This Little Creature finally has a name!
October 17, 11:44am, Tristan Jacob was born through a C- Section, weighing 6 pounds and 13 ounces. It’s a good thing too, that we have decided to go for the CS or else I’d probably still be pregnant today.
The procedure, which took probably less than 30 minutes, went well, thanks to the very competent Doctor Sheila.
In the birthing room, the doctors and assistants were yakking on and on about some stuff they would do during the weekends and someone kept on wiping my upper torso and pricking me lightly with a needle in some parts of my body, asking if I could still feel the pricking and I was like, what’s going on? Why are they talking about trivial things like vacation or shopping or something? Work on me, people! All the while, they already had me all ready and open and bloody and were in the process of introducing the little creature to the world. The talk and the annoying needle pricking test were just distractions. I was so wasted with the drug they gave me plus the anaesthesia so I couldn’t feel a thing. What is that drug? It felt wonderful. Hubby was there, all the time, holding my hand and watching my innards on display. Sweet.
Stupid of me though, to assume that things would start to look up once baby boy makes his grand entrance. I thought I’d be done with the complaints and I can start playing with my very own bouncing baby boy.
What bouncy baby? He’s all angles and corners and bones. How can I play with something so tiny and fragile? It felt like he was just suddenly there, this little stranger with no reaction, no nothing. Who is he? How do I talk to him? How do I take care of him?
A day or two after I got home from the hospital, I was ready to give up. I think I drowned in post-partum depression. I had thought that because I had a generally positive outlook in life, I was way beyond a silly thing such as that and that made me feel even worse, knowing that I, too, am susceptible to such feelings.
I felt tired and lonely and detached from my surroundings, like I was merely some milk machine programmed to feed some creature. I felt like a cow with wrecked udders, breastfeeding was painful, I had difficulty expressing breast milk (I want to feed him with my milk exclusively until I can), he was always hungry (he wakes us up almost every hour). Yummy self-pity. I had to squeeze and milk my own boobies (I only have a manual breast pump which didn’t really do that much except give my hands cramps). It was something no woman should go through, I thought.
Everything hurt – my back, my arms, my abdomen. My stitches would probably hurt if I laughed but there was no reason to laugh so I wouldn’t know. I had to sleep in an uncomfortable binder to support the stitches and the flabby torso.
I felt shockingly hideous. Because of edema, I had thunder thighs and sausage toes. Even my face swelled a bit. To add insult to fugliness, my wedding make-up artist asked me the day before the procedure if I was interested in being one of the models for some HIV Campaign. It would have been a chance to glam up so thinking about it after giving birth made me miserable even more.
Because I was such a pregnancy slacker, we did not have all the stuff the baby needed. Hubby had to go back and forth to the mall and to the drug store to buy stuff. I envied him. At least he got to get out.
I felt like I was on house arrest. Since we’re staying at my parents’ home until after my maternity leave at the end of December, I was confined to the second floor of the house. No stairs for me yet. Mommy life had begun and the monotony was killing me – feed the baby, bathe the baby, clean the baby poopie — and I suddenly miss going to work! I wanted to get out, go malling in my boots and go shopping and have some frap from Starbucks. The only problem was that my Frodo feet wouldn’t fit in my boots and I didn’t want people to see my swollen face.
The thing about the cats worsened my depression. I miss my silly little kittehs and their soft furs so much. I feel so bad that they were left back in SJ. I know that they would be in great hands because my aunt loves them as well, but still, I want them to be with me and hubby and baby Tristan.
And then there’s new Daddy-Hubby. It’s his birthday today, by the way. I know he is trying his hardest to be a new dad but poor him, I lashed out on him the other night because I needed to vent out and I felt a seemingly lack of support because he seemed more concerned about how he looked, what he would wear, what he food he would serve to his guests on his birthday and here I was, drowning in self-pity, looking all dumpy and dowdy and fugly and feeling like I’m doing all the work. I wanted him to be more involved in this new family so I tried to talk to him about the stuff on newborns that I’ve been reading up on the internet but he ignored me.
I resented the fact that I was getting the support I needed from other people instead of him. My friend C who gave birth to Sebastian more than a month ago and I shared common miserable experiences through emails and texts (yeah, misery does love company) and a colleague whom I usually do not speak with unless it is about work and whose wife gave birth a week before I did, was very supportive and emailed lots of information and sites about pregnancy which I usually ignored. There was one site about breastfeeding though that I decided to visit and I’m glad I did. The article was written so beautifully, it affected me that it made me cry and it made me feel that I am not alone.
Thanks to that article (and my optimism of course!), as a one week old mom, I seem to have finally adjusted to the baby, to his erratic schedule, and to all the others that come with having a baby, and I’m thankful that it didn’t take me long to heal.
It is hard, the many changes I’ve gone through in less than a week.
It is sad because much as I yearn for the old life when dear Hubby and I can go and do as we please, we will never get it back.
I miss my Hanae Mori and vanilla scents. Now I smell like milk. Instead of all those Mac cosmetics, all we have in the room are bottles of isoprophyl and ethyl alcohol. I miss my old clothes. I walk around the house (take note: only at the second floor) wearing wet mommy shirts. With my engorged boobies, all I need is a wet white tight body hugging shirt and I could have a career at a Hooters Bar. Or not. With the engorged things comes the flabby tummy.
I miss my little 32As. I miss my 22 inch waist (brag,brag). But like my stitches, my body is healing and is returning to its original size (except for the udders/teats). My tummy is slowly deflating like an old balloon, my razor sharp shoulder blades are starting to show, my legs are getting bonier by the minute, the angry veins on my feet are starting to resurface, and I can now see my knees! And my toes! My wormy toes! I can’t believe I miss those ugly, knobby knees and bony toes… and varicose veins! Wow.
Cheekbones are also starting to show! My weight is down from 110 pounds two days ago to 102 today despite the fact that I’ve been gobbling Trader Joe’s chocolates and an aunt’s home-baked bite size cream puffs. How miraculous is that?
My heart is healing, too. I thank God it didn’t take me too long to realize the blessings I have. There’s the Little Creature Tristan. He’s a miracle. He is not a chubby little one yet but he’s very healthy, except for the slight jaundice which we try to cure by sunning him every morning. The yellowing blends with his dark and reddish complexion so he’s an Orange-utan Baby.
He has long limbs, like his dad. He looks like a lizard (like his dad. Kidding!) but I expect that he should start looking more like a human baby and grow cuter any day now, like his mom. Hmmm… any day now…
…any day now…(is tomorrow too much to ask?)
I’m expressing more milk, too. Breastfeeding is still painful but I will endure it. My nips are really hideous (TMI, sorry), but no one else is going to see them anyway.
It is time to move on and be there for the Little Creature. Vanity can wait. For a few weeks anyway.
How silly of me to have such queer fears about having a baby before. My Tristan Dior, an anti-Christ?!?. His skin is so soft. I love to feel his face against mine… He smiles a lot… he giggles, too… and the way he stares into space as if he’s contemplating on some deep philosophy of life (when he’s not growling hungrily for milk)… he’s an angel… even if his poop exploded on my chest this morning.
Then there’s hubby who tolerates my Dr. Hyde moods and Tristan’s nonstop pooping. I wonder why he’s so patient sometimes. And my supportive family, who has welcomed me back to their home without question — sheltering, feeding, and just loving our fledgling family.
Who could ask for more?