Raising Miss Leah: What I've Learned Since My Daughter Was Born
When I discovered I was pregnant, I seemed excited on the outside, but inside, I was filled with self-doubt and fear. To be blunt, I was absolutely terrified. Tim and I weren’t married yet. In fact, we went from moving in and planning on a wedding in the next few years, to preparing to bring a new person into the world in just nine months! All I could do was constantly question my “qualifications” for being a mom. I did what I usually do when I’m uncertain-I threw myself into researching. I braced myself for night feedings, endless amounts of exploding diapers, and all the money we’d spend.
The entire nine months was spent probing book after book for all the “demanding” facets of childbirth and new mommy-hood. I grimaced through stories about episiotomies and twenty-seven hour labors. Once I felt terrified enough with labor and birth, I moved on to brutally honest books about baby’s first year. “On average, a child experiences 5,000 diaper changes before he or she is toilet trained…” advised the Mayo Clinic. I calculated the cost. Now I wasn’t only completely green to the tasks of motherhood, I couldn’t afford it either!
I was well into my eighth month, and swelled up so badly I couldn’t see the bones in my feet and ankles. I would prop my sausages up on some pillows, and rest book after book on my engorged belly. I’d alternate between page turning and eating mouthfuls of loaded baked potato. I felt increasingly unprepared for the imminent arrival of our daughter.
A day after my due date, I felt a great deal of “stomach upset.” I locked myself in the bathroom, completely in denial and convinced I simply “had to go” (if you know what I mean). About an hour later, I emerged and called my mother. After considerable insistence, I finally gave in. Tim grabbed my bag (the books said to have it ready!) and I wobbled my way to the car. My white-faced and extremely nervous boyfriend was barked at for every stone he hit, every red light, every dip in the pavement, and anything else I, as a laboring woman, felt he was doing wrong (everything).
I arrived at the hospital already dilated to five centimeters. I read that the “average” first time labor was around sixteen hours! Nonetheless, I was pushing within two hours of my arrival in triage.
I won’t tell you I loved her on sight. In fact, I didn’t have the energy to hold her for more than ten minutes. Hours later, after I’d had some time to rest, they brought her in. In that instant, I became someone else. I thought Leah was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, even though she bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Furley from Three’s Company. I knew I was going to love her in a way I had never loved anyone. I became a cliché.
Yes, my labor was intense, and yes, the next few months were rough. I went through the exploding diapers galore (one on a plane!), 2 a.m. feedings, and many tears were shed during her first shots (mostly mine). I experienced all the “horrors” I read about, but what the books couldn’t describe was the exact way I’d feel when she smiled back at me. The books didn’t tell me that her laughter would bring me more wonder and joy than I ever knew.
Sure, I still get scared when a doctor’s appointment is looming. I positively get overwhelmed on particularly cranky days (those days become a battle of who is the grouchiest, mom or baby). The only difference is, now I’m okay with it. I’ve tackled all the obstacles she’s thrown at me with the ease of a professional (thanks to all those books), and I’ve settled into my new domestic career. Sometimes my duties aren’t pretty, and it can get messier than a soup sandwich; it was all in the job description. And to tell you the truth, I think I was the perfect candidate.
Kristen Docimo, OSB Contributor
The entire nine months was spent probing book after book for all the “demanding” facets of childbirth and new mommy-hood. I grimaced through stories about episiotomies and twenty-seven hour labors. Once I felt terrified enough with labor and birth, I moved on to brutally honest books about baby’s first year. “On average, a child experiences 5,000 diaper changes before he or she is toilet trained…” advised the Mayo Clinic. I calculated the cost. Now I wasn’t only completely green to the tasks of motherhood, I couldn’t afford it either!
I was well into my eighth month, and swelled up so badly I couldn’t see the bones in my feet and ankles. I would prop my sausages up on some pillows, and rest book after book on my engorged belly. I’d alternate between page turning and eating mouthfuls of loaded baked potato. I felt increasingly unprepared for the imminent arrival of our daughter.
A day after my due date, I felt a great deal of “stomach upset.” I locked myself in the bathroom, completely in denial and convinced I simply “had to go” (if you know what I mean). About an hour later, I emerged and called my mother. After considerable insistence, I finally gave in. Tim grabbed my bag (the books said to have it ready!) and I wobbled my way to the car. My white-faced and extremely nervous boyfriend was barked at for every stone he hit, every red light, every dip in the pavement, and anything else I, as a laboring woman, felt he was doing wrong (everything).
I arrived at the hospital already dilated to five centimeters. I read that the “average” first time labor was around sixteen hours! Nonetheless, I was pushing within two hours of my arrival in triage.
I won’t tell you I loved her on sight. In fact, I didn’t have the energy to hold her for more than ten minutes. Hours later, after I’d had some time to rest, they brought her in. In that instant, I became someone else. I thought Leah was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, even though she bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Furley from Three’s Company. I knew I was going to love her in a way I had never loved anyone. I became a cliché.
Yes, my labor was intense, and yes, the next few months were rough. I went through the exploding diapers galore (one on a plane!), 2 a.m. feedings, and many tears were shed during her first shots (mostly mine). I experienced all the “horrors” I read about, but what the books couldn’t describe was the exact way I’d feel when she smiled back at me. The books didn’t tell me that her laughter would bring me more wonder and joy than I ever knew.
Sure, I still get scared when a doctor’s appointment is looming. I positively get overwhelmed on particularly cranky days (those days become a battle of who is the grouchiest, mom or baby). The only difference is, now I’m okay with it. I’ve tackled all the obstacles she’s thrown at me with the ease of a professional (thanks to all those books), and I’ve settled into my new domestic career. Sometimes my duties aren’t pretty, and it can get messier than a soup sandwich; it was all in the job description. And to tell you the truth, I think I was the perfect candidate.
Kristen Docimo, OSB Contributor
8/21/2005
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