New Moms

Six Days In^R6

Liesl Jurock

I'm trying to do up the buttons on this white knit snuggly for my six-day-old son, Lucas. The fire alarm in our building is blaring, his little face is scrunched up and red as he screams, and I cannot seem to pull the clear plastic button through the knit hole. My hubby, Kevin, is on the floor trying to coax our cats out from under our bed into their carriers. I finally get one button through and bite my lip to withhold my coming tears as I see there are seventeen more to go.

Lindsay, our midwife, gently touches my shoulder. "Do you want some help?" I stand back, hands shaking, and nod furiously without making eye contact. She scoops Lucas up and rocks him in this figure-eight motion, humming him quiet. I watch, stunned, as he gurgles away while she lays him back down and expertly buttons him up.

"Okay," she says firmly. "You get a bottle, formula and some diapers together in case this takes a while." I jump up, relieved to be told what to do and wish, not for the first time, that she would not be leaving after his checkup. I throw everything into our fancy diaper bag that won't zip up. Lindsay places Lucas into his stroller because I can't manage to bend with my fresh C-section scars. We all shove through the front door into the apartment hallway, and just as Kevin goes to lock the door, the fire alarm stops.

I want to fill the silence with my own screams. Does every single thing about having this baby have to be difficult? The colorful images I had of a home birth, nursing easily, dressing him in babyGap, and going for walks in our designer stroller have each been replaced with gritty black-and-white depictions of my failure. And any time I take a moment to think, it all washes over me. So, I keep going, keep trying to figure it out, to get something right.

As Kevin schleps our stuff back inside, Lindsay hands me Lucas. I sit back onto the couch and let him lie in the space between my breasts. I breathe in his scent—I feel like I've known it forever—and rub his back methodically. She is watching me, probably checking that we've bonded after I refused to see him on my hospital bed after the C-section. She needn't worry.

"So, how much sleep are you guys getting?" she broaches when Kevin joins us.

"Oh, you know how it is," he says. I kick him so he does not reveal that we are taking turns watching guard over Lucas because he won't sleep on his back. He'll only sleep on his tummy (risking SIDS) or on our chests.

When Kevin's parents arrive, the midwife demands that we ask them for help. I know she is right, but I hate having to ask. I manage to sputter, "Can you please watch him while we sleep?" And they are eager to do so.

I can't sleep, though. My mind races every time I lay down—back to being in labor and being hooked up to so many machines I could not move, by my "failure to progress" and resulting C-section. I hear Lucas cry outside my bedroom, and every inch of me wants to go to him, but I resist, mostly because I don't have the energy to make small talk. Eventually, I drift off and catch an hour and a half of sleep before they wake me.

He is hungry. But instead of feeding him, I go into the kitchen, slide the door shut (wishing there was a lock), and pull out the industrial-size breast pump we've rented. I meticulously dry each bottle and suction cup as I review the diagram in the manual again, take a deep breath, and start the process.

A month ago, I told my pro-breastfeeding friends that I would try, although formula was fine with me, too. Six days in, after nursing Lucas easily for two days, I'm now desperate for my real milk to come in. The nurse's voice from the hospital still rings in my mind. "Your baby is hungry, and you don't have any milk." I'm taking blessed thistle and fenugreek herbs like my life depends on it and pumping every three hours, praying each time for a few more drops.

When I am done, I go into the living room with a bottle full of formula topped with Mommy-milk and hand it over to Kevin's mom. Lucas is pecking at her, and she is excited to be able to help. I watch his little mouth chug the bottle, and his eyes fill with this drugged look of relief. I have to turn away.

I wait until they are gone before I allow myself to cry. I take Kevin's place in bed and finally let tears stream down my face. I know my hormones are inducing more than my fair share of sadness, but this knowing does not help. I am crying in a way that I never have before. Sobs reverberate throughout my body, hurting me from the inside out. After more than an hour, with Kevin trying everything from leaving me alone to hugging me to showing me Lucas' little toes, he gets worried and calls my mom to come over. I would not normally want to see her in this state, but I don't argue with him.

She starts to cry when she sees me bawling, reaches in her purse and pulls out tissues for both of us. I can barely talk but manage to hiccup, "I-thought-I-could-do-it-but-I-can't." She tells me she knows how hard it is, that I have been so strong, and that it will be okay. And maybe because she's my mom, I believe her. Or maybe it's because I know she knows—she's been through two C-sections, as revealed by the scars on her abdomen. Or maybe it's because I know I have no other choice. She holds me, and I cry and cry. Though I am drained, I feel renewed.

That night, I sleep four hours, the longest stretch of sleep I've had since the night I went into labor. At 3:00 a.m., I pump again, and a whole ounce is produced. During my shift of watching Lucas, I start writing about his birth and these first few days. I cannot stop. And in the morning, when I wake, my milk has come in. Kevin and I laugh in relief—our first laughter in days. When he pulls me into a hug, I feel my breasts are sure to burst.

We set up my nursing pillow on our rocking chair, and I scoop Lucas up into my arms. I open my robe and worry he will have forgotten how to latch on, but he hasn't. He drinks and drinks away, and his eyes fill with satisfaction. My eyes fill with tears, but the sadness is gone. As he drains my milk, I feel myself filling with something new—hope that we will get through this.

(1217 words)