Motherhood marathon: the first year

(The feet of Dante, the author’s son — Photo by author)

This has been a hell of a year. And a heaven, too. With my son’s first birthday approaching, I have mixed feeling of supreme pride and solemn nostalgia for his younger days. This might seem silly considering his age has thus far been expressed in months, but every parent will understand that each month of a baby’s life is an epoch.

Dante was born three weeks early. With an estimated due date in early January, he instead decided to arrive six days before Christmas.

My mother had flown in from out of town to help me prepare for the birth, and to kick around indefinitely as I adjusted to motherhood. She arrived on a Tuesday evening and my water broke at 4:45 A.M. She hadn’t even stayed a full twenty-four hours, and here I was going into labor at a dark and exhausting hour.

My fiancé, George, had only been home for three hours after a late night film shoot. After calling my doctor, I was ordered to head to the hospital and check in at the maternity ward. I didn’t have a hospital bag packed yet, so I threw some essentials together, and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bagel and cream cheese.

The one and only episode of Friends I have ever watched (and will ever watch) featured Rachel going to the hospital and insisting on applying makeup first.

It was meant to be a joke, which I think is absurd because 1) Soggy after-birth pictures, 2) Flower wielding visitors, and 3) You are meeting your offspring for the first time and blubbering all over him is rude enough so you might as well look good. I put on some eyeliner and mascara and then decided that I was sick of all the wet.

Thankfully, there was no traffic that early in the morning, so we got to Cedars Sinai in record time. I have never been more uncomfortable, but wasn’t in any sort of pain. If my water broke, I must be having contractions, right? I’m probably not feeling them, I reasoned, because I’m a hard ass with ten tattoos and spit in the face of pain.

Fifteen hours and a screamingly painful rite of passage later (I caved for the epidural), I had Dante in my arms. At just under six pounds, he has never felt as heavy as he did on that day. I have never been so nervous, so elated, so relieved, and so hungry. The year that followed has been the greatest of my life, and I’ve catalogued just a few of its ups and downs.

The Hospital Re-Visit.

We were home for no more than twenty-four hours when I noticed Dante had pooped, but he hadn’t peed. Despite my delirium, I knew something was wrong, so I called his doctor. Having never met the man before (his first appointment was only a few days away), I was unfamiliar with his informed but brisk way of matter-of-facting even the scariest of situations.

He promptly told me to take him to the E.R. My delicate composure crumbled as we made the drive back to Cedars, where we were admitted very quickly. He required an I.V. hookup, which only sent me further into panic mode. He was moderately dehydrated, so they gave him a bottle of formula.

I discovered that my milk hadn’t come in, and while you think this would have been noticable, I had tiredly assumed it was just sort of working despite not seeing or feeling much when I nursed him.

We were admitted overnight in the children’s ward, where I wept and mumbled to myself (I shall parle this into the next segment momentarily).

The next morning we were released with a good bill of health and instructions to keep him on formula until my milk came in. It never did, and he has been happily and healthily growing up as a formula baby, and peeing frequently. On lucky days, I get doused while changing him, as he giggles.

Post-Partum is Evil.

So much is said about post-partum depression, that the other two meanies — post-partum anxiety and post-partum psychosis — are rather overlooked. I mentally prepared myself for a bout of blues, diminished mental capacity, lethargy, and inability to bond with my baby.

Instead, I was blessed with what was arguably one of the worst cases of post-partum anything: only hours after giving birth, the hormonal let down was so great that it threw me into a terrible and personal reality of inexplicable dread. I feared every possible catastrophe, despite the fact that I was snuggled up in one of the best hospitals in the nation.

Since Dante came two days before the alleged “Mayan apocalypse,” this was a major player in my distress. The Mayans are coming, I weepily told my mom. How unfair and cruel that I was given the gift of a son only days before the end of the world. It took me a few days before I could sleep properly, and the lack of rest (I’m a ten hour per night kind of girl) that normally accompanies caring for a newborn made things much worse. George and my mom made every effort to make sure that I got my rest, taking shifts with Dante when I couldn’t.

During those first two months, I wondered if I would ever return to my normal self. I couldn’t even get into a car without heart palpitations. Eventually, it became evident that I needed medication. With the help of my psychiatrist, I was able to slay my entombing mental darkness and embrace my new role as a mother.

The Firsts.

All of Dante’s firsts have pushed me into teary joy that probably annoyed both he and George. His first smile on the changing table, his first laugh as I dried him after a bath, his first words — a chirpy “hi!” at five months, and a sincere “mama” at ten — all of it is breathtaking. The pride he felt when he rolled over on his own, the shaky determination of his first steps, and the first time he pulled a threefold mommy attack (scratching is followed by hair pulling is followed by biting) … the milestones and annoyances are all treasures.

First Day at Daycare.

Well, he isn’t in a real daycare just yet, but the nursery at my local gym is pretty sweet, and he loves it. The first time I left him there, I was so nervous that I only pounded the treadmill for fifteen minutes before returning. When I saw him sitting in the baby area, surrounded by toys and entertained by the caregiver, I was filled with enormous pride. I watched them for a moment before making my presence known, savoring his little smiles as he swatted around a ball.

Halloween.

Dante was ten months old when we took him out for his first Halloween. I dressed as April O’Neil from the Ninja Turtles (sexy maid/sailor/mouse/mermaid/whatever costumes are no longer acceptable for my Halloweens…sigh). George was Raphael (cool but rude), and Dante was Michelangelo (because he is a party dude). He was a cheery sport as we walked around trick-or-treating, enjoying the one year where we can steal his candy without guilt.

As his birthday nears, I am filled with hope and memories. He has undergone his various changes in looks, personality, and behavior.

The six-month majesty of his mobile has been replaced by a vacant and almost adolescent ennui towards the signing zebras.

He no longer spits up profusely. I don’t really have to pat his back to illicit his booming man-burps. The maturity of his palate is kind of annoying: I can’t stomach kale, and he gobbles it up like M&Ms.

The only bummer about this time of year? He is a Christmas baby, doomed with the celebratory over lap of two of the biggest holidays of the year.

Poor kid.