Darrell is now spending about an hour or two a day alert where he's not hungry or fussing, so I took advantage of this window for two days in a row to dress him up in an adorable "tuxedo" onesie and photograph him with some spray roses. I used window light from our sliding glass door, though the thunderstorms we've been having meant the light was lower than I'd like, so some of the photos have motion blur or a very shallow depth of field. It's certainly not easy photographing a three-week old, but all in all, I'm pretty pleased with the results!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
To Cosleep... or not to sleep. That is the question.
Before I brought little Darrell home, I was dead set against co-sleeping in bed. I believed bed-sharing to be unsafe and even irresponsible, and I was keenly aware of the recommendations against it by the American Academy of Pediatricians and SIDS-awareness organizations. Being particularly paranoid about SIDS, there was no question that I would not be bed-sharing with Darrell IV.
After his first few days at home, I discovered that desperation can warp one's principles! As it turns out, co-sleeping is the ONLY way I've been getting any sleep at all, so I'm now finding myself fighting off guilt for doing it. Darrell still has his days and nights confused, and he's most alert in the wee hours of the evening. For the first week or two, that meant he was awake - either wanting to be fed or soothed - from 10pm until about 5am. In the past week or so, he's gone to sleep a little earlier: twice at 1:30am and a few times by 3am. By all accounts, however, he's still a night owl. He also will NOT stay asleep in his bassinet for more than five minutes, or longer than 10-20 minutes in his bouncer or rocker, even with the vibration on.
Therefore, the only way I've gotten sleep is for him to fall asleep while breastfeeding, keep him on my chest until I'm sure he's asleep (or soothe him to sleep there if he wakes), wiggle my way down from a slightly seated position to laying down, and then ease him off my tummy onto the crook of my arm. He is still on his back - as recommended for decreasing SIDS risk factors - but turned slightly on his side toward me. I make sure to keep the comforter away from him, he's in a wearable blanket for warmth and safety, and the ceiling fan is always on for good air circulation. I used to have him in the middle but started to get anxious about Darrell III rolling over on him (even with a pillow blocking the way), so I now keep him on the outside of me and have a pillow on the floor beside the bed just in case. (I bought a used Snugglenest for $20 off Craigslist, but it's pretty cramped using it in our queen-size bed... and he doesn't want to stay asleep in it either! The only way I got him to stay there for 20 minutes was to wrap myself around it practically John Lennon-Yoko Ono style and have my arm basically in it with him.)
Still, it nags at me that I'm going against recommendations. I asked his pediatrician about it at his two-week appointment and heard what I expected but didn't want to hear: it's really not recommended for safety reasons and because it conditions him to sleep only in bed with us and set up a pattern he'll want to continue. As I'm reading Happiest Baby on the Block, I've come to discount the conditioning reason. (If you can't spoil a baby under three months by holding him too much and conditioning him to expect that, then I don't believe I'm setting myself up for major problems with transitioning him to a bed later either.) However, I can't help but worry that I'm a bad parent for going against a doctor's safety recommendations. By the same token, I can't get ANY sleep - and therefore be much of a decent parent at all - if we don't use this arrangement right now. It's the only thing that works.
I've read that Dr. Sears recommends cosleeping and claims it reduces risk of SIDS, but I'm not entirely sure I trust his advice after reading critiques like this blog and skimming this AAP article (pdf). My mind was eased a little by reading stories similar to mine - including other moms who felt guilty for co-sleeping - on Babycenter.com forums like here and here. So I sought the insights of friends whose parenting values and methods I trust... and I was grateful to hear that nearly all of them co-slept with their little ones for at least the first several challenging months. They all told me I need to do what's right for me and my family... to me, it's a more basic decision that that: it's simple survival. Either we co-sleep, or I don't sleep. There's not much of an option right now.
After his first few days at home, I discovered that desperation can warp one's principles! As it turns out, co-sleeping is the ONLY way I've been getting any sleep at all, so I'm now finding myself fighting off guilt for doing it. Darrell still has his days and nights confused, and he's most alert in the wee hours of the evening. For the first week or two, that meant he was awake - either wanting to be fed or soothed - from 10pm until about 5am. In the past week or so, he's gone to sleep a little earlier: twice at 1:30am and a few times by 3am. By all accounts, however, he's still a night owl. He also will NOT stay asleep in his bassinet for more than five minutes, or longer than 10-20 minutes in his bouncer or rocker, even with the vibration on.
Therefore, the only way I've gotten sleep is for him to fall asleep while breastfeeding, keep him on my chest until I'm sure he's asleep (or soothe him to sleep there if he wakes), wiggle my way down from a slightly seated position to laying down, and then ease him off my tummy onto the crook of my arm. He is still on his back - as recommended for decreasing SIDS risk factors - but turned slightly on his side toward me. I make sure to keep the comforter away from him, he's in a wearable blanket for warmth and safety, and the ceiling fan is always on for good air circulation. I used to have him in the middle but started to get anxious about Darrell III rolling over on him (even with a pillow blocking the way), so I now keep him on the outside of me and have a pillow on the floor beside the bed just in case. (I bought a used Snugglenest for $20 off Craigslist, but it's pretty cramped using it in our queen-size bed... and he doesn't want to stay asleep in it either! The only way I got him to stay there for 20 minutes was to wrap myself around it practically John Lennon-Yoko Ono style and have my arm basically in it with him.)
Still, it nags at me that I'm going against recommendations. I asked his pediatrician about it at his two-week appointment and heard what I expected but didn't want to hear: it's really not recommended for safety reasons and because it conditions him to sleep only in bed with us and set up a pattern he'll want to continue. As I'm reading Happiest Baby on the Block, I've come to discount the conditioning reason. (If you can't spoil a baby under three months by holding him too much and conditioning him to expect that, then I don't believe I'm setting myself up for major problems with transitioning him to a bed later either.) However, I can't help but worry that I'm a bad parent for going against a doctor's safety recommendations. By the same token, I can't get ANY sleep - and therefore be much of a decent parent at all - if we don't use this arrangement right now. It's the only thing that works.
I've read that Dr. Sears recommends cosleeping and claims it reduces risk of SIDS, but I'm not entirely sure I trust his advice after reading critiques like this blog and skimming this AAP article (pdf). My mind was eased a little by reading stories similar to mine - including other moms who felt guilty for co-sleeping - on Babycenter.com forums like here and here. So I sought the insights of friends whose parenting values and methods I trust... and I was grateful to hear that nearly all of them co-slept with their little ones for at least the first several challenging months. They all told me I need to do what's right for me and my family... to me, it's a more basic decision that that: it's simple survival. Either we co-sleep, or I don't sleep. There's not much of an option right now.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Plaster Mold FAIL (sort of)
So everyone keeps telling me to treasure this time because my son will grow up so fast. They tell me how much bigger their children are at three months, six months, one year, six years, sixteen years... and remind me to appreciate this time as much as I can. Of course, that's hard to do when I'm barely conscious from lack of sleep half the time! However, I want to take their advice to heart, and I've been photographing him and trying to enjoy his tiny-ness as much as possible. And since he's really too young to "play" with right now, I decided to do some playing of my own to preserve his small features.
After browsing through Amazon.com offers of clay handprint and footprint sets, I decided I didn't want to wait and drove out to Hobby Lobby to pick up a kit... or two, or three... or four. Okay, so I couldn't decide. I picked out two plaster-of-Paris kits for making hand- and footprints, one "party pack" that makes 10 clay hand/footprint ornaments (which is perfect for a party of kids, or a bunch of Christmas gifts!), and one kit that creates a 3-D plaster mold of his hand and foot. Overboard? Nah!
With his hands and feet growing so quickly and the complexity of the 3-D kit, I decided to do that one first and enlisted (read: arm-twisted) Darrell to help out. First step: read all the instructions. The package talks about how "easy" the process is, but it actually involves a lot of steps and a lot of careful reading. (I like how it suggests doing this project when your child is in a "good mood." Defining a newborn's "good mood" is pretty straightforward: he's either eating or sleeping - which means pray he doesn't wake up when you dip his hand into the gooey mold.)
You first have to mix water and the molding powder for one minute. Of course, we didn't read the words "one minute" until it was already about one minute, and we used lukewarm water instead of cold water, so the mold was setting before we could get it into the cup where we would plunge his hand. We tried adding water to it, but it was too late: the jello-like mold was too congealed. Fail.
Enter hormones. When all you do, day in and day out, is feed and comfort a newborn and try to get a nap, little things like making plaster molds of tiny limbs take on a great importance. This project was actually the only important thing to me to get done Saturday. So when step one failed, I naturally started crying, which only (fair enough) frustrated my husband. Fortunately, I thought to stop crying and get online before 9pm to call Michael's (which closes at 9pm) and find out that they had a kit available. My ever-so-patient husband offered to drive us over there at 8:45pm to pick up another kit for another try at this molding business.
Attempt number two went better - sort of. This time we read the instructions more carefully - this kit's molding substance only required 20 seconds of mixing before we had to stick little D's hand in it and we got it poured into the styrofoam cup before it started setting - but little D wasn't as conked out as he was an hour before when we started this business. Almost immediately after we plunged his tiny fist into the pinkish molding goo, like the flip of a light switch, he woke up and began screaming. We had to hold his hand in there for a good 2-3 minutes while he twisted, squirmed and screamed as though we were torturing our precious child on the rack. Keeping the icky mix off his blanket, the table and us was as challenging as holding his hand in the cup for what seemed an eternity.
When we finally pulled his hand out, he was clenching bits of the mix in his palm, so I figured the mold was ruined. Meanwhile, I felt like a horrible parent. He was screaming bloody murder and his arm had bits of the (nontoxic) mix all over it, so I needed to give him a quick bath (which I'd planned to do anyway). That just made matters worse. As I set him in the mini tub in the kitchen sink, he screamed like there was no tomorrow, and I nearly started crying with guilt. The poor kid was scared to death (and probably cold to boot). My mom said it was no different than his screaming when we changed a diaper, but I felt this was different because I was causing him fear for my own silly art project. After bathing, towel-wrapping, holding, soothing and rocking him to sleep, I had to decide whether we'd attempt the foot or not. I still felt guilty, but I had insisted on going out at 9pm on a Saturday to get the damn kit, so we might as well finish the job.
Attempt number three: total failure. Darrell mixed the pink goo, poured it into a tiny bread pan and we dipped in his foot... but there was no way in hell we were holding it there. His leg muscles are much stronger than his arm muscles, and he kicked and squirmed enough that even the two of us together couldn't keep his foot down and even halfway immobilized enough for the mold to set. We had to toss the pan and mold and accept defeat. For once, however, my husband was more optimistic than I was and figured we might as well pour the plaster into the hand mold and see what happens. I had little expectation that it would turn out, but I was grateful he was trying to make it work when I was the one who had thrown the hissy fit over doing it in the first place.
Turns out it DID work! The hand isn't perfect, but it looks pretty damn good to me :) And good enough that I may consider trying to do a better hand and trying for his foot again next weekend...
Darrell's hand mold
After browsing through Amazon.com offers of clay handprint and footprint sets, I decided I didn't want to wait and drove out to Hobby Lobby to pick up a kit... or two, or three... or four. Okay, so I couldn't decide. I picked out two plaster-of-Paris kits for making hand- and footprints, one "party pack" that makes 10 clay hand/footprint ornaments (which is perfect for a party of kids, or a bunch of Christmas gifts!), and one kit that creates a 3-D plaster mold of his hand and foot. Overboard? Nah!
With his hands and feet growing so quickly and the complexity of the 3-D kit, I decided to do that one first and enlisted (read: arm-twisted) Darrell to help out. First step: read all the instructions. The package talks about how "easy" the process is, but it actually involves a lot of steps and a lot of careful reading. (I like how it suggests doing this project when your child is in a "good mood." Defining a newborn's "good mood" is pretty straightforward: he's either eating or sleeping - which means pray he doesn't wake up when you dip his hand into the gooey mold.)
You first have to mix water and the molding powder for one minute. Of course, we didn't read the words "one minute" until it was already about one minute, and we used lukewarm water instead of cold water, so the mold was setting before we could get it into the cup where we would plunge his hand. We tried adding water to it, but it was too late: the jello-like mold was too congealed. Fail.
Enter hormones. When all you do, day in and day out, is feed and comfort a newborn and try to get a nap, little things like making plaster molds of tiny limbs take on a great importance. This project was actually the only important thing to me to get done Saturday. So when step one failed, I naturally started crying, which only (fair enough) frustrated my husband. Fortunately, I thought to stop crying and get online before 9pm to call Michael's (which closes at 9pm) and find out that they had a kit available. My ever-so-patient husband offered to drive us over there at 8:45pm to pick up another kit for another try at this molding business.
Attempt number two went better - sort of. This time we read the instructions more carefully - this kit's molding substance only required 20 seconds of mixing before we had to stick little D's hand in it and we got it poured into the styrofoam cup before it started setting - but little D wasn't as conked out as he was an hour before when we started this business. Almost immediately after we plunged his tiny fist into the pinkish molding goo, like the flip of a light switch, he woke up and began screaming. We had to hold his hand in there for a good 2-3 minutes while he twisted, squirmed and screamed as though we were torturing our precious child on the rack. Keeping the icky mix off his blanket, the table and us was as challenging as holding his hand in the cup for what seemed an eternity.
When we finally pulled his hand out, he was clenching bits of the mix in his palm, so I figured the mold was ruined. Meanwhile, I felt like a horrible parent. He was screaming bloody murder and his arm had bits of the (nontoxic) mix all over it, so I needed to give him a quick bath (which I'd planned to do anyway). That just made matters worse. As I set him in the mini tub in the kitchen sink, he screamed like there was no tomorrow, and I nearly started crying with guilt. The poor kid was scared to death (and probably cold to boot). My mom said it was no different than his screaming when we changed a diaper, but I felt this was different because I was causing him fear for my own silly art project. After bathing, towel-wrapping, holding, soothing and rocking him to sleep, I had to decide whether we'd attempt the foot or not. I still felt guilty, but I had insisted on going out at 9pm on a Saturday to get the damn kit, so we might as well finish the job.
Attempt number three: total failure. Darrell mixed the pink goo, poured it into a tiny bread pan and we dipped in his foot... but there was no way in hell we were holding it there. His leg muscles are much stronger than his arm muscles, and he kicked and squirmed enough that even the two of us together couldn't keep his foot down and even halfway immobilized enough for the mold to set. We had to toss the pan and mold and accept defeat. For once, however, my husband was more optimistic than I was and figured we might as well pour the plaster into the hand mold and see what happens. I had little expectation that it would turn out, but I was grateful he was trying to make it work when I was the one who had thrown the hissy fit over doing it in the first place.
Turns out it DID work! The hand isn't perfect, but it looks pretty damn good to me :) And good enough that I may consider trying to do a better hand and trying for his foot again next weekend...
Darrell's hand mold
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Happy Father's Day!
Today was hubby Darrell's first Father's Day, which I forgot about until I was already halfway through teaching my GRE class. So on the way home, I called my own dad and told him his gift was a grandson (which he was perfectly happy with), and then I drove to Marie Callender's to pick up a key lime pie for Darrell. It was the only thing I could think to get since I know he loves key lime pie and doesn't get it often. Then I subjected him to a mini-mini photo session because we *still* didn't have nice photos of the three of us; now we finally have daylight-lit photos of the three of us outside by a bush that look a little nicer than anything we had before.
I'm grateful I'm teaching two young women - one of whom is a registered nurse - in my GRE class because my milk glands seemed to know when time was up for little Darrell's feeding. Just about the time he was happily sucking down the pumped milk from last night, I was soaking through my disposable breast pads and sporting a telltale wet spot on my shirt. By the time I got home, it looked like I'd leaned up against a wet sink! Note to self: stash extra breast pads in my purse - and check them every so often! It actually worked out well because I was able to pump one side - which may have been on its way to engorgement - when I got home and feed Darrell with the other.
Then I did something foolish: I chose not to take a nap. I know I'll regret it tonight when we're up until 3 or 4 or 5 again, but I was so productive in cleaning up the living room and getting some things done online, etc., that I couldn't bring myself to lay down. Even had I tried, my racing mind probably would have staved off sleep, so I'll just have to hope our marathon evening doesn't run too late.
Dad, Mom and Baby Hands
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Blue Moon
Here I sit enjoying my first full alcoholic drink since I found out I was pregnant: a bottle of Blue Moon. Yes, a bit mundane, but think of it as comfort food. I also scheduled a massage for myself today, which helped a lot since my back has begun aching from the stiff side-sleeping/arm-out position I'm using when the baby is in bed with me. It ensures he's safe from my husband and me, but it puts a kink in the middle of my back, which poor posture during some nursing probably doesn't help. The masseuse, at a great and inexpensive place called Massage Harmony, said he's expecting his third child, so he was comfortable with my post-partum status and gave me a great massage.
I popped open the beer after little Darrell emptied one boob and we pumped the other one empty with the new breast pump I got from WIC so he has milk while I teach my four-hour GRE class tomorrow. It was our first experience using the pump, and it took a while to coax the milk out before a decent let-down gave us about two ounces. I was stunned when we removed the pump: my nip looked like it had been attacked by wasps, it was so large and swollen!
Now I just have to hope that tonight is not like last night. Last night was another hell night where little Darrell was up until 5 am with no substantial respite. I could often get him quiet or sleeping for a time but only if I kept rocking in the glider, shushing-singing to him and giving him my pinky to suck on - and I can't do that for four hours nonstop. Each time I would get him asleep, I would wait 15 minutes or so to be sure he was asleep and then try to move back to the bedroom, or, if I was already in bed, to slide down to a supine position with him beside me or on my chest so I could actually sleep. Each time he thwarted my quest for zzz's by waking up fussy.
Somewhere around 4 am, I woke up my husband to ask him to change the diaper because I was so exhausted I didn't think I could get up again. He did, and he told me everything was okay. No, it wasn't, I told him. I was exhausted. I didn't care if I was doing well - though I was grateful to hear him tell me so - I needed to sleep! Once he finally fell asleep a little after 5:30 or so, we stayed in bed until noon with one feeding in the middle, and I squeezed in two hours of nap earlier this evening. I won't have the luxury of sleeping in that late tomorrow, and I have to teach math for four hours...
I popped open the beer after little Darrell emptied one boob and we pumped the other one empty with the new breast pump I got from WIC so he has milk while I teach my four-hour GRE class tomorrow. It was our first experience using the pump, and it took a while to coax the milk out before a decent let-down gave us about two ounces. I was stunned when we removed the pump: my nip looked like it had been attacked by wasps, it was so large and swollen!
Now I just have to hope that tonight is not like last night. Last night was another hell night where little Darrell was up until 5 am with no substantial respite. I could often get him quiet or sleeping for a time but only if I kept rocking in the glider, shushing-singing to him and giving him my pinky to suck on - and I can't do that for four hours nonstop. Each time I would get him asleep, I would wait 15 minutes or so to be sure he was asleep and then try to move back to the bedroom, or, if I was already in bed, to slide down to a supine position with him beside me or on my chest so I could actually sleep. Each time he thwarted my quest for zzz's by waking up fussy.
Somewhere around 4 am, I woke up my husband to ask him to change the diaper because I was so exhausted I didn't think I could get up again. He did, and he told me everything was okay. No, it wasn't, I told him. I was exhausted. I didn't care if I was doing well - though I was grateful to hear him tell me so - I needed to sleep! Once he finally fell asleep a little after 5:30 or so, we stayed in bed until noon with one feeding in the middle, and I squeezed in two hours of nap earlier this evening. I won't have the luxury of sleeping in that late tomorrow, and I have to teach math for four hours...
Let the peeing begin!
How many new parents does it take to change a diaper? Apparently two is not enough! Last night, Darrell and I needed more than four hands to handle our little one because he kept presenting us with new challenges. First, it's worth noting that he always screams bloody murder when he's changed, so the wailing is already rattling when you're changing his diaper. I've discovered that turning him on his stomach after an initial wipedown helps twofold: he seems to like it more, so he's quieter, and it's easier to clean the cracks and crevices of his hiney. Of course, when he decides to pee while on his stomach, the arrangement doesn't work so well since by the time Mom notices, he's rolling in his urine.
So, I flipped him over and on to the side of the changing pad that wasn't wet while my husband tried to stem the pee before it rolled on to the couch, where we were changing him. (Our modest budget and cramped, cluttered apartment means no permanent changing station.) Meanwhile, I had already put Desitin on my finger to rub on to his butt, but in his unhappy flailing, he'd managed to get it on his hand - which he nearly always has in his mouth. So now I'm trying to frantically wipe the Desitin off his hand before it makes its way to the wrong orifice while my husband tries to help with the pad and wipe him down further. Meanwhile, I need to get his partly pee-soaked onesie off (the clean one I put on fifteen minutes earlier) without getting more Desitin everywhere. When my husband goes to dispose of something or other, little Darrell realizes - wait! I'm not empty yet!
And so goes the uncontrolled hose... all over the arm of the couch (my side - incidentally also the arm that the dogs oddly always compulsively lick) and what was left of the changing pad. So now I'm trying to wipe down his tummy, get the rest of the onesie off and block any more geysers. My husband is getting the last of the Desitin fully off his hand while the baby flails and kicks so hard that he kicks... the new Desitin I just put on my finger in hopes of finally getting it on his booty! Somehow I manage to get more Desitin on my finger and then on his buns before it gets to any other of his limbs while my husband finally manages to get the fresh diaper under him. As he fastens the diaper, I find a clean onesie (we've done more laundry for this seven-pound kid in a week than I do for myself in a month, it seems) and pull it over his contorted red face and writhing torso.
There. Done. Now just to calm down the crying.
So, I flipped him over and on to the side of the changing pad that wasn't wet while my husband tried to stem the pee before it rolled on to the couch, where we were changing him. (Our modest budget and cramped, cluttered apartment means no permanent changing station.) Meanwhile, I had already put Desitin on my finger to rub on to his butt, but in his unhappy flailing, he'd managed to get it on his hand - which he nearly always has in his mouth. So now I'm trying to frantically wipe the Desitin off his hand before it makes its way to the wrong orifice while my husband tries to help with the pad and wipe him down further. Meanwhile, I need to get his partly pee-soaked onesie off (the clean one I put on fifteen minutes earlier) without getting more Desitin everywhere. When my husband goes to dispose of something or other, little Darrell realizes - wait! I'm not empty yet!
And so goes the uncontrolled hose... all over the arm of the couch (my side - incidentally also the arm that the dogs oddly always compulsively lick) and what was left of the changing pad. So now I'm trying to wipe down his tummy, get the rest of the onesie off and block any more geysers. My husband is getting the last of the Desitin fully off his hand while the baby flails and kicks so hard that he kicks... the new Desitin I just put on my finger in hopes of finally getting it on his booty! Somehow I manage to get more Desitin on my finger and then on his buns before it gets to any other of his limbs while my husband finally manages to get the fresh diaper under him. As he fastens the diaper, I find a clean onesie (we've done more laundry for this seven-pound kid in a week than I do for myself in a month, it seems) and pull it over his contorted red face and writhing torso.
There. Done. Now just to calm down the crying.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thanks a lot for the cry
My friend Kim sent me a YouTube link to the song "It Won't Be Like This for Long," and I can't decide whether to love her or hate her for it. There was no way I could watch it all the way through and not start crying, but with my feelings of inadequacy regarding bonding with little Darrell, the fact that I was crying meant I was feeling something right, if that makes any sense.
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