My once calm, predictable, structured, organized (sort of) life has imploded into a haphazard heap of breast pads, binkies, steri-strips, nipple creams, changing pads and hand sanitizer dispensers. The only thing holding anything together is my post-c-section abdominal girdle and even that is starting to lose its taut elasticity. But oh my, my, do I love this new life. It is absolutely illogical to love this sort of mayhem, but I do. Physically, I feel like the burdens have been heaped upon me in generous portions, but I suppose every new mother feels as much. Has anyone before me thought to compare herself to Job? 12 staples to hold my belly together. Intense incisional burning with every change of position. And did you know that they actually remove the uterus from your stomach and massage and clean it during a cesarean section? I discovered that gruesome reality when I inquired of my dear anaesthesiologist whether they were stitching me up at the end of my surgery. In response, she kindly whispered, "No. No, honey, your uterus is actually sitting on top of your abdomen right now...you wouldn't want them to stitch you up without putting that back first." Oh. Right.
Getting back to the physical burdens -- for me, the most intense ones come with nursing. Suckling a child through nipples that feel like they're being whittled with a pocket knife at each feeding has seriously tested my commitment to breast feeding. I think that ever-so-delicate bacteria/yeast balance was disturbed by the post-op IV antibiotics I received. I ended up with what I'm fairly certain was a yeast infection on both nipples. But we pressed on in grim determination, breast pump in hand, ointments aplenty, Curity Pads stashed in every shelf and corner. And after four days of exclusive pumping and religious hygiene/care, we are finally nursing in a manner I believe even La Leche League could smile upon.
Even in spite of all the nuisances and pain (some of which I have omitted here to protect the delicate sensibilities of whom ever might read this post partom diatribe) *and this is the illogical part* I am a little bit intoxicated with the magic of this time. I want to go back to beautiful Baylor hospital and start this whole process again. Tomorrow. I want to do this ten more times. And I am not "that girl," ("that girl" being the one who bears a child biannually, who has been gestating or nursing for twelve years consecutively, and wants to hold everyone else's infant when she doesn't have one of her own. I'm not her.) But right now, the declaration I would wheeze from beneath the proverbial weight of the pain and emotion and delirium is:
How's that for crazy?
I have seven hundred more things to write about. But they'll have to come in gradual succession. There is so much about Lily and her birth and this transitional time of our lives that I want to chronicle, so I'm going to try to do it in short-ish installments. Stay tuned for the following:
* Three Days in the Hospital
* My Mother-in-law
* Henry: The Evolution from Only Child to Big Brother
* Lily: How do I love thee? And how did it happen so quickly?
* Ode to Nate: Man o' the Year (are we sick of those yet?)