Beautiful Lou was born at 10:56 am on March 7th, weighing 8 pounds, 8 ounces. Everything at the hospital went just great, from the surgery itself to the nurses assigned to me before and after. Lou and I spent four quiet days and nights there in a blissful state of grogginess, gazing at one another in awe. By the time we went home, I was in tears at the thought of leaving. Of course, the fact that I was a waddling bucket of hormones might have contributed to my desire to grab the nearest nurse by the ankles and refuse to let go.
As much as I loved the hospital, I was relieved to graduate from the meter-long sanitary pads that they gave me, the ones that extend from belly button to mid-back. Also gone now are the giant granny underwear that I had to wear after the c-section to keep clear of the incision. My mother, who was here “helping,” purchased them for me at CVS. She opted for the floral pattern rather than just white, which seemed even worse somehow. At least with white there’s no pretense of being pretty; it’s just granny underwear, plain and simple. With the floral, it felt like I was trying to make them decent and was therefore somehow surrendering to the underwear. Like I said, hormones. If I could have taken a match to them I would have, but they were made of some industrial cotton that seemed impervious to fire, so I had to settle for hurling them in the garbage.
I have been pleased to find that no longer being pregnant is an instant cure for the side effects of pregnancy. The back pain, front pain, nausea, headaches and insomnia all disappeared straightaway, as did about half of the baby weight. Of course this still leaves roughly 200 pounds to lose, but with all the nursing that Lou is doing, I am optimistic that it will come off.
Lou is now seven weeks old, and is just a dream baby. Lila has adjusted beautifully, though we’re not ruling out the possibility of anti-baby fallout later, once she realizes that he’s staying for good. For now, however, she is a sweet if somewhat indifferent big sister. Her interest in him centers mostly on his stuff, irresistible in its tinyness. She plays with his toys, wraps herself in his blankets, and tries to squeeze into his clothes. We mostly go along with it, understanding her wish to be a baby again. My only sticking point is when she lies in the co-sleeper and squalls relentlessly. The noise is the auditory equivalent of chewing tin foil and, after 14 hours of it, tends to elicit a less-than-nurturing response from me. Otherwise, however, we’re doing pretty darn well.