Gametes In Love

It’s been more than seven weeks since A went into labor, and I’m still having a hard time attempting to put my thoughts and feelings into words. It feels like it was years ago in a world very different from our lives today. My memory is fading but the key events are burned into my mind and hopefully won’t fade. But just in case, here are my memories and thoughts on our Labor and Delivery. My hope is that this post will trigger memories and emotions for many years to come. Maybe one day G will read these posts and get a glimpse into the mind of his parents.

The memories that really have been burned into my mind are:

• A has an extremely high tolerance for pain — much higher than I ever expected.
• I had a constant Fear that something would go wrong. A was depending on me to make the decisions necessary (if needed) to protect her and G.
• It’s frustrating watching someone you love go through intense pain without truly being able to stop it!
• The pace of labor felt much faster than I expected. There wasn’t any ‘down’ time to regroup or rest for either of us. The minutes between contractions just started to run together until hours and hours had passed.

I’m thankful to the generations of fathers and doctors before us that pushed to allow fathers in the delivery room. I can’t imagine sitting in a waiting area for hours waiting to find out about my wife and child. I was given the chance not only to be present but to be an active participant. Using Dr. Bradley’s term of “Coach” is a close description, but I felt more like a Player-Coach with active participation in the process. I was by A’s side through each step of the way.

Now for the story (Warning: I tell stories in a very linear fashion, so be prepared for a long post)

After the contractions started while we were at lunch on Thursday Aug 28^th, we went back home, and I had several conference calls for work. I checked in with A between each call and she seemed pretty composed, alert, and had a good handle on monitoring the contractions. I had left my phone with her to use for contraction timing (Contraction Timer for Palm OS). I expected this early stage to last for many hours, possibly into the evening and night time.

When I finished up my last call and went back to check on A about 4 pm, I was shocked to find her downstairs (the house was pretty warm and it was cooler downstairs) lying in the middle of the floor stripped down with a fan blowing directly on her. My heart immediately dropped as I ran downstairs to check on her. It was clear this early stage wasn’t lasting long and that we’d likely already moved into the next stage of labor.

I left her to continue laboring while I scrambled to get our stuff ready and in the car to head to the hospital. I expected we would have several hours for this stage but I’m glad I had a checklist to work from because my mind was a wreck. I walked back and forth from room to room, up and down the stairs, to the car back to the house. I felt like a disorganized crazy person. All the while checking on A, filling her water bottle, rubbing her back, checking on the contraction timing. As I loaded stuff in the car I recalled someone telling me that you won’t need half the stuff you take to the hospital; you just don’t know which half it is until it’s over.

After what felt like far too much time to get our stuff together and the car loaded, it was time to call the doc and report on our contraction timing – it was time to head to the hospital! Holy crap, this was moving fast!

After checking into the hospital and getting to the room, the nurses started the registration and initial checks to make sure we were going to stay there. I knew we were staying – we knew the steps of labor and A was very in tune with her body. We intentionally tried not to go to the hospital too early.

I think I’m pretty good at reading body language and I found myself watching the nurses closely to understand what they were and weren’t telling us. I also was paying close attention to the monitors during the entire process.

After the first reading of the fetal heart rate I noticed that G’s heart rate dropped during a contraction — it wasn’t too bad but it was noticeable. When I saw the drop, I turned to see if the nurse’s face would tell me something – a look of concern, shock, a smile. She seemed a bit surprised that I had caught it. The heart rate drop made the nurse ask to keep the fetal monitor on even though we had asked not to have continuous monitoring. I was fine with this and A wasn’t in a position to have any disagreements – it hit me that my role as Coach put me squarely in the driver’s seat for this trip or at least the first line of defense. I was prepared for this role, but the importance was brought to the forefront at this time.

In order to get to the spirit of our request for non-continuous fetal monitoring, I asked the nurse to turn down the volume of the monitoring so A didn’t have any indication of what the monitor was doing. She didn’t need to have any additional inputs to cause concern. Her only focus was on productive contractions and pain management.

The minutes of each contraction morphed into hours and hours. I didn’t even realize that the sun had set until I couldn’t see in the room. My body was telling me to feed it, but I couldn’t even think about satisfying the need. I had brought some snacks and eventually grabbed a handful of crackers. The pace felt fast because there wasn’t any real downtime between contractions. I really thought G was going to grace us before midnight – the beginning just went by so fast that I thought for sure it was going to continue at the rapid pace.

Then it felt like we hit a wall. I could tell A was getting tired…exhausted really. She was looking for confirmation that she was still making progress. After another check from the nurse that told her her dilation was the same as before, I could tell she was disappointed. It was time for an attempt at a pep talk – just reassurance that this wasn’t a race and that it wasn’t a reflection of a poor performance. G was setting this schedule and we could only go along with the pace he was setting. If it was time for a pause, then we just needed to go along with it. Unfortunately, during this time the contractions stayed at the same pace — long and not much time between them. So while we may have hit a plateau, there was no rest for A.

Newsflash — if contractions are 4 minutes apart, 1.5-2 minutes long, add another 5-10 seconds after the contraction to be sure it’s done, another 10-15 seconds just to calm down, now you are left with 90 seconds are so to Relax — so much for the advice of trying to sleep between contractions.

You’ve read about my slip and fall… it scared me. In a split second I ended up completely horizontal two feet off the floor and falling. I hit Hard. I was worried that I had injured myself and wouldn’t be able to stay with A. I was worried that my fall with distract her and cause her to experience more pain. I knew that she was worried too, and needed her to think I was just fine at a time when I had no idea if I was fine or not. I hit the nurse’s call button and stayed on the floor. I thought it was best to stay there instead of trying to stand up and A realizing that I was really hurt. After standing up and trying to get cleaned up, I was sore but didn’t feel bad. It turned out adrenaline kept the pain down. Hours later the stiffness and pain kicked in, but it was nothing compared to what A was enduring.

After 90 minutes of natural attempts at more productive contractions, we decided to give the Pitocin a go. This meant we had to cross the hurdle of an IV. A has a fear of needles, has small veins that roll, and ALWAYS requests a pediatric needle. I had to execute on another of my critical Coach duties – make sure she had a pediatric needle! I made the request, and the nurse waited a second and then said, “Dad, can we talk?” as she motioned to the door. Oh no, what’s wrong? She tells me that a pediatric needle isn’t an option – if they need to give blood at any point, a pediatric needle isn’t large enough. I understood this, so I explained the small and rolling veins. She gave me a confident look and said she’d take care of it.

As the nurse started to prep for the needle, A looks up and said “I need a pediatric needle.” My heart paused again, because if this didn’t go well, A would certainly wonder why I dropped the ball on the one thing she had reiterated over and over. I replied, “We’ve already talked about it.” So not a lie, but I held my breath when the nurse started the IV. It went great. I was also glad the nurse took the initiative afterwards to tell A about the needle and why.

40 minutes into the round of Pitocin I watched the fetal heart rate and it progressively dropped as the contractions continued. The contractions were about the same pace, maybe a bit more frequent, and occasionally had double peaks. As soon the contractions stopped the heart rate jumped back up to the normal range around 130-140. But they started dropping to the 90s, then the 80s, then 70s, and even dropped into the 50s at one point for a very brief period. I knew this wasn’t working, but wasn’t about to say anything to A.

The doc and the nurse came in again with serious looks on their faces. They asked A how things were going. She didn’t say anything since she was in the middle of a contraction. I gave them the hand sign and continued to help her through the contraction, but knew they were probably sitting there wondering “How do we tell her that her birth plan isn’t working out? How is she going to take this?” Just after the contraction was over, A pulls her head up and with her eyes still closed, blurts out “I think we need to cut him out of here!” The doc almost looked relieved, and confirmed with “I know that wasn’t our preferred plan, but that’s the best route.”

I could tell by how forceful A made her statement that she was comfortable with this decision. I had taken a brief minute or two earlier to look up in the Bradley book about the transverse position and knew that this could end up a serious complication. I took one chance to ask A if she felt okay with the decision – I was more interested in how she answered me than what words came out. As soon as I got the confirmation and echoed it to the doc, the equipment rolled into the room. I’m sure it was already lined up in the hallway! Which told me there really wasn’t an option; this was what we needed to do! Things once again happened fast.

For the first time in 10 hours my mind took a chance to process what was happening. I stood in the hallway outside the OR watching through the tiny window in the door as they prepped A for the procedure. I watched them prep for the anesthesia (several large needles were involved). I watched the nurses laying out all of the equipment. I watched the doc get scrubbed up and suited. I felt tears well up in my eyes and a rush of emotion fall over my shoulders – I had to fight it off because this was only just beginning.

They finally waved me into the room, and I took my seat behind the curtain next to A’s head and held her hand.

I watched what I could from the reflection in the door of the surgical cabinet. I picked up on a few comments between the doc and the nurses – like “Yep, there’s a wrap” – referring to a cord wrap around his neck, which may have been the cause of the drop in heart rate with each contraction. I also heard A snoring – she was so exhausted that she caught a few minutes of sleep as the procedure started.

I stood up just as they were pulling G out. His head was the only part out and it was Smurf Blue and very cone shaped. They reached in and pulled the rest of his small body out and rushed him over to a table. As blood poured out of A, I remember thinking – I need to be there with him, but I need to be here with A too. Then the nurse called me over to G – and I gave A look and quickly went to his side.

His blue color was fading and he was crying – all good things. He had a lot of fluid still in his nose and throat so they were suctioning it out, over and over. I’m glad I knew this was normal for c-section births. The trip down the birth canal usually squeezes out much of the fluid and with his detour; he still needed to get out the extra fluid. Without this knowledge I probably would have been freaking, so I just held his hand and keep talking to him.

We got him swaddled up and then took him to A. She got a brief chance to see him and touch him. One of the nurses asked for my camera to take a picture. Camera? I didn’t know I could have a camera in the OR – so no pictures from that scene.

Then off G and I went to the NICU part of the nursery for his tests and to get him under the warmer. We held off on his bath until he could breast feed. We waited in the nursery, until we got the call that A was in recovery, stable, and ready to breast feed. It felt like hours but was only about 30-40 minutes. I didn’t leave G’s side for the next 10 hours – from OR, nursery, recovery room, back to nursery, then to Mom’s room once she was settled. I didn’t have a phone with me to call and update the family and friends who sat by as hours passed without any updates.

I was thrilled to have a healthy beautiful boy and sad that I wasn’t experiencing it together with A. It was one of the loneliest feelings I’ve experienced, and was only made better by gazing at G lying in the hospital crib while holding my hands across his body.

One year ago today our Games In Love journey started. We went from months of negative pregnancy sticks, tears, to prods and pokes of diagnostic tests, through an IVF treatment protocol, to some 8-cell embryos to this:

It’s amazing how much one year can bring on so much.

…but in the end it’s all been worth it!

It was bound to happen: my first gray hair.

The other day G and I had a “play date” with some Nestie moms and moms-to-be. OK it was really more of a play date for me, as G just tags along. As I’m getting us ready to leave, while washing my hands I noticed something kinda sparkly on my head. Now granted, the guest bathroom has an obscene amount of sunlight in it which brings out crazy highlights in my hair, but this looked different. I started digging through my head for the intriguing hair, and although it took me awhile to get a hold of and isolate, I got it. Then I yanked it out for closer examination.

There it was: sparkly white, resting between my fingers. My first gray hair!

I stood there for a moment perplexed: how did I not see this before? It was about 4” long. It’s not like this amount of white could grow overnight. Or could it? I then looked back at the mirror at the spot this hair came from, and right next to it was another. This one was long: we’re talking the full length of my hair long. How did that one get missed? I didn’t see any more, and I stopped looking. I was already running late and I didn’t want to depress myself before going out.

Yet as I finished getting G into his car-seat and on the car ride out, I kept thinking about this. Could it be that these two hairs could be my only ones? Could pregnancy or labor hormones have grayed me? Could my brunette hair grow back from those plucked follicles?
And… how did I feel about it?

I realized I wasn’t upset. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I guess I was hoping it’d be later and I’d cross the 30 thresh-hold first. I am, however, a little irritated. I’ve never been a girlie girl. I don’t spend more than 2 minutes on my hair; I don’t do makeup unless it’s a special occasion, and I don’t have a special relationship with a hair stylist. I save a lot of money not having to deal with my hair, and now I’ll have to start getting it died which is not cheap. My “girlie” vice is facials. I get one (or I should say “used to” get one before G was born) every 6 weeks. I don’t want to have to re-budget my pamper fund for gray hair.

So I’ve chosen to live in denial for a little longer. Undoubtedly I’ll spot more grays again, but until I do, I’m not running to a colorist.

Post by S

It was a hazy dreamlike experience when I rolled over this morning and the clock displayed 5:00. What? 5AM? Did I miss G crying for his night time bottle feeding? No crying was coming through the baby monitor. I needed to use my fingers to count how long he had slept – 9pm to 5 am… 1, 2, 3… 8 HOURS!!! Is that possible?

Sure enough, I have the chart to prove it.

G was feeding like crazy yesterday so he certainly loaded up on calories. He had a bath (see the crying picture posted by A earlier today), clean diaper, bed time nursing session, then he went to sleep about 9 pm. He woke up briefly about 9:45 pm with crying, twisting, and legs flailing. This is his typical fit that often wakes him. After a few minutes of A holding him, we put him in the swing with the hair dryer on High – He was OUT in about 30 seconds. And there we left him – peacefully swinging with the dryer blowing. I turned the dryer off an hour later and off to bed we went.

Almost 9 hours later at 6am he was just barely stirring when I changed his diaper. He was wide awake for his night time bottle a few minutes later.

This is probably more of a milestone for me than it is for him, but I love it! I’m not sure when it will be repeated, but I’m thrilled!

Ok, it’s not as gross as you think. Since G was born, I’ve relied on S to be home before I can shower. Every time I even thought about it during the day, G would get fussy, or something would come up. Well, not today!

I waited for him to be fed and changed, which is generally a content period; I parked him in his bouncer right outside the bathroom door and jumped into the shower. It was a quick one — no shaving or washing my hair, but we’ll work ourselves up to those eventually too. So aside from the additional therapy G’s going to need for being subjected to seeing his mom naked, I think we’re good!

Now that the shock has worn off, I feel like I can finally talk about the crying marathon that was the 6th week growth spurt.

It hit a little early in our house.

As soon as G turned 5w old and entered his 6th week of life he also entered a stage of what felt like non stop crying. We’re talking shrills. I knew he wasn’t hungry, or wet, or poopy, or in pain… but nothing I tried seemed to help. Pretty much if he was awake, but didn’t have a boob in his mouth, he was crying until his face turned beet red. You’d think I was torturing him.
This was of course also paired with frequent eating (expected), which included many, many, middle-of-the-night wake-ups. That’s right, my cute little guy who previously woke up two, three times tops between 9pm and 7am, was now waking up at least four times. S and I had about resolved to sleep in the glider after 3am almost nightly. It felt like a lost cause to try and walk around the corner to our own bedroom.

As bad as it was, we were getting through it. There was one day, however, that would probably be forever burned into my mind: the first. He was fussy all morning, which normally I could take in stride, but what set me off was spilled milk. Seriously! I had pumped and it was the first time ever that I had gotten 2oz in a session. I was excited… and then G started crying. I took him to his room to change his diaper, leaving the bottle of milk on my side table, still attached to the pump. We couldn’t have been gone more than 5 minutes. When I returned the bottle was gone. I looked under the side table and there it was turned upside down… empty. Of course G was still crying, there was now milk soaking the carpet, and nothing for me to freeze for later. Yeah, I was mad. And I snapped at my kid. I said in a loud and stern voice “G, I can’t help you because I don’t know what you want!” He stopped, looked at me perplexed at the tone of my voice… and then resumed with his crying spell. I don’t think I’d ever felt this bad in my life. I felt guilty. What was happening was obviously not his fault. He didn’t spill the milk; it’s not his fault his body is growing; that he was hungry and probably feeling growing pains. Although I apologized and followed up with kisses, all day I felt like a dog walking with his tail between his legs.

The rest of the day continued with the loud crying. I was emotionally drained. A solocitor came to our door that afternoon and witnessed the “joy” that he was. I looked like the stereotypical overwhelmed mom: bathrobe, messed up hair, crying kid in arms. Of course G took the opportunity while she was going into her spiel to spit-up down my shirt. I don’t think I’d seen a solicitor go away as fast as she did. I giggled as I shut the door.

S came home earlier that evening because of how bad the day had gone and I needed some relief. We went out for dinner with A & B that night, and even they exclaimed how “not good” I looked. At least for them I looked remotely descent by managing to change clothes and brush my hair.

S’ parents arrived in the middle of this growth spurt period. S’ mom, who has taken care of a badly refluxed kid (our niece, sadly) just went through deja-vu. We’re pretty sure it’s not reflux, so we just needed to bear it and get through. For awhile, she was bouncing a very fussy kid. A typical moment in her (and our arms) looked like this:

What kept us going was knowing that there would be a light at the end of the tunnel… and there was! When all was said and done G emerged almost like a brand new kid. He’s awake a lot more now. Awake, alert and quiet (well, quiet-er)! He smiles a bit more, looks around, and is much more engaging with his toys.

He’s now 8lb 8.7oz and about 20.5” in height. He’s outgrown a fair amount of his NB-sized onesies and I’ve pulled out the next step up. Now that he’s more peaceful and in a better mood, I even scheduled a photo session to take his newborn photos. I’m really excited!

So, yeah! This was the tale of our last week – one of the reasons, why you didn’t hear much from us for a bit. With all this, I gotta say, I am not looking forward to teeth coming in. I’ve heard that some bourbon (or hard liquor of choice) on their gums might help, but I think I’ll be taking a few swigs of it at that point.

Does anyone other than me find it perplexing that there is such a thing as a Baby Dior line? I mean, I can appreciate designer duds (from afar since I can’t justify their cost), but why would you put your infant in a Dior onesie they’ll outgrow in a couple of weeks?

Here’s the back-story: a local mom in my mother’s group posted that she had newborn clothes to pass on if anyone wanted them. 3 huge boxes for $25! I figured, “What the heck?” – newbie clothes can’t be in bad shape since the kiddos outgrow them quickly so it’s not like they’re worn out for wear. Well, first of all, the boxes were HUGE. I got rid of some of the clothes (a little too stained) and shared some with a friend. Despite all of this, along with the clothes we already had for him, I think G can wear a different outfit every day and still not get through all of them.

What surprised me most of all were the designer labels on some of these outfits. When I finally saw the Dior I was floored. I mean who can afford this? These run $130 a piece!!! (Don’t be too impressed with me, I had to look it up.) The outfit was in pristine condition. I doubt if it was worn more than 2-3 times. Even if I paid $25 just for this outfit, I got a steal of a deal. Now I think he should wear it at least once a week, just so that I get the value of the $130 someone spent.

So now G has his very own Dior onesie. He of course showed his appreciation for it by spitting up on it. He’s my kid alright 🙂

G’s been enjoying some time with S’ parents.

Introducing Mr. Bubblebutt!

We’ve been transitioning G into his Kissaluv’s cloth diapers this week. This has been day 2 of wear. They’re cute, they’re practical, but in addition to moving him to these diapers I also have to move him to the next size onesies, because the NB ones won’t support his new sized derrière.

I can just hear G saying “Do these diapers make my butt look big?”

The answer?

“Oh YEAH!”