The First Two Weeks

My not-so-little-anymore baby turns 6 months old tomorrow. Half-a-year old. I cannot believe how quickly time has gone by. When I think about it too much I feel uneasy, anxious even at the thoughts of him growing up so fast. As I cradled him in my arms tonight before laying him down softly in his crib I thought to myself, ‘how lucky am I?’ I cherish these moments when he sleeps in my arms. The way he snuggles his face into my chest, grunting softly as he nuzzles his way inwards. How his belly rises as he inhales. Those gentle puffs of air like a whisper from his nose as he exhales. A cuddly hot water bottle pressed against me on a cold, dark night. As I shifted him from my arms into his crib, slithering my hands out from under him, he stirred… eyes flashing open, looking at me in disbelief ‘Oh no…Please no…’ I look at him, frozen in time, afraid to move in case he sees me…Then, with a soft moan, he closed them again, rolling his head from left to right a few times as he always does, before settling back into a sleepy slumber. I hold my breath as I tiptoe out the door, silently closing it behind me. Silence. ‘Well thank fuck for that.’

THE FIRST TWO WEEKS

As I reminisce back to the newborn phase, it feels like a different lifetime. Perhaps even someone else’s life. Dylan Matthew Noon, born at 10:57am on 14th April 2021. My 7lb, 2oz baby boy, cocooned in a white hospital towel and wearing a ‘Born in 2021’ hat from JoJoMamman Bebe was plopped upon my bare chest as the doctors continued to stitch me up behind the large, blue drapes. With a shaky hand, already swollen and bruised from the 3 failed IV attempts earlier that morning, I traced my finger slowly across his forehead, and down along his perfect button nose. I just remember thinking how silky soft his skin was. Back in the recovery room, the midwife asked me if I was breastfeeding. “Yes” I replied, and with that she uncovered my breasts and face-planted him firmly onto my grape sized nipple. “Perfect” she declared in an all-knowing manner, “You’ve got it!” . If only I had known what was to come. 

A few hours later after I had passed the ‘Tea & toast’ test, the sensations in my legs were starting to return. I felt like I had pins and needles in my toes but try as I might I couldn’t quite wiggle them yet. A strange feeling. Around midnight, when the block had fully worn off and my catheter had been removed I stood out of bed and hobbled my way as far as the toilet. Success I thought! I can walk again! An excitement subdued when I turned around to flush and witnessed what can only be described as some sort of bloody massacre. I didn’t sleep a wink that night on the ward… partially due to the adrenaline still pulsing through my veins… partially due to the sleeping newborn now at my bedside… but mostly due to the other new mum in my room whose baby did not stop crying ALL NIGHT. 

I was discharged the next day at 6pm, a grand total of about 36 hours in hospital. By the time I crawled into my bed I hadn’t slept in over 40 hours. I had undergone major abdominal surgery, I had lost over a litre of blood, was anemic and I was sent home with the greatest responsibility of my life so far. I pulled the covers up over my head and jolted in and out of a light sleep for about 2 hours before my fiancé Gavin woke me. Time to feed again.

My ‘newborn bubble’ only lasted about 48 hours before the ‘baby blues’ hit me like a 70mph freight train. I’ve never experienced anything like it. The sleep deprivation; painful, lumpy, leaking, swollen breasts; the trauma of the birth; the recovery from the c-section; the reality of being a first time mum; all combined with plummeting hormones. I cried every day for the next two weeks. 

I remember the first time we took Dylan out of our apartment in his Nuna pram. He was only 4 days old. A small but long, skinny alien, with tissue paper skin. Still scared I would break him if I held him too tightly. Even just winding him after feeding was a torturous task. We only walked around the block – I refused to cross any roads, petrified of moving traffic, walking at snail’s pace, semi-upright holding my tummy, while my fiancé Gavin maneuvered the pram. I felt like a zombie. The piercing daylight felt harsh against my face after spending the previous five days indoors. My red, tired eyes retreated behind shriveled eyelids. I was still wearing my TEDs (white compression stockings) under my leggings coupled with thick, white, ribbed sports socks that had black stripes around the calf – post-op loungewear, but make it fashion! Gavin made a joke referring to me as Andre Agassi and I doubled over laughing, which swiftly turned into tears from the pain which ripped through me like a fresh wound. 

When he was five days old, we had to take him into the hospital for his newborn heel prick test. Still afraid to be on my own with him I pleaded with the security at the entrance for Gavin to come in with me. Covid meant it was only one family member per patient and Dylan was the patient today. I’m not sure if he felt sorry for me or if it was the fact it was a Sunday and the place was deserted, but he was allowed in. The maternity support worker we met was a plump, bubbly older woman with black, grey streaked hair slicked back in a bun. She peered at me through her thick rimmed, round glasses which were beginning to steam up from her facemask. While motioning me to take a seat with a slightly flustered demeanor, she mumbled something about running behind which I didn’t quite catch. The usual questions were asked, and I responded with short Yes/No answers. Still unable to formulate a coherent sentence at this early stage. It wasn’t until she asked me the simple question “and how are you doing, Mum?” that I completely broke down. “Not good”, I spluttered in between the hot tears which were now rolling down my pale, anemic cheeks. She held my hand and reassured me it was ok. We chatted for almost an hour and I left her clinic room feeling a lot more positive. When we arrived home I pushed the front door handle down and as I stepped forward into the apartment an enormous gush of fluid soaked my larger than life maternity pad. What the fuck….I looked at Gavin with increduility, “I think I’ve just wet myself”. Turns out I hadn’t actually peed myself, just a standard gush of postpartum lochia. Small wins.

On day 6 we had walked as far as a local café, I agreed as we only needed to cross one quiet road to get there. Baby steps. Utterly sleep deprived at this point and still crippled with anxiety about leaving the house with my newborn, I stood at the counter in a daze, unable to decide or verbalise what I wanted to drink. “Uhhhmmm…. I’m not sure”… I looked at Gavin like a lost puppy, unable to make even the smallest of decisions at this point. He bought me a Flat white (the only coffee I ever order) and a dairy milk. 

On day 7 I’m pretty sure I was close to hallucinating from lack of sleep. By lunchtime I had decided I couldn’t take it anymore and I sent Gavin out to buy a box of formula and a tommee tippee perfect-prep machine. I felt immense guilt that night when I woke up at 3am and started breastfeeding him again. It took several days to fully stop but in the end I just went cold turkey and bound my aching breasts in the tightest sports bra I could find. I stopped leaking milk, the lumps dissolved away and eventually my milk dried up. The sadness, guilt, shame and embarrassment about stopping breastfeeding so much sooner than I had planned was indescribable. However, Dylan went on to thrive on formula and he was and still is the happiest little baby. In the end, that’s all that really matters isn’t it?

About a week later we left the house to register Dylan’s birth. We were halfway there, already running a bit late, when we realised we had forgotten facemasks (covid), so Gavin had to run home and follow me to the registration office. It all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to consider what was happening. When the realisation hit me there was a moment when I thought I was going to go into full scale meltdown, panic-attack mode. It was the first time I was completely on my own with Dylan. Worse still it was in public, away from the safety of our insulated apartment. I walked slowly, white-knuckled, clammy-hands gripping the pram. A giant bubble inflated in my ribcage making each breath inwards more difficult. Cars whizzed past me on the road causing me to grip harder. One foot in front of the other, over-cautiously approaching road crossings. ‘ I hope he doesn’t cry’ …. ‘Fuck, that was a big bump’ …. ‘Where the fuck is Gavin?’ 

Gavin caught up with me about 10 minutes later and I had only made it about 300 yards! Dylan didn’t cry, he was unphased by the bumps, we crossed several traffic-filled roads, and we made it on time (just!) to register his birth. Even more impressive than this, we walked another half mile to get a take away from Five Guys. It was the first of many little ‘wins’ and the first day I started to feel like maybe I could do this. 

I still look back at those first 2 weeks and wonder how on earth we made it through. But we did. I remember feeling aggrieved and a touch indignant that I was so unprepared for just how hard it would be. ‘Why did no one tell me this shit?’ Perhaps they did, but I just didn’t hear it. To the new and expectant mums out there, I hope you don’t see this as a negative post. I just think a touch of reality is far superior than the classic, and let’s face it, unhelpful ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’ advice. Despite the arduous start, what I’ve learned so far is that motherhood is all about those small wins. It’s hard, it’s exhausting and your life will never be the same again. BUT… you will leave the house again… you will sleep again… and you will absolutely remember your coffee order! 

Jess x