[Originally posted on my other blog, http://ceruleanblues.wordpress.com]

August 10, 2014

In about five weeks—September 15 or thereabouts—I will be giving birth to a baby. A girl, likely a Virgo, with a predicted weight of 7ish pounds. Her big sister Laurel will be turning two on August 20th. Laurel is excited about her baby sister and keeps talking about what will happen after she “pops out” of Mommy’s belly.

Last time, although I was prepared for labor and delivery (lots of yoga, lots of reading, lots of practicing breathing techniques), I don’t think I was adequately prepared for having a newborn. Most of my anxieties involved getting the baby out of my body, and that process went exactly as I’d hoped—I had no intervention, not even continuous monitoring or an IV, and no pain meds or epidural. Everyone says that having a baby is “the worst pain you will ever feel,” and call me strange, but I wanted to feel what that worst pain felt like (and in retrospect, I can imagine things that would hurt a whole lot worse).

While the actual birthing went very smoothly, the next few weeks (months?) seemed less so. I don’t think I was prepared for the aftermath—the bringing-the-baby-home part, and what it entailed. So, I wrote this list, and I’m putting it on my blog in case it helps someone else.

New Baby Reminders for my Future Self:

• You feel depressed because of hormones and chemicals. It’s OK. Life is good. Remember that having a baby messes with all kinds of biological systems. It’s tough on a body—in addition to expelling a human from your uterus, suddenly you’ve got weirdly stretched skin, some cramps, bleeding, soreness, maybe sutures in sensitive places. You’re in pain, you’re overwhelmed, you’re excited, you’re anxious. Is something wrong with the baby? Is she crying too much? Why isn’t she crying? Is she hungry? Why hasn’t she pooped for a week? Am I supposed to scrape off that horrible belly button thing, or leave it? I can’t remember! Did I do the swaddling correctly? What about SIDS? Oh, look, here’s an email about an essay I submitted for publication—they want to accept it but they want some revisions first. ASAP. Oh, here’s a voicemail—someone has an injured hawk, it’s covered in maggots and shrieking, what should they do with it? Is my hair falling out? I think my hair is falling out. Is the baby smiling? Are they supposed to smile this soon? And suddenly you’re weeping. Again. But it’s OK. I repeat: it’s mostly chemicals and hormones, and a new human, mixed in with the chaos of your “normal” existence. Remember, life is very, very good.

• She’s been hearing things for a while, but everything the baby touches and sees will be new. First brush of grass against her feet. First warmth of the sunshine. First dog fur. First time held against her mom’s skin. First kiss from her dad. First chickadee, first cardinal. First oak leaf. Wow! How cool is that?

• Nursing will get easier after the first two or three months. That sounds like a long time, but it isn’t. And if something happens and you can’t nurse, it will be OK. Not ideal but still fine. Formula isn’t made of sawdust and rat poison; don’t guilt yourself into a frenzy if you need to supplement.

• Nursing in public normalizes nursing in public. Be brave. I nursed Laurel for a fairly long time—until she was about 20 months old—but for the last several months of that stretch we only nursed before bed. I give myself about a C+ grade for nursing in public. I nursed her on park benches a few times, and on two different flights by two different airlines, and just about daily in the car. But I was never brave enough to let her nurse in a restaurant or in a mall or in a crowded public place. I thought about it, and I wanted to, but I guess I was too scared of what people might say. Which is a shame! Me, afraid of what people might say—gah! Why is it “normal” for mostly-naked women’s bodies to be displayed sexually in advertising, on television, in public, etc., but if a boob comes out to feed an infant in a restaurant, it might be met with whispering and disapproving glances? There’s nothing sexual about feeding a baby. And besides, they’re just breasts. All mammals have them and use them to feed their babies. What could be more normal and natural than that?

• Don’t forget about Laurel. She loves you, and this is a huge change for her. She’s been the center of your universe, but now she will have to share your attention. She’s an outspoken (some might say demanding) kid. Expect her to let you know how she feels. Expect tantrums. Hug her and tell her you love her and that she’s still your favorite big girl. But now you have a favorite little girl, as well.

• Don’t forget about Liza Jane. She needs attention, too. She lost Mr. Bones, her big brother, mentor, and constant companion, just a few months ago. Take some time everyday to pet her, hug her, and give her extra treats.

• Is there someone else? Oh, yes, Jesse! He will be overwhelmed, too. Jesse may not have to deal with the same chemical and hormonal soup that you will, but he will have to deal with you dealing with the hormone soup, in addition to doing his best to take care of the baby, Laurel, and all the creatures so you can check your email now and then. And he will have to go back to work sooner than you will. He will miss things that you will get to see. Make sure you hug him, too, and remind him that you love him and that he’s the best dad around.

• Go outside. It will make everyone feel better. Touch the grass. Hug a tree. Watch the turkey vultures swoop low over the hayfield. Let Laurel run around and pull up weeds. Put the baby on a blanket in the shade. Bring Liza, too.
• Drink a lot of water. When is drinking more water not a good idea? Almost never. Drink up. And while you’re at it, have a beer with dinner and don’t feel guilty. Or have half a beer, if a whole one makes you nervous.

• Accept help. When someone asks to come visit, say yes. While they’re visiting, they can play with Laurel or hold the baby (or both!) while you go to the bathroom, alone.

• Try to write during this experience because your memory will fail. I promise you, Katie, your memory will fail. Record, record, record. Someday, your baby might want to know about the first time she rolled over, or the first person who came to visit her, or what her big sister’s reaction was the first time they met. And you might like to recall what day-to-day life was like during the first days and weeks of your daughter’s life. Like drinking water, you can’t write too much.

• Take a video of the baby’s “startle” reflex. It’s so cute! And it disappears rather quickly. At least, I think it does. (I should have written it down last time…)

• Remember that YOU are still YOU. In addition to being Mom, you are spouse, daughter, sister, friend, writer, educator, caretaker, organizer. Strong and funny. Environmentalist. Feminist. Not just weepy and leaky and full of love, although you’re those things, too.

And before you know it, you will have a two-year-old who talks about deer poopy and always wants to know “Wha happen? Wha happen?” and will demand cheddar rabbit-shaped crackers, which she pronounces “crackhouse.” While you’re in the midst of it, time will feel like it’s moving very, very slowly. People will say things like, “Enjoy this time! It’s so precious!” and you will turn away and feel like crying, again. But then, suddenly, months will have passed. And life is still good.

Future self, I hope this has helped you. If it hasn’t, read the list again, then hug that baby, hug that little girl, bring Daddy a beer, pet that dog, and go feed one of those birds. Edit an essay. Post something on Facebook. Think about the books you’re writing. Then hug the baby one more time, before she can run away.