Oh cheese curds, how I miss you! Your squeakiness, your saltiness, your squirt-in-my-mouth-when-I-take-a-bite-greasiness! It can be such a tease living in America’s Dairyland when your little one struggles with a milk protein allergy. This is round two of no cheese curds for me.
It just so happened that I was in the midst of my Lactation Counselor Training (over five years ago now!) when I first noticed trace amounts of blood in my first born’s stool. Willow was about two months old at the time, and I was totally freaked out. As I had suspected— thanks to my training– she was eventually diagnosed with proctocolitis or a milk protein allergy. Now, my three-month-old George and I are working through his allergy.
I’d like to share with you what I’ve learned about going dairy free for 13 months and counting due to an exclusively breastfed baby’s milk protein allergy.
“…[D]ata indicate approximately 0.5–1% of exclusively breastfed infants develop allergic reactions to cow’s milk proteins excreted in the mother’s milk,” according to the protocol.
“Comparatively, infants fed human milk appear to have a lower incidence of allergic reactions to cow’s milk protein than those fed cow’s milk–based formula.This may be attributable to the relatively low level of cow’s milk protein excreted in human milk, immunomodulatory substances present in human milk, and/or differences in the intestinal flora between breastfed and formula-fed infants.” [http://www.bfmed.org/Media/Files/Protocols/Protocol24_English_120211.pdf]
Milk protein versus lactose
Secondly, it’s important to note that a milk protein allergy is different from lactose intolerance. Babies who are sensitive to milk protein react to the casein and whey in animal milk, not lactose. KellyMom has more information on this.
Casein and whey are in many, many processed foods that you might not suspect have dairy in them. Make sure to check the labels. Our grocery runs nearly doubled in length because we had to meticulously read each one.
Adopting a new diet can be tricky. Likewise, the symptoms of milk protein allergy can be confusing. Willow’s symptoms were textbook examples: eczema and blood in her stool. When Iris came along, I worried that she might have an allergy too because she had funky, frothy poop. Green, mucousy stool can sometimes point to a food allergy or sensitivity, but in Iris’s case it was my oversupply.
One of our pediatricians reported that babies with milk protein allergies can suffer at varying levels of sensitivity. Some may tolerate small amounts of dairy in the mother’s diet. Others react even when mother’s food is cross-contaminated with dairy. Willow and George both were/are extremely sensitive. That means that on taco night at our house, none of the utensils can touch the shredded cheese. No yogurt residue on the washcloths. No butter knives in the jam. And so on.
Eggs don’t come from mammary glands
Our family loves to dine out, but with a milk protein allergy, we’ve several things to consider. First of course is the cross-contamination component. I’ve found it helpful to call ahead to restaurants to see if they can accommodate our allergy. If you live in the Milwaukee area, we’ve had very positive experiences with this restaurant and this restaurant. The chef even came out to talk with me at the first restaurant mentioned.
It can take at least two to three weeks before milk proteins process out of mother’s system. For me, these weeks were/are grueling and emotional. Every time I saw/see blood in Willow’s or George’s diaper, my heart sinks. It’s such an awful reminder that their guts are suffering.
My husband and I have spent more time obsessively scanning poopy diapers than I care to admit. Any time we notice blood or a lot of mucous, we feel like we’ve failed. I never expected a relatively minor allergy to cause so much emotional turmoil. It’s reassuring to know that even if I slip up, continuing to breastfeed with dairy in my system is still much better than not breastfeeding.
I’m lucky to have my husband as my partner navigating our children’s milk protein allergies. He helps read labels, prepare dairy free meals, and he’s always on the lookout for dairy-free, chocolatey desserts.
A reasonable inconvenience
Dealing with a milk protein allergy is an inconvenience, but it is doable. And it’s worth the sacrifice. Our former pediatrician suggested I remain dairy-free until Willow’s first birthday. She explained that often, a baby will outgrow the allergy by nine months, but we shot for one year to be safe. Ten months of eating dairy-free was better than a lifetime of potential suffering for my little one. A day after Willow’s first birthday, we introduced cheese directly to her; happily, she didn’t react. We’ll follow this same plan for George.
Today Willow doesn’t care much for cheese which I attribute to her very limited exposure as a young, breastfed infant. She’s obviously a Wisconsinite though, because she makes a special exception for cheese curds.
He calls it a “great awakening” when he realized the importance of “understanding what’s going on with the mother[s].”
What’s more, Daniels says that he’s been adopted into the breastfeeding movement.
“It’s so important that we educate our fathers about breastfeeding and its significance and how to support it in a positive way,” he says.
John J. King, Jr., a Fathers’ Uplift client, recently completed the Lactation Counselor Training Course. Daniels reports that King “learned a lot.” Daniels plans to complete the training too. He’s interested in learning how to actively and positively support breastfeeding women.
“…If I would have known what I know now, I would have been more supportive to my wife when she was trying to breastfeed,” Daniels says. “Given my own transition into fatherhood, I don’t think I was mentally available to be of service the way I could have been.”
Since its infancy, the organization has Uplifted close to 150 fathers. Seventy-five percent of those fathers still actively engage with their children. Five percent go on to become program mentors. [http://fathersuplift.org/fathers/]
So what does it mean to be Uplifted? Becoming Uplifted is an ongoing process, but the organization provides a three month period of formal treatment; the strengthening of families through coaching, therapy, case management, and group work, Daniels explains.
The organization offers Pre-Father Care, a model that involves “constant check-ins, encouragement, and motivation.” The Fathers’ Uplift website features Pre-Father Care supporters indigital storytelling videos. The raw, honest videos give an unfiltered view of the organization’s clients’ realties.
A huge part of Daniels’ and his team’s mission involves forgiveness and teaching fathers how to “parent themselves.”
They help fathers “break down forgiveness and actually put it to work.”
Practical forgiveness can come in external and internal forms, Daniels says. Someone working toward forgiveness may not be able to approach that person and say, Hey, I forgive you, but he or she might affirm internally, This person hurt me, but I will not allow that to govern me.
Daniels also focuses on guiding fathers to release themselves from their own choices and the choices of others.
Daniels works to help his clients navigate and adopt an appropriate way to make amends that will keep them safe and present for the people they love.
Once their clients have forgiven and developed a sense of self-worth, Charles and his team help transition their clients into the community.
“By finding value within yourself, you know how to escape the wounds of pain, guilt and shame and develop self esteem,” Daniels explains.
This makes it easier for them to “become a part of a community of people who value [them.]”
As part of their program, Fathers’ Uplift partners with the Boston Children’s Museum. The museum provides a space to bring fathers who may not have the opportunity to engage with their children in a positive environment.
Fathers’ Uplift leads two visits to the museum. The first is structured to provide support to the father as he works to engage with his children.
“There might be some anxiety there,” Daniels explains. “We try to help him overcome that.”
The second trip provides an opportunity for the family to “have a blast” and build memories.
Daniels says that he loves all of the dads that he works with. One father’s story he recalls illustrates well the purpose of his organization: “When he first met me, he was coming out of jail. His main concern was that his environment wasn’t conducive to where he was trying to go in his life. Despite the conflict he has with his children’s mother, I can honestly say he has learned how to communicate with [her]. Now he’s getting ready to start an apprenticeship… He has a clear trajectory, having a career and being a part of his kids’ lives…He’s learned to deviate from conflict in his relationship. It brings tears to my eyes.”
When you’re pregnant, you’re subject to all kinds of interesting comments and curiosity from complete strangers. While I was pregnant with Willow, an officer asked me if I was trying to smuggle a watermelon into the courthouse while I completed my name change. *Ba dum tss* I laughed politely.
This summer, an older boy with special needs asked me how the baby got into my body and how it was going to get out. Had it been my own child, I’d have gotten rather scientific with him; instead, crickets.
Once baby arrives, the comments and curiosity don’t stop. Today I’ll share with you some of the most memorable comments I received during my parental leave this summer, mostly for entertainment sake, but also because the array of commentary and questioning depicts well trends in our communities.
“Don’t have that baby right here!”
“Don’t have that baby right here!” a stranger demanded after he asked and I answered how far along I was in my pregnancy. “I’ll do my best,” I replied sarcastically.
Interpretation: People are generally afraid of and disgusted by birth. Those feelings are often compelled by the media’s representation of birth. Sometimes people just don’t know what to say. Well then, I say, don’t say anything at all!
“Geez, got enough kids there?!”
It was one of those days that I left the house without my coffee. We made a detour to the closest coffee shop. Anyone with children knows that it must have been an emergency; no one unpacks and repacks three children under five into their vehicle for no good reason. I digress. The four of us entered the shop in perfect fashion. No one wailed, no one side stepped. Everyone was pleasant. It was to my surprise then when an older gentleman–except he wasn’t a gentleman– exclaimed disgustedly, “Geez, got enough kids there?!” I turned to look if there was a larger family behind me. When I realized he was indeed addressing me, I replied, “Hmm, no, not quite yet.” I wished I had thought of something more sharp!
Interpretation: Some people are jerks. That man’s thoughtless comment was relatively harmless, but his face and jerkiness remain burned into my mind. Especially in the early weeks postpartum, moms can be impressionable, so be kind.
“That’s really good for them.”
We’re having our hardscapes completed this autumn, so we’ve been spending a lot of time with concrete workers. One of them noticed that I wear George everywhere I go. “That’s really good for them, wearing the baby like that. It keeps them warm and they can hear your heartbeat. There was a special about it on TV,” he enlightened me. “That’s right,” I replied rather impressed. “And my hands are free!” I added.
Interpretation: Normal mammalian behaviors, like keeping our babies close, are being recognized and applauded. Yay!
“That’s kind of embarrassing!”
We’re also having some touch ups done inside our new home, so the contractors get an unfiltered view of what goes on in our house, like George nursing incessantly. One evening, as I stirred the chicken soup and nursed George in the carrier, Mitch and Jim chatted with me about their next projects. Before they left, they asked how “the little guy” was doing, both peeking their heads into the carrier. “Great,” I replied. “He’s nursing right now.” They both started apologizing profusely, giggling uncontrollably, faces flushed red. “That’s kind of embarrassing!” Mitch exclaimed. “No, it’s not really,” Jim answered. “Hey, a baby’s gotta eat,” I said. Jim shared that his wife nursed their son whenever and wherever. The rouge drained from their cheeks, and we all went about our evenings.
Interpretation: A baby’s gotta eat; there’s no shame in that.
“Where’s the bottle?”
During Iris’s sports class, Willow, George and I hang out at the nearby playground. Willow’s met a friend who also has a sister in Iris’s class. One morning, I got ready to feed George. “Can I watch you feed him?” Willow’s friend asked. “Sure,” I agreed. George latched. I looked at her and smiled. “That’s about it,” I said. “Where’s the bottle?” she wondered. “He doesn’t eat from a bottle,” I explained. “He drinks milk from my body.” At that, she went sprinting over to her uncle– who according to her was supposed to be watching her but was on his phone instead– presumably to tell him that I was feeding my baby from my body. Interpretation: I introduced breastfeeding to a little girl!
Immediately, I was struck by the impeccable visuals and stunning intricacies captured. The hills and valleys of a pregnant woman. The dirt under an Auntie’s nails. The creases and wrinkles of the elderly and the newly born.
Overwhelmed by the film’s beauty, I also found myself overwhelmed by the number of topics presented. By introducing the politics, commercialization and controversies surrounding birth and infant feeding, it gave viewers a glimpse into the complexities associated with infant nutrition. It left me wanting so much more though (maybe that was the point.) I found myself lost in the sheer magnitude of topics presented:
Social media. One mother in the film described her relationship with social media and how it became a tool for her to connect with other like-minded mothers. Connecting with women on Facebook encouraged her to practice child-led weaning. She also uses social media to help other mothers share donor human milk.
Training of health workers. The film brought to light the fact that globally, health workers are not properly trained in infant nutrition which can disempower families and can lead to infant death.
Sexuality. “A natural birth is an expression of a woman’s sexuality,” Élisabeth Badinter, Philosopher, Professor, Author stated. Sexuality as it relates to birth and breastfeeding was woven throughout the film. It came to perfect culmination with the montage of Hollie McNish performing her incredible spoken word piece, Embarrassed.
Marketing of breastmilk substitutes. “Legislation without sanctions is like a toothless bulldog,” Terry Wefwafwa, Head of the Division of Nutrition, Ministry of Health, Kenya said in the film. Milk covered the implementation and enforcement, or lack thereof, of the International Code of Marketing of Breast-milk Substitutes. It demonstrated formula companies’ horrific violations of The Code.
Teen pregnancy and motherhood. The maturity and grace of the 15-year-old mother featured was simply remarkable. Only a snippet of her story shared, I wondered how her age, race and socioeconomic status may have impacted the care she received and the outcome of her birth and infant feeding experience.
Midwifery care. Midwives rock. They improve birth outcomes. Only a traditional midwife featured in the film, of course I wanted more. It could have done viewers such a great service to see the range of midwifery care available. I worry that the depiction of a traditional midwife, although extremely important and of great value, makes “alternative birth” look too exotic.
Birth intervention. It was mentioned that widespread and often unnecessary intervention during birth results in poor infant feeding outcomes. I vividly recall two women who shared their emotional c-section birth stories caused by unnecessary intervention.
Infant feeding during emergencies.Milk covered the devastation the Philippines suffered after one of the worst typhoons ever recorded and the lasting, tragic effects of artificial milk donations.
Formula feeding. One mother shared that she chose to formula feed because she said it was the best choice for her family. She mentioned that her husband wanted to be able to bond with their baby. (Don’t most dads and partners want to connect with their babies regardless of infant feeding method?) She also said that she knew she needed time away from her baby. (I’m a mother who chooses to breastfeed and I can assure you, I need time away from my children too.) It was interesting to watch this mother interact with her child; I noticed that she did not hold him to feed him the contents of his bottle. Instead, she sat next to him as he held his bottle while relaxing on a pillow. This mother’s comments and the intricacies of her relationship with her baby deserve a film all its own.
Prematurity.Milk showed a baby born at 26 weeks and 1 day and his mother in the NICU. The mother shared her appreciation for donor human milk while she continued to pump for him. A clip showed her using a Q-tip to rub her milk in his mouth before she could even hold him. His tongue undulated. It was incredible to watch this connection!
Human donor milk and human milk banks. The film touched on a brief history of human milk banks and discussed the importance of human donor milk. It highlighted Brazil’s efforts, including a fire department making milk collections in their neighborhoods, just part of the country’s incredible network.
Feminism and women’s empowerment. This theme was woven throughout the documentary.
Stigmatization and Mom Guilt. While breastfeeding mothers shared their concerns about stereotyping, formula feeding mothers also weighed in.
Surely, all of these topics belong in the conversation about birth and breastfeeding. However, each in its own provides such a lush amount of material– enough for a separate film or films about each– it made it challenging to digest them all in one sitting. I would be so thrilled if Weis decided to tackle each separately!
Some final thoughts about Milk- Born into this World:
In roughly an hour and 20 minutes, Milk celebrated diversity through its juxtaposition of several women as they navigated their journeys through motherhood.
While diversity and individuality celebrated, Milk also demonstrated a common thread, one of empowerment and choice, one of Motherhood.
Finally, I exalt Weis for honoring the female connection and feminine power. Some of the most striking moments in the film were of the intense bond between two women– a mother and daughter, a midwife and mentor, a mother and midwife. Still, as I watched I wondered, Where are the men? They are certainly a vital part of this conversation, this agenda. Why were they not represented? Have you seen Milk-Born into this World? Tell us, what did you think? Learn much, much more about the film here. Click here to host a screening.
I’m baaaaack! I’m so thankful to have had such a wealth of knowledge shared on the blog while I frolicked with my littles during my parental leave this summer. A sincere thank you to all of our guest bloggers. You’re all wonderful!
For my first week back, I can’t resist not to share with you my most intense experience this summer: the birth of my little Georgie. Without further ado…
We have a tiny new human living with us. We call him George Edward. If there are words to describe how much I love this little guy, I can’t find them. And although I am exhausted to the point of tears, I have never felt so fulfilled. George is so sweet and soft and warm and his scent is intoxicating! He has deep slate eyes, scrawny chicken legs, a wrinkly forehead and two sisters who absolutely adore him.
This is George’s birth story:
Georgie was born into my hands on our bathroom floor on July 20 as the morning sky turned indigo. The sheer intensity of birthing my baby’s head and body shocked me; laboring up until this point had been rather manageable.
It was nearly 1:00 a.m. when I woke to what felt like slight stomach cramping and pressure in my bottom. I had experienced these sensations for several nights prior, but when I went to use the bathroom on this particular morning, I noticed pinkish blood in the toilet. I knew our baby would be coming soon. Trying not to get too excited, I attempted to fall back asleep. Nope, I was much too adrenalized! I washed my face, brushed my teeth, braided my hair and laid out the robe I bought to labor in.
What next, I wondered. On my way downstairs for a cup of tea, I checked on each of my girls, stroked their heads and then nearly squealed with excitement as I thought about the arrival of their baby brother or sister.
I admired fireflies flashing and the moon’s brilliant glow from my dining table as I sipped my tea. I wanted to be outside in the early morning calm and summer heat in the worst way. But without landscaping complete at our new home and a disgusting amount of flying insects swarming our lit porches, I stayed indoors.
Around 1:30 a.m.– remembering that my midwife advised me to contact her as soon as I had an inkling that I might have my baby in the near future– I crafted a text message. The message didn’t wake her. Instead of calling though– because it felt rather discourteous to ring so early in the morning–I went to wake my husband.
“Addison….Addison….Addison….Addison…” my whispers grew louder and louder into a whispery shout. He grumbled.
“Are you ready to have a baby today?”
“Really?!” he woke with enthusiasm. “What is today?”
He proceeded to run through Wednesday’s work schedule declaring approvingly, “Ok, today should be a good day.” He showered, then came downstairs to keep me company.
We hung the “Homebirth in Progress: Please Do Not Disturb” sign on our front door, and then we chatted. I don’t remember what about. I do remember giggling a lot. The anticipation was invigorating. At one point, I joked that rubbing your wife’s feet really gets labor going, so he did.
After a few more crampy sensations, my first phone call went out to my mom around 2:30 a.m.
“Are we going to have a baby today?!” she answered. Her sparkly energy, as sparkly as the glitter she dusts over her body, conquered her tone. I said I thought so, but wasn’t entirely convinced because the sensations were so mild. Regardless, I thought it best she take her time, but head our way so she would be available to the girls before I went into active labor.
By this time, my husband urged me to call our midwife. At ten to three, I did. I had been having 30 second contractions two to four minutes apart, but had been walking, talking and laughing through them, basically rather unfazed.
Over the phone my midwife wondered, “Any pressure?”
Yes, rectal, I reported. She sounded slightly alarmed, told me she would shower quickly and head our way.
Some time later, my mom arrived. The girls were still sleeping, so we talked about when we would wake them for the birth of their new sibling.
Our midwife arrived next. It was sometime around 3:30 a.m. She checked my blood pressure and temperature; 108/72, 97.7℉ and the baby’s heart rate and position; 130s, LOA.
Addison offered my mom and our midwife eggs for breakfast. Eggs, for the love of God. Of all the breakfast foods one could enjoy, he made the one that I absolutely could not stomach my entire pregnancy. I had been feeling slightly nauseous prior to the egg scrambling, but now the nausea really started to take over.
To take my mind off of it, I paced and paced. I swayed my hips back and forth, back and forth encouraging the baby to descend further.
Over an hour later around 4:40 a.m., my contractions lengthened to 45 seconds every two minutes. I started to hum through them. True to my character, I couldn’t decide what to do next. (I don’t know what I want, but I know what I don’t want.)
At this point, my midwife talked with me about getting into the tub or shower. We hadn’t planned for a water birth, but I was interested in using water therapy during labor.
I definitely didn’t want to get into the shower. My hair would get wrecked! Not that it was looking particularly glamorous or anything. The soaking tub did look rather appealing though. Our beautiful soaking tub! (Quick backstory: We added square footage to our home to accommodate this piece. Before we planned to have another baby, Addison suggested that it be a potential birthing tub. Brilliant, I thought. Ultimately, I planned a land birth because of the tub’s narrowness, and because my midwife thought a land birth would allow me a better opportunity to catch my baby in a comfortable position.)
It was glorious. I was comforted surrounded by the warmth of the water and the scent of a wash cloth doused in a calming oil blend.
Addison went to wake the girls. Willow woke and was excited to play with Grandma, but Iris thought it a better idea to fall back asleep in her sister’s room.
While in the tub, I endured around five intense contractions with a lot of pressure. With each one, as Addison noticed my vulva full and swelling, he gently (although relentlessly) encouraged me to get out of the tub so that I could catch the baby as planned. On the final contraction in the water, I yelled for my midwife; my baby was about to be born.
She and Addison helped me out of the water onto the bathroom floor where I positioned myself on all fours. At 5:01 a.m., my membranes ruptured onto my hand which I had in place to feel for my baby’s head.
My midwife replied, “Very efficient, Jess!” This comment made me want to laugh, but the intensity of birthing George’s head consumed every grain of me.
At 5:03 a.m., my mouth open wide as my body writhed *Cue Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire*, George’s head came earthside resting in one hand as I supported the rest of my body with the other. My midwife instructed me to wait for the next contraction to birth his body, but it was too late. I shifted my weight as he came slipping out in the same contraction right into my own hands!
During this moment, my midwife informed me that George had a nuchal cord and calmly instructed me to lift it up over his head. As he wailed, I went to unwrap it but found it was too tight for me to comfortably lift over his face. At that, I frantically ordered, “Help me!” and my midwife did.
I don’t quite remember the order of the following events. We were all so consumed with excitement and triumph.
I heard Addison announce in sheer disbelief, “Oh my God, it’s a boy.” I replay that moment over and over and over in my head. You see, he was convinced we were having a third little girl. Confident in his ability to read ultrasounds, he told everyone we were having a girl when he apparently saw a vulva on our 20 week scan.
I observed my sweet baby’s wrinkly, red, wet head and his healthy coating of vernix. Oh, the vernix! I couldn’t believe how much there was. His body’s wet warmth pressed against my abdomen. I felt our cord tug between my legs.
Through tears and laughter I exclaimed, “Oh sweet boy, oh sweet boy, oh my sweet baby boy!” My redundancy actually started to annoy me, but it’s all I could get out. Admittedly, I was terrified to have a little boy, but the moment I held him in my arms, my heart swelled. A boy!
My mom and Willow entered during this time. It had been the plan for Willow to announce the baby’s gender, so I turned his genitals toward her.
“I can’t tell,” she said timidly.
“What do you see between the baby’s legs?” Addison encouraged her.
“A penis!” Willow really, really, really wanted a brother.
My mom wondered, “Is this baby Walden?”
When I announced he was in fact baby George, she cried a happy tear. George was her dad.
Iris apprehensively entered the birth scene in her diaper and rockin’ bedhead. George and I were surrounded by our beautiful, loving family.
Our birth assistant arrived about six minutes after George’s birth.
At 5:13 a.m., Willow and Iris clamped our cord with the midwife’s help. Willow so desperately wanted to hold her little brother.
“After I’m done giving birth,” I told her.
While we waited on the placenta, I told Addison he didn’t need to worry about me wanting anymore babies; I didn’t feel like giving birth again. (Fast-forward 18 hours: As I changed George’s diaper and put him into his jammies, I warned Addison that he might want to look into getting a vasectomy if he was sure he didn’t want anymore little ones. George’s utter adorableness already had me thinking about a baby number four [Insert ‘What is wrong with me’ looking emoji here]…. How quickly we forget!)
I was extremely uncomfortable on the towel-laden, tiled bathroom floor still waiting on the placenta’s delivery, so I requested a move to the bed. After what seemed like an eternity, the placenta was born with a relieving gush at 5:34 a.m.
The midwife checked my bottom and reported a first degree laceration on my perineum and skids on my periurethra. No repairs necessary.
We all watched admiringly as Walden, I mean George, crawled to my breast for his first feed. I called George Walden twice! Boy, was I second guessing his name. After much discussion, we all decided that George was indeed the perfect fit.
George measured in at a perfect 20 inches. He weighed 7 pounds 3 ounces which Addison guessed right on the money, just like he had Iris’s. Our little guy sported 34 cm head and 33 cm chest circumferences. Apgar scores totaled 10 and 10 at one and five minutes. Sprightly little dude.
George breastfed for the first time at 6:10 a.m. after navigating his way to the tippy-top of my mountainous boob. Little George now satisfied with his first meal, I choked down peanut butter on toast and grape juice. Eating after birth has always been very unappealing to me. At least it wasn’t eggs.
Although several hours later, it seemed so soon that our house was still and silent. The midwives had left, and my mom took the girls to spend some time at her house. Addison, George and I cuddled in bed. George had no trouble sleeping, but Addison and I were preoccupied with the arrival of our new family member. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
That afternoon, my brother came to meet his nephew. He had been rooting for a nephew since I became pregnant the first time! He came with lots of cute, little newborn boy clothes.
Later that evening, my mom brought the girls back home before they would depart again for their sleepover. My father in law and a friend came to visit too. We all had pizza for dinner together. When it was time for the girls to return to my mom’s for the night, they protested. This was the first time in herstory that Willow and Iris didn’t think going to Grandma’s was the greatest idea of all time. I suppose George is a pretty good reason to want to stick around. I was apprehensive and saddened to send them off, but Addison and I appreciated the opportunity to have a night alone with George. The girls did just fine once they arrived at Grandma’s.
That night, well, I don’t really remember much from our first night as parents of three. Baby snuggles, sticky meconium diaper changes, nursing. I think that covers it.
The next morning, the three of us had breakfast while we watched a deer and her spotted fawn prance in our backyard. Later, Addison took down our “Homebirth in Progress” sign. My heart sank. My pregnancy was over. The one I had announced to Addison back in November next to the gravel-filled hole that would become the foundation of our home. Our birth, the one I had anticipated for 39 weeks and 5 days, was over. We would never have those moments back. Taking down the sign elicited a familiar feeling; it’s one I get when I finish a book. No longer involved with those characters, no longer captivated by their stories. It took me almost two weeks to process that feeling of Overness.
My pregnancy is over. My birth is over. But George is here now. He is an unfinished book. His big sisters’ lives are unfinished books. And I get to be, quite possibly, the most important character in their stories. I get to be their mom.