Category: crying

Why I Hate My Pediatrician

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My “banana baby” at his two-month checkup.

I have a new goal in life. Someday, I would like to experience a visit to the pediatrician that does not involve me having a complete meltdown. Luckily, so far, I’ve managed to not have said meltdowns actually in the doctor’s office; they come later, like aftershocks, when I’m at home and can fling off bra and dignity and really let loose.

The first, and more epic, meltdown happened two months ago, at Julian’s two-month appointment. I’ve written elsewhere about my somewhat reclusive new-mama behaviors. I wasn’t one of those adventurous new moms who go straight from giving birth in a hospital to shopping for non-maternity jeans in Anthropologie, baby tucked in a perfectly-wrapped Moby.

I was more like a furtive coyote mother whose den is being encroached upon by Evil Humans, and she is forced to dart out into the night, pup dangling precariously from her jaws, in order to survive. At least that’s how it felt, every time I ventured beyond the warm womb of my house with a newborn. As you can imagine, I didn’t get out much.

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White Man with Indian Soul.

So this inaugural visit to the doctor’s office, which is about a 35-minute drive away, felt like a BIG DEAL. I prepared a list of questions I wanted to ask the pediatrician, imagining that she would be a warm, uplifting Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman knockoff who would make me feel competent and normal and reassure me that everything’s fine, and I’m doing a great job, and my baby is healthy, and maybe we could come over to her house later for some hearty pioneer cooking and meet her white husband who nonetheless has the Soul of an Indian.

I particularly wanted to ask her about Julian’s breastfeeding habits. He’d just started doing this weird snacking thing, where he’d dive toward my boob like he’s bobbing for apples, eat aggressively for five minutes, and then just pop off, totally done, totally uninterested in my attempts to lure him onto boob number two. (Spoiler: he’s still doing this.) He seemed sated, but I wasn’t sure he was eating enough.

This anxiety was fed by my tendency to play the parenting comparison game – yes, already, just two months in. Some friends of mine have a baby with these amazing fat rolls all over her cuddly body. Even on her forearms. She’s a delicious Stay Puft Marshmellow Baby, and I used to look at her pictures and wonder, where are Julian’s forearm rolls? Is he not eating enough? Do I have wimpy milk? Then I’d go google “failure to thrive.”

I brought all this new mom anxiety to the appointment with me, hoping to have it dispelled. The visit started out well enough, but by the time the doctor came into the soulless exam room, Julian’s pleasantries had disintegrated into hysterics. On top of missing naptime, he had to get undressed and redressed TWICE, because the first medical assistant completely bungled his measurements. (She’d concluded, for example, that his head was 22 inches around, which was only about EIGHT INCHES OFF. Julian comes from large-headed stock, but that there’s mutant territory.)

Our doctor, who more closely resembled a female Woody Allen than the winky-eyed Jane Seymour, seemed totally weirded out that he was fussy. “Is he always like this?” she asked, looking a little alarmed, because apparently she is the ONE pediatrician on the planet who has never had to examine a crying baby.

Finally, after the poking and prodding, Julian fell asleep on Michael and I told her about his eating habits.

“There’s no way he’s getting what he needs in just five minutes.”

That’s what she said.

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Emaciated baby, dreaming.

There’s no way he’s getting what he needs.

I looked over at my baby, who suddenly looked emaciated. He was curled up on Michael’s chest, asleep, no doubt dreaming that he was writhing in the middle of a milkless wilderness, surrounded by shriveled boob cacti. I could almost hear his tiny tummy growling.

There’s no way I’m giving him what he needs.

This, by the way, is THE WORST THING you can say to a new mother. At least to this new mother. For those first two months, breastfeeding was a physical and emotional rollercoaster, and to hear that we were still doing it “wrong,” that my baby was apparently starving, was beyond distressing.

The doctor also seemed particularly bothered that he wasn’t sleeping well at night and that he was only in the 20th percentile for weight (even though he was in the 80th percentile for length and the 98th for head size).

Well, I want to see those the other babies in her practice, the ones who are apparently safely in the 50th percentile in everything, who apparently never scream when being prodded by incompetent medical assistants, and who apparently sleep through the night from birth. SHOW ME THOSE BABIES.

So, after having my fragile new mama soul adeptly crushed, we headed home with our scrawny baby, who now had Band-Aids on his spindly little famine legs from the two-month vaccinations. I spent the next twelve hours cuddling with him in his post-vaccine stupor, feeling like the worst mom on earth.

Throughout the next day, my anxiety held steady, a persistent buzz in the background. I fretfully watched the clock whenever Julian nursed, feeling a twinge of despair when he failed to eat for at least 15 minutes, which was the benchmark the doctor had mentioned.

And then, in the middle of the second night following the doctor’s visit, Julian stopped eating altogether. Cold turkey. Nada. Around 2 AM he stirred as usual, and I rolled over like a sleepy sow to let him eat, like always. But he didn’t eat. In fact, he started screaming bloody murder when I tried to get him to latch on, and it took a warm bath to calm him down. Somehow I managed to get back to sleep, lulling myself into believing that all would be well in the morning.

But it wasn’t. When we woke up, Julian was still refusing to eat.

It may sound ridiculous, but this seemed like an EMERGENCY. I was already obsessing about my baby’s finicky eating habits, worried that he was slowly wasting away, so when he’d refused to eat for about 12 hours, I panicked.

I would have probably gone into full meltdown mode at that point, but my mom managed to calm me down over the phone, assuring me that death was not imminent. I half-believed her, enough to make a successful call to the advice nurse, who suggested we try feeding him breast milk from a cup (we weren’t yet using bottles).

So, armed with this goal, this salvific task, I marched to the bathroom and began to seriously pump for the first time. After about 15 minutes, I had managed to fill two bottles with rich, frothy milk – liquid gold, it’s called, and in that moment I so believed it. Those two bottles were precious boons, brimming with an elixir that would coax my son back into functional babydom.

And then, as I was trying to detach the bottles from the pump apparatus, I spilled that liquid gold, all of it, all over the bathroom floor. Most of it was sucked right up by the bright blue bathmat, forming a large, demoralizing wet spot, and for a mad instant I actually considered wringing the milk from the mat. Then it hit me that there was nothing to salvage, every drop was wasted, my baby was going to starve to death, and I would have to kill myself.

THAT is when I lost it. We’re talking full-scale meltdown here. I collapsed on the bathmat in frenzied sobs, cradling it like a beloved corpse. I went all out. I made Scarlett O’Hara look like Mr. Spock. I pounded my fists against the floor, threw my head back, probably even choked out a few “Why, God? Why????” entreaties.

Even in the midst of my hysterics, it did not escape me that I was literally crying over spilt milk. That just made the whole thing seem even more tragic.

About an hour later, after I’d completely wrung myself out, Julian started eating again. Just like that, the switch flipped back on. Turns out that “loss of appetite” is a side effect of the DTaP vaccine. (THANK YOU, INTERNET.) Which no one thought to mention to us. After a long conversation involving my baby’s eating habits, no one thought to say, “Oh, yeah, and by the way, your baby might randomly STOP EATING FOR AN ENTIRE DAY.”

I came through this whole ordeal with a few nuggets of wisdom.

1) Don’t expect your pediatrician to make you feel normal. S/he is trained to see the abnormal.

2) Your doctor’s tendency to pathologize is like a hungry bear that hangs out at campgrounds and is now accustomed to humans. DO NOT FEED IT.

3) Don’t obsess about the numbers.

4) Don’t look at the clock.

Julian still snacks during the day — if anything, he’s an even more distracted eater now — and then gorges himself on half-hour-long feasts throughout the night. It’s not “normal.” That’s just what he does.

His cheeks have now grown so much that sometimes it looks like his face is melting. But he’ll probably never have forearm rolls. I’ve given up on that dream. Unless his eating habits stay consistent and he goes on serious night binges as an adult, in which case he’ll probably have all kinds of rolls. And I’ll love him anyway.

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Face melting.

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Round Trip Tickets to Hell?

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Next week is Spring Break, and Michael and I were planning to fly cross-country with our infant — ostensibly so I could present a paper at a conference, but mainly so we could go play with my adorable nephews, who live in DC.

This seemed like a perfect plan back when I bought the plane tickets in January; I was still safely ensconced in the cocoon of maternity leave, cushioned from the grind of working fulltime, and March seemed impossibly far away. Julian would be over three months old then, I thought; my God, that’s practically an adolescent. He would be a totally different baby. He would have bloomed into one of those measured and self-reliant infants (those exist, right?) who nap regularly for, I don’t know, three hours or so at a time, who entertain themselves contentedly on a playmat for long stretches, smiling at Mama and Daddy as they pass through the room in the midst of their domestic productivity. (Clothes? Washed! Dishes? Washed! Body? Washed! Breakfast? Eaten! House? Pristine!)

And OF COURSE we would, by that advanced infant age, SURELY have attained the ultimate holy grail of parenting: a baby who sleeps through the night.

Or so went my thought train of self-deception, back in January.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, March has arrived, and now I realize that I was completely off my tits in Delusion Land. (It’s sort of like Candy Land, but instead of gumdrops, there are just endless little squares of disappointment.)

Today, I canceled our airline reservations. And here’s why. It’s all because of my imagination. My overactive, take-no-prisoners imagination, which convinced me that flying cross-country with a three month-old, or at least with MY three month-old would look something like this….

[Cue dream sequence music.]

We leave for the airport at 4:30 AM, which isn’t really a big deal, since I am pretty much always awake at that hour, because, yes, our baby does NOT sleep through the night. Not even close. In fact, he has embraced a radical, subversive baby lifestyle known as reverse cycling, where he actually eats MORE frequently at night than he does during the day. Every night is like cuddling up to an open bar for him, a bar that never closes and sleepily rolls over to feed him anytime he makes a squawk, which he does about every two to three hours, all night long.

They say babies with working moms can fall into this nighttime guzzling habit, but my baby must come by it naturally, because he started doing it before I actually went back to work. No doubt he’ll grow into one of those hungry night owl adults, the ones who shuffle to the fridge at 2 AM, half-asleep, and eat all the leftover pizza.

But I digress. Back to my airplane scenario. So we get to the airport, and I’m feeling confident and brave, like one of those spandex moms I see running past my house with tight butts and nice jogging strollers – those moms who just exude an air of why yes, I have my shit together! Smiley face. I feel like one of those moms upon arriving at the airport, because my baby has slept peacefully in the car and is now gurgling happily in the Ergo, because we’re one of those weird attachment parenting couples who don’t actually use a stroller.

And right around the time we’re about halfway through that long morning-flight security line, baby derails. He starts fussing, refusing to be in the Ergo any longer, so Michael pulls him out, and we notice his diaper is soaked, but we’re about to go through security, so we just hold the pee-drenched baby and wrestle our belongings through the checkpoint, glancing anxiously at the clock because everything is taking way longer that we thought it would.

We get through, and I rush to the bathroom to change him (and it has to be me, because there are never any diaper changing stations in the men’s restroom, as if men lack opposable thumbs or something), but of course there’s ANOTHER long line, so by the time I’ve changed him — and he is screaming now, because he needs another nap — we’ve missed the special people-with-young-families boarding time, so we end up getting seats right by the toilets, where there will be an endless stream of cranky people who need to pee (or worse) cycling noisily through during the entire flight.

And even though we try to get a row of seats to ourselves, the flight is full, so we have a hapless stranger with us, so close our elbows touch — a scowling man who has never had children and who, in fact, was mistreated by a baby once and now despises them beyond reason and thinks there should be laws against bringing those fleshy sacks of poop and screams on airplanes. He does not say any of this, but I can read it in his hardened eyes. He hates us. (Or, if we don’t get this guy, we might get one of those awful racist drunk people who ACTUALLY SLAP BABIES ON PLANES, because those people do exist.)

Julian will begin crying as the plane takes off because he’s overtired, hungry, and afraid the plane is going to crash (infants have a sense of their own mortality by three months, right?). I try to fix the hungry part by whipping out a boob in front of what is basically a flying metal tube packed with a hundred strangers, but Julian is too hysterical to eat. This happens when the tiredness and hunger coincide, and I can usually only break the feedback loop by standing up, taking my shirt off entirely, holding him sideways across my body, and swinging him side to side while nursing him at the same time. As you can imagine, this is a difficult maneuver to do on an airplane.

And of course there is turbulence. Of course the fasten seat belt sign stays permanently lit. Of course there is an adolescent boy sitting across the aisle from us whose father glares threats at me every time I try to breastfeed my screaming baby, as if I’m doing some sort of strip tease, because many people still can’t handle that fact that breasts are not just “fun bags” for dudes; they exist to feed babies. Of course the plane starts to descend just as we’ve calmed Julian, who starts to scream again at the change in air pressure. And of course, as we land, it occurs to me that the journey is not even half over, because we have a layover, and then another long flight to take us the rest of the way across America, during which we will experience more screaming, more murderous glares, an epic diaper blowout or two, and, I don’t know, maybe the plane will crash.

I could go on, but you get the idea. This nightmarish scenario has been on repeat in my mind, driving me to ultimately pull the plug on the whole trip. But now I’m wondering if I just chickened out, if I let myself succumb too easily to New Mom Anxiety. I think about those spandex moms with the tight butts who run marathons and have their own successful at-home businesses. They would have stuck it out.

So, readers, tell me: is traveling with a young infant as nightmarish as I imagine? Anyone have any good stories to share? I welcome feedback from any parents out there, tight butts or otherwise.

The Witching Hour

Every night between 8 and 9 PM, my baby screams like an adolescent girl at a 1960s Beatles concert. Or like he’s being dipped in acid – but that’s sort of a grim image. You could actually set your watch to it; I have a remarkably punctual baby.

The other night, I was finishing up a diaper change when my mom called. As we chatted, Julian happily pedaled his legs and cooed, even smiling a few of his new, tentative smiles up at me – he likes being in the cushy elevated cradle of his changing table. I glanced at the clock (7:58) and told my mom that Julian’s “fussy time” (what a pleasant euphemism) was about to start. And then, right on cue, my baby went from doing contended little air aerobics to full on eyes-shut, head-thrown-back screaming. “Well, it’s beginning,” I said to my mom, and hung up.

The Witching Hour first appeared during Christmas week, when Julian was about three weeks old – I remember because we were staying at my parents’ house, and when the crying began right before bedtime, Michael and I mistakenly thought,  “Hmmm, there must be a reason for this sudden show of angry despair.” So we flipped through our Rolodex of potential causes: clean diaper? Check. Fully fed? Check. Burped? Check. Cold? Nope. Overheated? Nope. Did I eat anything weird? Nope. Stigmata? Uh, no. And so on. We eventually concluded, “it must be gas,” because newborn crying has this grunty edge to it, and we even bought some drops to pop the (nonexistent) air bubbles in his tummy.

Now, however, as a seasoned parent of seven weeks, I can say with authority that when my son cries like this, there is no bloody reason for it. And that’s mostly true. My current working hypothesis is that Julian gets overstimulated and tired right before bedtime, and his growing brain hasn’t quite figured out how to simply sleep when he is that tired – he must first loudly protest his discomfort and existential angst.

I think there is some truth to that, because there have been a couple of evenings where things were livelier than usual, with more noise, activity and interaction, etc., and the Witching Hour began earlier and was more intense on those nights. But there have also been peaceful, nap-filled days, and times when Julian has literally had a good nap right before the Witching Hour – and the screaming still happens. This is just, apparently, something Julian needs to do before he can settle into a good, night-long sleep (which he eventually does, almost every night).

Overall, I know that I have it pretty good, because that hour is pretty much the only time Julian reallycries, aside from the intermittent whiny fussing during the day to let us know he’s hungry, or tired, or working on a good poo. It’s like he’s saving it all for that ultimate evening explosion.

Plus, I’m lucky to have an amazing co-parent in Michael, and together we’ve developed a pretty solid routine in response to the Witching Hour. When Julian first goes off, Michael pops him in the moby wrap and carries him around until he stops crying and falls into a deep sleep. On easy nights, that’s all it takes, and we can just transfer him from the moby right into bed. Other times, Julian will wake up for an encore after being carried, and we’ll pull out the most powerful weapon in our arsenal: bath time.

We have one of those European-style bucket bathtubs for Julian – I wanted one after seeing a bunch of fat, naked, gurgling babies sitting in their little bucket Jacuzzis on television somewhere. Who can resist that level of cuteness? Not I. And then I lucked out and found a cheap one at a consignment shop. I had very high hopes for this bucket, after hearing about how babies are apparently supposed to love it, how it’s like being back in the womb, etc. And, sure enough, when Julian is in his little bucket tub, he is instantly soothed into his happiest, calmest self.

This bath thing almost always works – but it can’t be done too early in the Witching Hour, or he’ll just start up again once he’s out of the water. No matter how many times we’ve tried to circumvent the deluge with a preemptive bath or moby ride, the Witching Hour still arrives. Seems like we just have to wait and let the screaming spell begin, and then jump in to make it as short and painless as possible.

Most of the time, with these tactics, Michael and I breeze right through, no problem. The strange thing is, Julian doesn’t go from crying into a deep sleep. After we’ve successfully soothed him, he enters this mellow, pre-sleep state, where he just chills on the bed, eyes half-closed, and sucks his binky. He does this sometimes for as long as two hours before he finally conks out for good. I’m a little mystified by this behavior, but he seems completely content as long as I keep his binky in place (can’t wait until he figures out how to do that himself!), so I usually take advantage of that time to accomplish amazing feats like doing yet another load of laundry or emptying the dishwasher or watching British crime drama on Netflix. Then, by the time I’m ready to sleep, he usually is, too.

There have been a couple of nights, though, where things have not gone so smoothly – the nights when I’ve had to weather the Witching Hour solo. The first time was when Michael became suddenly and violently ill with the stomach flu right around New Years Eve. This same bug had been leveling my visiting extended family like Dominos, so my heart sank when Michael came into the bedroom around five in the evening to say, casually, “Just so you know, I’m feeling pretty nauseous right now.” And then, not long after that, I could hear him through the bedroom ceiling in the upstairs bathroom, retching. (Happy New Year!)

When Michael vomits it sounds horrific, like someone is stabbing him repeatedly in the gut. Even though I knew he was just throwing up, the violence of it made my skin crawl, and I began to feel a little desperate, sitting alone with the baby, darkness already fallen outside, figuring I had only a short time before I’d be ill, too.

But, amazingly, I didn’t get sick that night, or the next.  I pretty much hid in the bedroom with Julian, only venturing out like a frightened animal to get bits of food here and there (I actually didn’t eat much, because I kept imagining what it would be like coming back up, so sure I’d get sick any minute). The whole house suddenly felt hostile, like any errant brush against the wrong doorknob would infect me, and I felt desperate to stay healthy to avoid getting my newborn exposed. (And to avoid trying to breastfeed in the midst of puking my guts out.)

Well, I never got sick, and neither did Julian, but Michael had it bad, so for about 72 hours I was completely on my own with a four week-old baby who had just begun having these mysterious nightly screaming rituals. I did pretty well – the days were actually seamless – but toward the end of that third day, when the sun was gone and with it my optimism and stamina, I found myself unable to cope when Julian started his fit. I was exhausted, alone, underfed, and after several days completely on my own, whatever emotional well it is that parents draw from to weather the Witching Hour – it was dry. Maybe it was ten minutes, maybe it was an hour (time flows differently when your baby is screaming), but after he’d been crying for awhile – hard, purple-faced crying – and none of my desperate attempts to soothe him were working, I had to just lay him on the bed and leave the room.

When he cries like that, sirens go off in my head. This isn’t just an emotional response; it’s absolutely physiological. Some alarm goes off in my brain, and I instantly feel a surge of adrenaline, a sense that this is an emergency and I must do everything in my power to make it stop. That night, when I couldn’t quell him, when the sirens in my head just kept shrieking and shrieking, I had what I can only describe as a panic attack, but rather than panic, I was incapacitated with frustration. I had a frustration attack. I left my baby on the bed, slammed the bedroom door behind me, and went into the living room, where I proceeded to punch the couch repeatedly and make strange animal noises. Then, like Julian, I just had to cry for a bit.

Obviously, this was not my finest parenting moment. I’m embarrassed about it even as I write this, even though I can still remember vividly the hot, blinding force of that frustration tsunami. I’ve never experienced anything like it.  

This past Friday night, after a couple of smooth weeks, I was afraid I was going to have another “attack.” The previous day Michael and I had been uber-productive; things had been going so well that we sort of hurled ourselves into the mirage of our former lives: I went for a run, cleaned the house, did some writing, and Michael went outside to do yard work after a long hiatus – until a wayward tree branch snapped back and hit him right in the eye, injuring his cornea. It took awhile for the severity of the injury to dawn on us, and by the next day his eye was red, swollen, oozing, and in excruciating pain. The first thing he did that morning was call the doctor and set off on a nightmarish, one-eyed trip to the urgent care clinic in Beaverton, about 40 minutes away.

As for me, I must have had two bad latches during the nighttime feeding sessions, because I had been up since about 4 AM with a nasty bout of vasospasm in troublesome ol’ Right Boob. The blood vessels in my breast were constricting in painful, sporadic spasms – basically, it felt like someone was stabbing my breast through the nipple with a red-hot ice pick. Also, as a sort of cherry on top, the nipple on that breast had erupted into a cluster of blisters.

So, we were both in a sorry state that morning. Luckily, I had some leftover Vicodin from my hospital stay, so I took one and then camped out in the rocking chair all morning while Julian took a three-hour nap on my belly. I didn’t eat until 2 PM that day.

When Michael came home, it was apparent that he was down for the count. Good news: the scratch on his cornea would heal quickly. Bad news: because of the exposed nerves on his eye, he would be in severe pain until it did. He did feel momentarily buoyed by his prescription pain meds – enough to make himself an “iPatch” – but once that wore off a bit, he was in bed holding ice against his eye, pretty much unable to move.

 

There we were, both in intense pain, but me the far more mobile one, so I knew that I would be riding out the Witching Hour alone, without much (any) physical or emotional energy tanked up. Michael, of course, prone to martyrdom, offered to carry him in the moby, but I knew he needed to rest.

The screaming began right on time, and after wrapping Julian to me, I began a bouncy, shushing walk through the house, turning down the lights and shutting the curtains. At first he seemed to be quieting down, and my heart surged with the hope that it would be an easy night, because I was so tired and hungry and hurting, but that brief pause in his crying only enabled him to gather his energies for an even greater eruption.

And then I began to feel it – sirens blaring in my brain, a mounting wave of desperation, building and cresting. Here it comes, I thought. I’m going to lose it again. My lips were resting against his damp head, sweaty from the force of his crying – and I glanced down to see that he was clutching at my shirt with his tiny fists, pulling himself even tighter against me.

When I saw this, the frustration ebbed a bit; I felt a rush of empathy, and with it the realization that my baby wasn’t screaming at me. He wasn’t screaming because he hates me or because he thinks I’m a shitty mother – he was screaming because he’s upset, because it’s just hard being a baby with a sensitive, developing neurological system. And, even though it didn’t feel like it, my presence was comforting him. He needed to be able to scream in my arms, against my chest, against the thump of my heart, my warm breath on his skin. Clearly I couldn’t immediately fix whatever was making him so upset – but I could be there with him, in the midst of it. And that’s perhaps what he needed most: to know that I was there.

So I held him as he squirmed and cried against me, clinging to my shirt with his little hands, while all that frustration just sort of melted into a deep tenderness. And I began, in that moment, to completely believe what I was whispering to him.

You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.