Survival of the Kick-est

When the little guy suckles, his eyes are screwed shut in fierce determination. He issues guttural little croaks and the occasional squeek. His fists are clenched, insistently pushing against my breast, or waving around as if to ward away prospective competitors.

You'd think he was born along with several other litter-mates. What do you think I am, little guy? A sow?

Funniest of all, his knees and feet push against my tummy, just like when he was in utero. And if my stomach wasn't in his immediate radius, well, the poor naked air would take the brunt of his ferocious drop-kicks. Aren't I lucky my nose and jaw aren't at torso level?

I remember when Woog was nursing. Such a serene fellow he was. He'd feast leisurely at my breast while staring up into my eyes, drinking deeply from the sight of me that I'd fall in love with him all over again at every feeding. Most times, he'd smile up at me from around my nipple - a most bewitching sight to behold that I wouldn't mind him dribbling rivulets of milk down his chin and my chest.

And Eli. My fierce little fighter. The way he suckles, you'd think he was trying to vacuum the whole breast into his tiny mouth. And I always get a laugh trying to catch hold of his little sausage arms and legs.

Are you punching and kicking your way into the rat race, my friend? I hope not. I pray your world stays as peaceful, as beautiful, and as uncomplicated for as long as I can possibly make it.

July 2006

Post Birth Pessimism

I am swimming in a sea of disorientation. Apart from the lack of sleep, I am in a constant state of hunger. I am striving to take care of an adamantly needy Woog, feed a voracious baby, and try to keep the room and bathroom reasonably clean.

Partly, I am in a state of disbelief that Eli turned out so dark and “Atchbund-y”. After four years of getting used to fair-skinned and comely Woog, I naturally expected the next one to be another Mommy-clone. Instead I am finding myself in very upclose and personal circumstances with a changeling (Atch forgive me). I am in denial. Oh the guilt this feeling spawns!

But he is so fat and juicy and deliciously bite-able. I can spew all that mush about my heart being so surprisingly accommodating. But I won't. I'm still so tired. And hungry. And sleepy.

Woog has suddenly become a giant. I hold this stoutly compact bundle that is Eli, and then I look at my older son, with his suddenly huge feet, his hard scabby knees, large awkward fingers, the flare of his booger-filled nostrils – and suddently I am overcome with a mild case of ... distaste? A mild case. But still. Oh the guilt!

Atch is still in full fix-it mode. He repairs the breastpump, assembles the crib, fixes the baby monitor. In between, he washes the car and supervises the fixing of nice gingery batches of hot shellfish soup to encourage my breastmilk. He even nails my broken bakya together. Yet I find myself outraged by his constant absence from my side. Like I want a vigil. And my every wish granted. Now. At this very moment. I am constantly cranky towards this lovely man who has done everthing within his means possible to make me comfortable.

Oh the guilt!

And I worry that I'll be a fit enough mother. One child, yes. But two? The feeling persists, inspired by the confluence of sleep deprivation, my bloated post-natal belly, and my stinging cracked nipples.

I hold Eli and I wonder if I should be feeling more ... maternal? Oh, but I am so tired, and hungry, and sleepy. And the room needs dusting, and there are baby clothes to launder, and the toilet bowl wants a good scrubbing, and Woog has homework to get done...

I have never felt so overwhelmed.

July 2006

Mr. Fix-it

My bare-chested Atch was wading through the coiling mess of innards that used to be my electric breast pump. His sweaty grin floated up from the haze of his soldering gun. “Its a fix-it day,” he remarked.

Indeed it was.

As an attestation of our ill-prepared journey into the life of second child-dom, we unearthed the basinette, the breast pump, the baby monitor, ad nauseum ... just days before Eli arrived, only to discover that four years of storage was enough to attract some electrical “ghosts in the machines”. As a consequence, Atch spent a large chunk of his 7-day paternity leave hunched over repairing one item or another, and in general being missed by the post-partum members of his family.

Woog alternated between neediness and puffed-up possessiveness. “I have a new baby brother,” I'd hear him proudly tell the neighbors, just before coming inside and crowding in with Eli during a refill at the Mommy pump.

Thankfully, Atch was there in between repairs to distract and regale, while I floated in and out of disorientation, trying to adjust to the new member of our family.

What a waste of Atchbund time, I thought rather ungratefully. I wanted to be cuddled and waited upon. I wanted an affirmation of his undying love in the face of my newly wrung-out body. I wanted someone to pick up the mess slowly accumulating around Eli and me in our once spic-and-span bedroom. I wanted Atch to stay still for one second so I could take his picture carrying the baby. Hell, I was as needy as Woog.

I dreaded the day he went back to work, to leave me forlorn and feeling abandoned, dreading the thought of being left with two children both under the age of five.

Still, I was thankful for all the mealtimes I was able to eat downstairs with the family, the newly repaired baby monitor beside me humming with Eli's steady breathing. Still, I was glad for the luminous glow of the lamp light during night-time feedings. Still, I sighed in relief as the freshly assembled breast pump gave me respite from full to bursting milk ducts.

Grudgingly acknowledged, Mr. Fix-it saves the day.

July 2006

Little Yella Critter

We had to leave Eli at the hospital. Jaundice they called it. AB-O Incompatiblity they concluded, and their Photolight Theraphy the only cure.

Whatever happened to good old plain sunlight? It worked in my day. When I was a kid they didn't have any of that high-tech mish-mash that was supposed to be good for you, for whatever high-tech ailment you were supposed to have. In my day, mothers held babies up to the first morning light and loaded the kids with a good dose of Scott's Emulsion. The doctor kept away for damn sure.

I am venting my spleen here. And sorely missing my son. It doesn't help that the Newborn Screening results...yes, they have that now...found Eli positive for G6PD Deficiency. We didn't have that in my day either. Now, they tell me Eli can't have any soy or soy products, all sorts of legumes, certain medications, red wine(!), ad nauseum... or he'll end up with hemolytic anemia. (Oh, please... he hasn't even started on breastmilk yet and I'm supposed to be worrying about his impending solid food intake?)

And among other things, if he, by some fortuitious event, partook of any of the above-mentioned prohibited victuals, Eli would be the unlucky recipient of headaches, nausea, palpitation, seizures. I read the photocopy-generated symptom sheet and nearly had a seizure myself.

I read up as much as I could over the internet, and found G6PD deficiency is an inherited enzyme malfunction affecting nearly 400 million people worldwide (egads! We are not alone.)

Carrying the hefty moniker glucose-6-phosphate dehydrogenase, it is one of the many enymes that help the body process carbohydrates, turning them into energy. It also protects red blood cells during the onset of infections (does this mean my son will grow to be a listless little boy with no immune system whatsoever?). Without sufficient G6PD to protect red blood cells, they become damaged or destroyed, and hemolytic anemia occurs when the bone marrow cannot compensate for this destruction by manufacturing more red blood cells.

Certain triggers of such as fava beans, napthalene balls, and some malarial medications ending in 'quine' can cause paleness (hard to tell if I have a dark-skinned kid), extreme tiredness, rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, jaundice, enlarged spleen and tea-colored urine. On the plus side, once these triggers are removed, the symptoms disappear within a few weeks as new red blood cells are formed.

Can't I have a kid without complicated health issues? Like Atch and myself, Woog has asthma. And now here comes Eli wth a deficiency of his glucose-6-whatchamacallus.

*Sigh* The hospital nursery called and told me he'd been crying his head off. Perhaps I could try to breastfeed him? So we visited Eli during his confinement. I met my son at the Breastfeeding Room and I held him close to me, examining in minute detail the cradle cap on his eyebrows, his pimple-like milia, his potato nose...everything that wasn't bundled up in swaddle cloth. Mr. Hideous himself.

He didn't look yellow to me. Why were they making sure I got so damn worried? My son is normal. Heaps of kids didn't get newborn-screened (this inhuman pricking of tender baby skin and the cruel drawing of baby blood from a screaming red-faced infant), or been diagnosed with G6PD Deficiency. They lived. At least they did in my day.

And Eli will live. The best life we can possibly give him. Just as thirty-eight years ago, my parents-in-law refused to give up on Atch when he was a Coke bottle-sized seven-month preemie, just as we refused to let Woog's asthma get in the way of his extremely active lifestyle...Eli will thrive. I'll make sure of it.

July 2006