Farts, Poops, Burps, and Boogers

Every morning, I know my 4 month old son is awake when I hear a gentle rustling in his bed, followed by a giant fart. 

He’s so cute, I whisper to my husband, who surely thinks I’m crazy since I have spent my entire time knowing him recoiling in disgust from his gas. 

Seriously…motherhood has turned me into this entirely different person who now embraces bodily waste.  I’m a person who gets excited when I see my son’s face scrunch up, followed by some purposeful grunts and then a loud explosion in his diaper.  Yay!  Good job, Buddy!  Let me see what color it is. 

When he finishes eating, my husband and I eagerly await a burp to signal all is well.  When it finally comes, we’re full of praise.  Great job!  That was a big one! 

I have the delightful job of picking boogers out of the baby’s nose, and it has never grossed me out.  There must be something biological that gives us this ability to do gross things with nothing but love in our hearts and smiles on our faces.  If my husband asked me to pick his boogers, I would tell him to take a hike!  But the baby…no problem!  We can pick them all day!

But really, when did my life become about farts, poops, burps, and boogers?  Once upon a time I was sort of a primadonna.  A girly girl who liked to buy clothes and travel the world.  And now my resume includes interpreter of poop consistency and fart monitor.

And I love it.

Will my old self ever return, or am I gearing up for a lifetime of this?  I guess it will make my future stay in the senior home with Depends a lot easier?

Mom Poem

BEFORE I WAS A MOM

By, Anonymous

Before I was a Mom;
I made and ate hot meals,
I had unstained clothing,
I brushed my hair every day,
I had quiet conversations on the phone,
I slept as late as I wanted and I slept all night long.

Before I was a Mom;
I cleaned my house each day,
I never tripped over toys or forgot lullabies,
I didn’t worry whether or not my plants were poisonous,
I had never been puked on, pooped on, spit on, chewed on, peed on, or
pinched by tiny fingers.

Before I was a Mom;
I never thought about immunizations,
I never held a screaming child so the doctors could give shots,
I never looked into teary eyes and cried,
I never felt my heart break into pieces when I couldn’t stop the hurt,
I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin.

Before I was a Mom;
I never held a sleeping baby just because I didn’t want to put it down,
I never sat up late hours of the night watching a baby sleep,
I never got up in the middle of the night to make sure everything was okay,
I didn’t know how special it could feel to feed a hungry baby.

Before I was a Mom;
I had complete control of my mind, my thoughts and my body,
I didn’t know the feeling of having my heart outside of my body,
I didn’t know that having something so small could make me feel so
important,
I had never known the warmth, the joy, the love, the heartache,
the wonderment, or the satisfaction of being a mom.

Before I was a Mom;
I never knew that something so small could effect my life so much,
I never knew that I could love someone so much,
I never knew I would love being a Mom,
I didn’t know the bond between a Mother and her child,
I didn’t know I was capable of feeling so much.

Our Breastfeeding Story

I have been dreaming and scheming about motherhood since I was a little girl.  I used to have a closet full of Cabbage Patch Dolls that I would swaddle, feed, rock, and they were all named after somebody in my family.  And since I was a little girl, I always knew that I would breastfeed my future babies- after all, that’s how my mom and grandma did it!  I grew up in a house where my parents were honest with us children about our bodies.  I knew a lot of people who were ashamed to nurse in front of their husbands, let alone strangers.  Boobs were taboo to so many people I have known in the course of my life, but not in my house.  We grew up knowing boobs were for food.  So, I had no qualms making future milk-production plans for my girls. 

When my turn finally came up and everything was in place for me to begin my own family, I sailed through a perfect pregnancy.  Not a single problem.  I was seeing a midwife and preparing for my perfect homebirth- it was years of playing with dolls and dreaming finally coming true.  I was in love with each and every little kick and movement I felt from my baby, who I learned was a little boy.  My little boy.  I was over the moon.

And then my picture perfect story took a turn in a different direction.  At 29 weeks 4 days, my husband, stepson, and I went to the ER in the middle of the night because I had what I thought was a “stomach virus.”  Could it be H1N1, my husband frantically wondered. 

H1N1 would’ve been good news.  I soon discovered my water had broken.  The doctor and nurses puttered around, contemplating how they would stop my labor.  I don’t think they took my seriously when I angrily ignored their five thousand questions.  When I announced my urge to “go to the bathroom,” it was then that they really checked between the legs and knew it was really happening. 

I naturally delivered my son after less than fifteen minutes of pushing.  It had only been two hours since I left my house.  Everything happened so fast there was no time to process.  I watched as they whisked my baby away, and I was left alone in the delivery room, finally getting a moment to wrap my mind around everything that had happened.

“I need to see the lactation nurse,” I said immediately, before the doctor had even finished her business with me.  I hadn’t planned to deliver in this way, but I had planned to breastfeed. 

“We’ll page her,” a friendly nurse offered. 

And so I waited.  And waited.  And requested a few more times until they promised to send the lactation nurse to my postpartum recovery room. 

“Don’t I have a window of time to start pumping?”  I nagged. 

They assured me the lactation nurse would be with me shortly. 

I’ve always been a bit of a planner, which is why my preterm delivery is so ironic, proving to me that not all things in life can be planned.  In the course of my planning, I had done my own research on breastfeeding.  Also in a bit of irony, I had completed a rough draft of my “birth plan” a week before, and I had made note that I wanted immediate skin-to-skin with my newborn and to start breastfeeding immediately.  There was no newborn to be seen in my delivery room, so I needed to know right away how this was going to work.

An hour or two later, Pam came to my postpartum room with a pump kit.  Next to my bed was a yellow Medela Symphony hospital-grade pump, and she was going to show me how to use it.

My mom and husband were in the room, and I wasn’t used to baring my breasts for public display.  I also never planned to pump- at least not until I had to go back to work.  I had always envisioned my sweet baby at my breast, not a piece of cold, hard plastic.  The optimism I had during the delivery was beginning to waver as the reality of my situation and the crushing of my dreams began to sink in.  This was not what I planned. 

Pam showed me how to use the pump.  I did it, but nothing came out.  She encouraged me that it would come in with due time, and to keep pumping every three hours for at least fifteen minutes.  She warned me that it was a bit more challenging to get milk with a preterm delivery. 

So I pumped.  Every three hours around the clock.  Each time, nothing.  Dry as a bone.  Later that night, my dad and mom came to visit me.  My dad awkwardly looked at the pumping supplies and my empty bottles and couldn’t refrain from cracking a joke. 

“Is there anything in there?” he laughed.  Very funny, Dad. 

I pumped 8 times before I saw even a drop of colostrum.  I set my cell phone alarms for every three hours and diligently did it all night.  Pump, clean.  Pump, clean.  They had told be to bring any amount I could get out to the NICU, even a drop.  It’s liquid gold, they told me. 

Finally the gold came, just a few drops at first, and then each time slightly more and more.  I remember being so ecstatic to see that yes, there was something in my breasts.  I took a picture of the tiny Snappi bottle holding a few meager drops of my liquid gold and texted it to my parents and husband.  Then I rushed over to the NICU (as fast as I could postpartum) and proudly delivered the colostrum for my baby boy. 

My next point of excitement came as I stood next to my baby’s isolette.  I was standing there watching him, my hand placed delicately around his fragile 2 lbs 15 oz body, when for the first time I felt my shirt become wet.  It was the first time I realized I needed nursing pads.  My body had responded to the touch and scent of the baby.  I was amazed.

When I was discharged from the hospital two days later, my husband came to pick me up and all my belongings.  I remember feeling like the only loser on the planet to leave the hospital with balloons but no baby.  I sobbed the whole car ride home feeling like my heart was being ripped out as I left my baby behind.

It was especially depressing to come home to a quiet house without my baby inside of me like he should have been.  I felt incomplete and empty.  I had to pump around the clock, every three hours, falling into a tedious but necessary routine.  Since my son was in the NICU, sterilization was essential, so I washed my hands, pumped, sealed the bottles, labeled the bottles, cleaned the pump parts, put the pump parts in the Medela microwave sterilization bag, wiped the parts clean, and repeated it all over again three hours later.  I washed my hands so frequently they were cracking and bleeding.  Every morning, I delivered the bag of milk to the NICU, proud to give something to my baby.  It was one of the only things I could give to my baby. 

I was lucky enough to be a fixture by my son’s side for the next 51 days, and in that time we fostered our breastfeeding relationship.  Every morning I did skin-to-skin (kangaroo care) with my son, placing his tiny, naked body against my bare chest.  I would borrow my husband’s button-down shirts to make it easy to slip the baby in there.  My son loved this time together, but I probably loved it even more!  We were able to start doing it about a week after his birth, and it was the first time that I begun to feel like a real mom.  It became everything I lived for in that trying time of my life.

Around week two postpartum, with the guidance of the awesome lactation nurses in the NICU, we started to put my son to my breast and let him “explore.”  He didn’t really do anything besides lick, but he latched immediately and held a good one each time.  A few days later we added a silicone nipple shield and he began his non-nutritive sucking.  He drank a little bit each session (once a day), but not enough to consider “nutritive,” so they continued feeding him through the nose.  I wanted so desperately for him to breastfeed and not have to use the tube in the nose, but my little guy had other plans.  He had virtually no issues for most of his NICU stay, but he slowly accepted the nipple.  Once again I was reminded that I was not in full control of my plans. 

It wasn’t until he was around34 to 35-weeks gestational age that my son began breastfeeding.  We got a doctor’s order for once a day as he tolerated it.  After a week, we increased it to three feedings a day by breast.  I spent all morning and early afternoon with the baby, breastfeeding, changing his diaper, taking his temperature, and doing skin-to-skin with him.   I’d go home and try to catch up on life, but always went back to the hospital for his 9PM feed.  Breastfeeding was our time.  It was something only I could provide.  My son had the breast first before a bottle (bottles with fortification are routine in the NICU for preemies), and he would maintain a preference for the breast. 

By the time my sweet boy came home after being in the NICU for 53 days, I was ready to breastfeed him exclusively.  He left the NICU with orders to have at least two bottles of expressed breast milk with 22-calorie Neosure, which I did for about two days.  I found that he was spitting up a lot due to his reflux every time he had his bottle, so we ditched the bottles and went full force into exclusive breastfeeding.  Since weight gain was a concern, I took him the pediatrician within the week to check on his weight.  It was perfect.  I was such a paranoid mommy that I went back a few times after that too.  Since he was gaining weight, I was given the green light to continue not giving him the Neosure.

When my son reached his due date, we began slowly getting rid of the nipple shield.  I took it away more and more each time until we no longer used it.  I had to work on his latch (he had a shallow one after using the shield), but other than that we have experienced a happy, healthy breastfeeding relationship despite the circumstances of my son’s birth.

And in the end, I lost the birth I had planned for, but preserved the breastfeeding relationship I had always wanted.

Perfectionist Mommy

I’m a perfectionist.  This was cute and all while I was single and carefree, but being a perfectionist and a mom just Does Not Work. I find myself chasing my tail trying to get everything done exactly the way I envision they should be done.  Every night, I prepare a list of things “to do” and happily place it by my laptop, where I’ll have my breakfast in the morning.  I wake up full of eagerness to tackle the list.  Today I’m going to finish it all, I say to myself.  I’m always startled at the end of the day at all the things I wanted to do but never got around to…things like exercise, for example.  I never seem to get that done. 

My perfectionism has evolved as my priorities have changed.  In some ways you could say I’m more productive than others, and then I am reminded of the fact that I haven’t cooked a meal in over a week, and the toilet that needs scrubbing, and I find myself once again feeling like I’ve fallen short of my sky-high expectations.

Sometimes I wonder if my son E was put on this earth to crash all of my plans as a sort of medicine for someone who suffers from perfectionism.  I wonder if his thwarting of all my plans is a way to somehow teach me how to be more laid back in life.  E was born at 29 weeks 4 days, destroying my plans for my happy little homebirth and my perfectly planned maternity leave.  It was the first time I realized I was no longer the sole driver of my life direction; there was now a little baby taking the steering wheel away from me right before my very eyes! 

The other day we had a doctor’s appointment.  He was getting another weight check.  Mommy’s perfectionism wanted to make sure that all the breast milk he was getting was enough to plump him up.  Not wanting to look like a frazzled new mom, I diligently prepared ahead of time.

Change diaper, check.

Diaper bag packed, check.

Baby nursed right before we left the house, check.

So we get to the doctor’s office and everything seems to be going according to My Plans.  We have a short wait in the waiting room (LOVE my pediatrician).  A nurse comes out and leads us to an empty room, where I am instructed to undress E to get him on the scale.  So far so good.

I begin taking off his clothes. Then his diaper.  But that’s when the smoothness of the  trip stops.  E loaded his diaper with the biggest poop mess ever.  The nurse was waiting in the doorway impatiently, and I felt pressure to hurry up like Supermom.  Just as I think I’ve cleaned up the last of the orangey poop hiding in his leg rolls, E decides to practice his boy skills and pees all over the table, even hitting himself all over the face.  I of course didn’t have a whole lot of wipes on me (having just used them up on the poop mess) and was getting frantic at this point.  I managed to get poop on his blanket, drop the Snappi that held his diaper together (we cloth diaper), and at that point E was crying so much his apnea monitor was beeping like a fire alarm telling me his heart rate was high (as if I didn’t know!). 

I looked like amateur hour in front of the nurse. 

Eventually we pulled it together, but I felt like the clumsiest mother ever. 

The good news is that he did gain weight, even after pooping his brains out.  One less thing for Mommy to worry about.

Parenting Story

Sabrina is a spunky 4-year-old.  She recently joined her first soccer team.  I take her to practice at our local park every Monday.  Saturdays are game days. 

“Am I going to be a real soccer player?” she asked me one hot day on the way to practice, beaming with pride. 

“If that’s what you want,” I tell her, the memorized line I use whenever the kids ask a question about their future.  “You can be anything you want, as long as you work hard.”  I still remember how good it felt to be a kid with so many dreams, all of which seemed highly attainable.  Supermodel, doctor, president, whatever! 

Ever since Sabrina got her green team uniform, shin-guards, matching green socks, cleats, and her very own soccer bag, she considers herself among the ranks of David Beckham.  She even demands a certain hairstyle: two perfect, braided pigtails.

Sabrina may own the title of Most Cutest Kid on the soccer field, but her performance skills are still in the beginning, floundering stages of development.  Despite this fact, Sabrina is absolutely convinced that she is one of the team’s best players.

I like to watch Sabrina play soccer.  She loves to run and is a constant bundle of energy on the field.  However, she never quite kicks the ball in the right direction.  More often than not, she can be spotted twiddling her braids and running alongside other teammates, sometimes talking, sometimes smiling and waving to the crowd.  What she lacks in soccer skills she makes up in enthusiasm, which usually ensures her a spot playing in the games. 

The kids are given several water breaks.  When Sabrina approaches me for her drink, I hand her the cold water bottle and use the brief moment to slip her some advice about the importance of kicking the ball in the right direction.  She’ll smile, hand me the bottle, and scamper off back to the field, pretending I didn’t say anything.  You can’t give David Beckham advice! 

At our last game, a little boy elbowed Sabrina in the eye.  She started to cry.  Before I could get up, she was running off the field, leaving the game.  I tried to soothe her, wiping away her tears with my hands, but she cried inconsolably.  Sabrina is always the drama queen.

“Sabrina, don’t rub your eyes.”

“It hurts.”

“Rubbing your eyes makes it worse.”

 I could feel the stares of the other curious parents.  The sun was bright, and I remembered feeling uncomfortably warm, even under the umbrella.

“But it hurts.” 

She continued to rub.  I noticed the rubbing increased with more vigor, as if she wanted it to hurt.  I suspected she had no intentions of returning to the game.

“Don’t you want to go back and play?”

“No.” 

It was a very decisive no.  She settled herself more comfortably in my lap, not even paying attention to the game.  In that spilt second, she had gone from Know-It-All soccer player to the whimpering child sitting on the sideline. 

“Sabrina,” I began.  She ignored me.  “Sabrina?” 

“I don’t want to go back.  I want to sit.”  She kept rubbing her eyes, despite my attempts to move her hands away.

I felt myself grow angry.  I thought about how early we got ready that morning to make the game.  I also remembered everything we lugged to the field, or rather, I struggled to carry across the parking lot while simultaneously guiding the kids: beach umbrella, blanket, cooler, chairs, sunscreen, and my trusty bag of all the important miscellaneous necessities.  

As she sat there content, no longer crying, I tried to think of something that would entice her to rejoin the game.

“I thought you aren’t a quitter?”  I suddenly asked, remembering her competitiveness.  “I thought you never give up?  I thought you’re going to be a soccer player?” 

“I am going to be a soccer player.”  The rubbing stopped, and she seemed more interested in my words.

“Ok then.  You need to go back out there and help your team.  They need you.” 

She looked at me, pondering her options. 

“Sabrina, you need to go now.  You can help them win!” 

I thought for a second it wasn’t going to work.  She sat there staring at me, still contemplating her options. 

She finally stood up, slowly, pulling her shorts down a bit.  She stared at me with a half-smile, looking for more encouragement.

“You’ll do great!” I said, offering her what she wanted to hear.  I watched as she ran back to the field, her pigtails bouncing in the air. 

I heard the coach welcoming her back.  The coach told her to be goalie, and Sabrina was smiling again.  Proudly.  She blocked the next couple of balls, and I cheered for her from the sidelines. 

Sometimes I think it’s just a game, but she learns something new every day on that field.