They wheeled me back into the LDR room, and I was still numb from the drugs, still shaking and super tired. The next few hours went by in a haze of drug-fueled confusion. I remember family members coming by and nurses checking my vitals. I remember my husband going out to get him and my mom some food. I remember signing so much paperwork and not truly having a clue as to what I was signing. I could’ve signed away my soul and not have known it.
At some point I noticed that I still hadn’t seen my son. What was going on? No one was telling me anything and I was too out of it to ask. I could hear my mom and my sister talking about how adorable he is. Is he? Is he really? I didn’t now for sure, I still hadn’t seen him! Finally my husband informed me that they had to go against my wishes and give him formula. They were lucky I was exhausted and out of it. Apparently, when he was born his blood sugar was low. Even though, according to them, it was necessary, I was still irritated. Can’t I have one thing go right with this birth? He also told me that our son’s low blood sugar was the reason why I hadn’t seen him yet. He was in NICU. I’ll admit, I had a moment of panic. Was it that bad? Will he be alright? As if reading my mind, my husband told me that our son was fine and that he was in NICU as a precaution. He was going to be released to the nursery in an hour or so and then I can see and hold my baby.
An hour passed, no baby. Two hours passed, no baby. My husband was getting irritated. By then, he, my mom, and my sister had seen and held him. I had no clue as to what my own child looked like. I hadn’t even held him in my arms. I was feeling robbed of precious bonding time but I was too far gone to raise hell about it. Luckily, my wonderful husband was doing it for me.
Twelve hours after my son was born, I was finally able to see and hold him for the first time. It was a surreal moment. This tiny-big person came out of me. This little man was mine. I am a mom. Dear God, I am mom. It still hasn’t fully sunk in. I have a cute and adorable baby boy that apparently looks like me.
More family showed up to ooo and ahh over him. And I was slightly annoyed with the whole birthing experience. Nothing went how I wanted it. I didn’t have a vaginal birth, I didn’t see him for hours, I didn’t get a chance to breastfeed him right away and then when I finally got to see him, he had a pacifier in his mouth. Ugh! I was trying to shift my priorities and focus on the fact that me and my son came out of this nice and healthy, but I couldn’t help but feel slightly bitter.
As the hours and days rolled by I was trying to get the hang of breastfeeding and not having any decent amount of sleep. The hypocrisy of nurses is beyond me. They tell you to rest but they wake you up every two hours to ask you questions, check your vitals, tell you what you need to do next, etc. I was doing my best to not get overwhelmed, angry or annoyed. At least until the day came where my son was to be circumcised. Then the bad feelings came.
First, the nurse informed me that I needed to feed him as close to circumcision time as possible. Got it, feed him right before they come get him at 4am. Then she kept coming back every two hours asking if I fed him yet. Okay. First of all, I am feeding him as often as I can. Secondly, I will feed him right before you come get him. Chill out. After they circumcised him, they wheeled him back to my room and the new nurse informs me that they are concerned about him pooping. He apparently isn’t pooping as much as they like. So the pediatrician “suggests” that I give him formula to get the plumbing working. Are you serious?
The nurse leaves and in comes Dr. Fox. He is an elderly gentlemen who is condescending and old fashion. His comment about emotional women made me seethe inside. My wonderful lactation consultant told me that the slow-to-poop is actually quite normal for breastfed babies and for me not to worry about it. He will poop. Then the nurse comes back with formula and tells me that she’s just following doctor’s orders with an attitude that was uncalled for. I never said anything to this woman. I was never rude, disrespectful or anything along those lines. So what gives? At that point I was ready to give the finger to everyone and call it a day.
The shift change came and the new nurse comes in and repeats Dr. Fox’s “suggestion”. She was really nice and explained why there was a concern and why Fox thought giving my son formula was best for the time being. It made sense but I really wanted to stick to breastfeeding. Then the Fox came back. And of course he talked about giving my son formula. He told me that the colostrum wasn’t enough. Funny. Before formula existed, human beings have been breastfeeding without a problem. I told him that I understood but my milk has come in, seeing how I was feeling rather engorged. Surely that would be enough. That didn’t matter to him. Formula! Formula! Formula!
Can I hit him?
Of course before he leaves he drops this irritating warning. He wasn’t going to give his okay for my son to go home if he didn’t poop. What? You won’t discharge him?!
Can I shove him off a bridge?!
And then this sicking feeling settles in. What if I don’t give him the formula and some crazy nurse reports it, saying I’m unfit, and they take my son away. I’ve seen kids get taken away for less. They get taken away because of simple misunderstandings. I wasn’t going to allow that. So I gave him a few ounces of formula. Just so they can see I was willing to do what I could to help my son poop.
And it didn’t work.
By the time I was discharged, he still hadn’t pooped. I compromised what I wanted to ensure that my son would come home with me on D-day and it hadn’t worked. I told my husband I was going to raise hell if that dusty old Fox didn’t release my son. But an hour after I got my discharge papers, I got his. And he still hadn’t pooped yet.
You dodged a bullet Fox-y.
Finally! Little man and I can go home! But not until after a few nurses stopped us to look at him and declare what I already knew, he is freaking cute!
He is over a month now and is still as adorable as ever! I went home after staying at my mom’s for three weeks. I really appreciated the time at her house. I needed the help as I transitioned into motherhood as well as heal. My poor husband missed us during that time but because he had to work long hours during the day, he agreed staying at my mom’s was best.
Oh, as for little man’s pooping dilemma, he blew out his diaper the second we laid him down in the crib at my mom’s house. Ha! I knew he would poop soon. He just needed time and a place to relax. A place where no nurse or dumb doctor could mess with him. A place of safety. And there’s no place safer than grandmama’s!