Scratch, Ouch, Ouch Again, Bilirubin, Other Stuff

Sorry for the delay, I’ve been a little distracted.

Instead of going away after delivery, the PUPPP got worse. What was mostly a maddening itch on my belly and upper thighs during pregnancy has become a full-blown red blotchy rash on my stomach, legs, arms, back, and butt. The rash is spreading every day, and the constant scratching is driving me and everyone around me nuts.

Bright side? Pregnancy fingernails. Whoo ah! (scritch scratch scratch) I can dig at my flesh with fantastically strong nails.

Let’s see, what else. Ooh, yes. Childbirth hurts. Recovering from childbirth is also painful. Ibuprofen really doesn’t take the edge off like it should.

Nursing? Also hurts. The colostrum phase never hurt with Lumpyhead. He latched fine until my milk came in, then our problems started. Lumpyhead’s sister is a little more forceful with her latch, and “bleeding” and “scabs” are never words you want to utter when talking about nipples.

In his first week, Lumpyhead dealt with nursing a lot like a professional wine taster sets about judging wine. He would carefully sip, aerating the liquid and swishing it around his mouth. He might swallow some, but also do a good deal of spitting.

His sister’s approach to nursing is more like a frat boy doing a keg stand.

Football hold? Crossover hold? Whatever. I swear I could hold her upside down by the ankle in the general area of my chest and Little Achilles would still manage to latch on like a determined crocodile.

On Friday she started to look a little yellow. Lumpyhead was hospitalized for phototherapy, so we were anxious about jaundice with this baby. When she began sleeping more and seeming lethargic, we started her on formula and I started with the pump. Honestly, the breast pump was a lot gentler than her greedy little mouth.

On Saturday we began our daily trips to the pediatrician. Over the course of the weekend, we visited two different hospital labs for heelsticks and bilirubin counts. Monday’s count was lower, which is good, and the baby is now getting pumped milk instead of formula and won’t be going back to the doctor until her two-week checkup.

Bump’s mother is back in Florida and now my parents are in town. With all the grandparental attention, Lumpyhead is handling the arrival of his new sister with practiced nonchalance. He doesn’t seem to mind that she’s around, but he seems concerned when she cries (in more of a “make that infernal racket stop” kind of way rather than an “oh dear, what’s wrong with the baby” kind of way). He kissed her little head today, which was cute.

I still don’t know what I’m calling her.

Tin Roof! Rusted.

Alternate Title: Probably Not the Picture You Were Waiting For

I haven't named her yet.

After her birth, I planned to call Akutaq something else. I chose the nickname Akutaq for many reasons, full of meaning and symbolism, but some people had taken to calling her Shaq Attack. Which I think is pretty funny. The juxtaposition of a large athlete and a tiny Hapa baby? Well, that's pure poetry right there.

Before Akutaq was born, the leading candidate for her post-fetal name was Thrakkorzog. (And you thought Akutaq was difficult to spell.)

Thrakkorzog is a mucous-based life form from another dimension, bent on destroying the world. I think that sums up a baby's job description pretty accurately.

And you can sing this song:
Lumpyhead and Thrakkorzog (doo dah, doo dah)
Lumpyhead and Thrakkorzog (oh dee doo dah day)

So, there was:
1) Thrakkorzog
2) Zog (the short form)
3) or Susan (the diminutive form)

There was 4) Whitey, as suggested by Aunt Bob's Little Guy. Also 5) Lumpyhead 2.

Or 6) Shaq, since some people are going to call her that anyway.

Lumpyhead calls her 7) Hank.

I'm leaning towards Hank.

Akutaq has Arrived!

Posted by Bump

Akutaq—whose blog identity is subject to change at the discretion of the proprietor—was born today at 12:21 p.m., weighing 7 lbs. 8 oz. and measuring 19 ½ inches (some of which was conehead, of course). She and LHM are healthy and happy.

The birth actually went according to plan. We arrived at the hospital at about 7:45 a.m. for our 8:30 induction, started the pitocin almost simultaneously with the Group B Strep antibiotic just after 8:30 (we thought there would be a lag time before starting the pitocin, but there wasn’t). LHM got the epidural at 10:30, started pushing at 11:00, and the baby was out less than 90 minutes later. LHM actually had to wait a few minutes—not pushing during her contractions—because the OB had left the room for a few minutes and the baby decided she wasn’t waiting any longer.

Lumpyhead met his sister this afternoon. We’re surprised how much Akutaq resembles her brother as a newborn—we were expecting a different mix of facial features, but pretty much got Lumpyhead Redux, but with girly bits and without as lumpy a head. Unlike Lumpyhead’s delivery, there was no need for a vacuum extractor or episiotomy this time around.

LHM and baby Akutaq are doing well, although I’m sure you'll be regaled with photos and the gorier details in due course. In the meantime, thank you for all of your well-wishing and positive thoughts today—they seem to have paid off!

Hopes for Labor Day

As eager as I have been for today to arrive - and by “eager” I mean I’ve been waiting for this day since fricking May - I feel completely unprepared for the coming events.

While Bump and I put the final items into the hospital bag last night, I realized just how little thought I have given to labor and delivery.

I recognize that I have very little control over the process I’m about to experience. I don’t mean that the hospital and doctor won’t listen to me - just the opposite is true, I feel very empowered with regard to my medical care - I mean that this baby and my body will determine how the next few hours go. I’m just along for the ride.

My birth plan goes like this, in order of importance:
1) Have a healthy baby
2) Don’t die
3) Get an epidural, for the love of God

Actually, never mind that order of importance thing. Those three things are probably of equal importance.

I would like for Bump to avoid passing out. I think we can accomplish this if he doesn’t see any blood and no one mentions the word episiotomy.

My labor with Lumpyhead was relatively short, lasting about five hours from pitocin to delivery. I imagine I will get an IV upon arrival at the hospital this morning, and be started on antibiotics for Group B Strep. The doctor wants at least four hours of antibiotics before delivery, so I might not be started on the pitocin to induce labor for an hour or two. Real contractions will start, I’ll get an epidural, and the doctor will probably rupture my membranes. I’ll fully dilate, start pushing, and eventually receive a new wrist band for my efforts.

That’s what I’m expecting, but I won’t be surprised or concerned if things go differently. I would prefer to avoid a c-section, and effective pain management is important to me; but I won’t be disappointed if I need surgery and I’ll power through if there’s not time for an epidural. (The same way, for example, I would power through if our plane crashed in the Andes and I had to eat you to survive. Let’s really hope it doesn’t come to that now, shall we? By the way, you might want to put on a little more weight before our trip to Peru. I’m just sayin’.)

I want to see ten fingers, ten toes. (A round head and a right-sized bunghole would be a nice bonus.)

I’m anxious to meet her. I’m excited to see what she looks like and get to know her and figure out what to call her on the blog (Akutaq was an in-utero name only).

In a few hours, I’ll be done with this whole pregnancy thing. I’ll be sore and weary, sleepless at odd hours and exhausted during the day, elated by the presence of the new little person who has joined our family.

I'm Sure I'll Feel Like a Chump Until Tuesday

I could be done with this whole pregnancy thing by now. Instead I'm still fat and grumpy, sleepless at odd hours and exhausted during the day, scratching myself like a flea-ridden stray.

I could have been induced yesterday. When the doctor offered the 20th, we declined and stuck with the 23rd. Even though there's probably no difference at all between 37 and a half weeks gestation and 38 weeks, we thought yesterday might be a smidge early. (Chump) Perhaps more importantly, Bump had already booked his mom's flight, and she won't arrive until this afternoon. (Chump)

So I'm not in labor yet. I've been occasionally getting this weird little shooting pain "down there," which I assume is my cervix dilating some more. It's kind of like getting kicked in the crotch every so often. I suppose the pain could just be fetal movement, in which case I am just getting head-butted in the crotch.

In other news, we're going out to brunch with Aunt Bob and family this morning. I fear Lumpyhead might be reaching that stage where it's not a good idea to take him to restaurants, so we'll see how it goes. We went out with Bump's extended family last weekend, and while Lumpyhead didn't actually scream enough to disturb every other diner in the place, he spent the entire brunch on the verge of meltdown. I can't say I had a great time. Then again, at this stage of pregnancy, I'm never having a great time.

The point is probably moot anyway, as I imagine we won't be doing much dining out once the new baby arrives. Which could have been yesterday. But wasn't. Because I'm a chump.

Three Disgusting Things

1. All this scratching has brought me much closer to my moisturizers. I’ve been applying a great quantity of lotions and creams to deal with the itching. Nothing really helps, but I’m still a lotioning fool.

Recently I’ve become completely disgusted by lotion boogers. You know what I mean? Those little dried bits that form at the end of the pump? They sometimes constrict the flow of lotion, then come flying out with a particularly forceful pump or send the stream of lotion off in random directions. Lotion boogers may dangle there on the bottle, waiting to be released. Sometimes they sneak onto your dollop of lotion and you don’t notice them until you’ve rubbed all the normal lotion into your skin. Anyway, they’re grossing me out right now.

2. I don’t know why I’m saying this, other than to make the squeamish among you wince. You know what else is disgusting? Mucous plugs.

3. One of my new colleagues said that she preferred the final stages of pregnancy to parenting a newborn. She thought it was easier: you don’t have to guess what the baby needs (Is she hungry? Tired? Does she need to be changed? Does she have gas?) because in utero, the child is always safe and perfectly tended. The woman has a point, certainly. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the coming moments of desperate exhaustion, when those little newborn mewlings sound like horrific screams and you have no idea how to stop them. Maybe the second time around, those panicky feelings of “I don’t know what to do for you, Baby” combined with aching privates and sleep deprivation are easier to handle. But I doubt it.

So here’s the disgusting part - which is more annoying than nauseating: this colleague has four children aged 8 through 15, and is about the size of a matchstick. What. The. Fuck.

Baby Watch: No Baby Yet

I’m still pregnant.

Today was my last day in the office. I was going to tough it out until Monday, but I changed my mind. This means I won’t overlap with my replacement at all, but I’m suddenly fine with that. I think I’ve been slowly checking out over the past few days, and I’ve reached the point where I've stopped caring about the stuff that will happen while I'm out.

Which I think is a good thing.

The elevators were Members Only as I came into work today, and I happened to run into my boss as I was trudging up the stairs. He stammered some combination of “Why the hell are you still coming to work?” and “What the fuck are you doing walking up the stairs?” only he said it in a sweet Southern statesmanlike manner. He hustled me into the elevator and took me up the remaining floor, even though he was going down and it delayed the other Congressman in the elevator.

When I leave the office in the next few minutes, I’ll officially be on maternity leave. I just told my Chief of Staff that I would be checking my blackberry between contractions. He responded appropriately, which is to say: he laughed.

An MLK Day Post That’s Really Just an Excuse for Me to Complain

I did not go into labor this weekend, and I have mixed feelings about that.

First, I’m a little sad that Akutaq will not share a birthday with Dr. King. I realize even if your birthday is January 15 you might not always get the day off for your birthday, but it would be pretty awesome to have a three-day weekend around your special day.

Second, I remain pregnant, which sucks the big fat one on the suckage scale. Thanks to PUPP (or PUPPP, or PUPPPP . . . honestly, I don’t care how many P’s it has. I don’t even care what it’s called, I just want it to go away), I’m scratching myself constantly; I sound like a rodent trapped behind a wall. I need a crane to help me roll over in bed, and in general I just feel sort of. . . off. I’m achy and sweaty and tired all the time. Oh, and I’m contracting every so often. Don’t panic, they’re not the real, active labor, can’t-talk-or-see kind of contraction. They’re just little contractions that make me pant a little, but they suck.

On the bright side, not going into labor this past weekend meant we didn’t have to scramble around to find someone to watch Lumpyhead. Bump’s mom arrives on Sunday, which will eliminate the need to track down Peter - or leave Lumpyhead on the curb in front of Sarah’s house - on our way to the hospital. Plus, Aunt Bob was out of town last weekend, meaning the non-fainting half of my delivery room support team would have unavailable in the event of an MLK delivery.

Even though I’m 2-3 cm dilated and 90 percent effaced, and the doctor claims I could go into labor “any minute,” I think we’ll make it to the scheduled induction on the 23rd (cue ominous music or sarcastic laughter).

Finally, would it kill the NFL to align the schedule to have Superbowl Sunday fall on MLK weekend? I mean, really? Doesn’t it make sense to have a big Sunday night event fall on a weekend when many of us have Monday off?* To use the parlance of the new Speaker of the House: Think of the children. Do it for the children.


*I don’t mean to intrude on a holiday for a great man, but jeez, I get Columbus Day off. Certainly the economic machine that is the Superbowl ranks up there with fricken Christopher Columbus.

And I hate to admit it, but just like I do on Veterans’ Day and Memorial Day, on MLK Day I scan the newspaper for events I could attend in recognition of the holiday, then settle back into what becomes Generic Lazy Sunday, Take 2.

Holiday Card Follow Up

(The Holiday Card post)

I'm totally floored that there are people out there who aren't interested in seeing the grownups and would rather get pictures of just the babies. Holy cow! My mind, it has been blown.

I guess it makes sense. I assume everyone out there sends out the type of holiday card they like to receive (Right? I mean, otherwise you're just a jerk). It's logical that the people who send out those three-page Jesus-heavy letters like to get them, too. (I mean for real, not just for the entertainment factor like some people)

I hereby issue this decree: you don't have to send a picture of yourself in your holiday card if you're not interested in seeing the other grownups. I can develop a two-tier system in which some people on my list get a (much easier for me, much cuter) picture of just Lumpyhead - oops, and his sister, next year - and the others will get a picture of the whole family (in front of the Capitol Christmas tree as has become our custom, so it will probably be mailed late; and at least half of us will look stupid, because that's just the way it is).

More importantly, I'm vowing to make good on Bump's response to Violet's comment and send a few holiday cards to people we don't know. I thought about doing the ransom demand format - just a photo card and no note - but I think I'll do the whole package: letter, picture, our real return address . . . everything. Everything my Aunt Karen gets, random stranger will get.

So here's where I need your help: send me some random strangers. Email me (lumpyheadsmom at gmail dot com) the name and snail mail address of someone you know (and who doesn't know us, obviously) who deserves and appreciates a good prank, and we'll send them a holiday card next year. I'll leave it up to you to let them in on the joke after they get the card, but if you're like me, you will have completely forgotten about this by next Christmas. And I think it's much better to leave them wondering anyway.

For No Other Reason Than It Cracks Me Up

Here's Lumpyhead in his peacoat and hat.

The coat is a little too big for him, but the newsie hat always makes me laugh. The earflap/chinstrap lifts Lumpyhead's cheeks and makes them look plumper. Bump calls it The Wonderbra.