Ugh

So we’ve started the transition to daycare.  Without getting in to the details, let me just say that IT SUCKS MORE THAN EVERYTHING HAS EVER SUCKED BEFORE, at least since the last thing that was completely terrible.  So many tears.  The daycare hasn’t been great at communicating what I am supposed to do, which hasn’t helped anything, but that’s only a side stress of BEING IN THE SAME ROOM AS MY SCREAMING BABY AND NOT BEING ABLE TO GO AND COMFORT HER.

We’ve both been doing a lot of crying.

On Monday, I *think* I’m to drop her off in the afternoon and then leave, so I’ve booked a massage.  And on Tuesday a hair cut.  And on Wednesday I go find my new office in the new shiny office tower.  And the next phase of our lives begins.

I know it will be fine.  Eventually.  I just hate hate hate how many tears are being shed in the transition.

 

Being a grown up sucks.

 

On not bonding with strangers

I do a couple of fitness classes avec baby a week – mainly for the exercise, but the chatting after class is nice too.  After one of the land-based classes, I was talking to another mother, whose son was the only other baby in the class who had learned to crawl.  (Which, by the way, make these classes much more disruptive than what my baby just lay or sat on the mat.)  After class, I went over and asked how old her son was – ten and a half months at that point.  I said that Jess too was that age!  And then we compared birthdays, and the babies were born on the same day!  And at the same hospital, as it turned out!  What a coincidence!  I said that Jess had been born around 4 in the morning, and turns out that her son was born right before midnight.

I said something along the lines of “maybe I saw you there – we were in the hospital for a couple of days.”  She looked down her nose at me and stated flatly.  “I had a midwife.  We were out of the hospital very fast.”  I sputtered slightly, and said something about how after 55 hours of labour, I’d had a c-section.  I swear that she looked at me and sniffed disapprovingly.  I muttered something about being pretty sure that it wouldn’t have mattered what kind of assistance I had, that J wouldn’t have come out any other way.  She sniffed again, and I slunk away from her and her placid, stolid baby.

You guys, it’s been 11 months and I’m still defensive as fuck about my birth experience.  And you know why?  It’s because PEOPLE ARE ACTUALLY JUDGING ME TO MY FACE ABOUT IT.  Sure, not people I like, or people who matter, but it’s true – there is shaming out there for c-sections.  I get it!  I desperately, frantically didn’t want one.  I laboured for two and a half days because of how much I didn’t want one.

But I didn’t have a choice.

I mean, I made every choice possible to have a natural birth.  I did my readings, I hired a doula, I gave birth in a natural-birth friendly hospital with nurses who were fully supportive of my intentions, I went as long as I could without the drugs (pitocin contractions are not the same as normal ones – they are way, way more painful).  When the doctors announced that I needed a c-section, I refused and got another hour to try and make things progress.  It didn’t work.  The baby was unable to come out the normal way, and that sucked.

But I didn’t have a choice.

And yet, I still feel so judged for it.  By virtual strangers who have no idea.  And that sucks.

Having the section sucked.  The fact that the morphine didn’t work sucked.  The fact that my feelings of failure fed my PPD sucked.  The fact that 11 months later I still have abdominal pain sucks.

But the fact that my baby was born healthy and alive and that I am healthy and alive?  Does not suck.  Sure, it was less than ideal, but the end result was positive, so good enough.  Fuck the haters, and all.

 

As you can imagine, this woman and I have NOT become friends.

Darkness

So.  The baby is now 8 weeks old.  (And, frankly, adorable, yes?)

What the what?!?

Things are … okay.  First of all, I have to say that the American system that forces mothers back to work after 6 weeks is obscene and I don’t know how women do it.  Or have they haven’t collectively risen up to force change.  They are probably just too tired…

Jessie is a good sleeper, with a large caveat.  The caveat is that she’s never slept before midnight.  The good point is that she never wakes before noon.  So, basically, my ideal schedule when I was in university.  Does make the days go by pretty quickly, as we’re really only awake for 5 hours before David gets home.  And I do make an effort to do at least one thing every single day.  Today was a quiet day, but I did manage to make cookies.  Last week I wrote a final, visited with Melanie and her adorable daughters, voted in a provincial election and went on three walks.  I’m going to the mall tomorrow to buy a shower gift.  I’m making an effort to do something every day.

Which I’m doing because I know I have to.  It’s been 8 weeks.  It’s pretty clear that it’s no longer the baby blues and I’ve slid in to full on PPD.  It’s a mild case, to be sure, and there are entire days where I don’t cry.  I’m doing okay, for a relative value of okay.  I’m seeing my doctor every couple of weeks to make sure I’m not sliding down too far.  I make plans to see people.  I cook dinner most nights and go for walks.  I’m thinking about going to post natal yoga, now that my body is somewhat healed.  (C section recovery sucks balls.)  I’m trying to get around to actually calling and making a talk therapy appointment.  I know there’s shit I need to work out, but it’s hard. And when you don’t wake before noon, there’s a surprisingly short amount of time during the day to get anything done.

But the baby’s awake and so I’ll end this abruptly.  (Why not be awake?  It’s only 1 am – we probably have an hour to go no matter how much swinging and/or eating she does.)  Here’s a picture of what I walked home to the other day after getting a pedicure with a friend.  Adorable.

*sound of heart exploding*