when little peanut gave me three strong kicks. She knew my sense of relief!

It was all uphill from that moment. Blood pressure reading – 132/80. NST and ultrasound – baby was doing absolutely fine. I certainly bristled when the ultrasound tech said, “I thought Dr. C was going to take her on Friday because of your blood pressure?” . . .“Take her”. . . language can be so revealing.

I sensed a mutual nervousness when Dr. B came to my room. First we discussed the contractions that had started and stopped. Then he noted that my blood pressure was back down and that the baby was checking out fine. Maybe because things seemed to be going our way, I felt emboldened to say, “It’s funny to me that when she first recommended induction, Dr. C said my baby could die. But then, when I started speaking to her in informed terms about why I wanted to avoid it, there were suddenly other options for us to consider.”

Of course, Dr. B was inclined to defend his colleague. And he did so rather convincingly, explaining that even though there may be only a 0.5% chance of the baby dying, no doctor wants to deliver that dead baby. And then he got a bit more defensive, which led to a long lecture about big babies and the perils of shoulder dystocia. Eventually, Dan found a break in the rant and asked, “Where do we go from here?”

And for the first time in week 40, we reached an agreement that I could comfortably honor – if peanut hadn’t arrived by Friday, I would return for another round of NST monitoring and an ultrasound. If she didn’t arrive over the weekend, I would go in for an induction on Sunday, October 30. Before meeting with Dr. B, I had spoken to a friend who had managed to labor on Pitocin without getting an epidural. I asked him if I would have the option of doing the same. He sort of rolled his eyes, sunk into his chair and said, “I mean, you can do whatever you want.”

Again, language is revealing. Granted, he said it in that kinda jerky, “Sure, you can jump off a bridge just because your friends are doing it, “ sort of way. But the point is that those words came out of his mouth. And though I already knew the statement to be objectively true, to finally hear it from a medical professional seemed a glorious turn of events. And as far as agreeing to the eventual induction was concerned, I truly felt okay with that choice. One way or another, I was almost done with the long doctor’s visits and the excess monitoring. I was grateful to have a few days to recover my good spirits and regain my mental and physical fortitude. If I were going to experience Pitocin without an epidural, I’d need it.

Dan made fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits for dinner that night, and I ate with a pregnant glee I hadn’t felt in days. Dan, M and I enjoyed a lovely meal, with lots of joking and fun story-telling. At the end of Week 40, I finally felt just fine, both physically and emotionally.

And in one week or less, I would finally be meeting my daughter!