THREE

Our little lady is three months old today! What they say is true: The days are long but the years (or in this case, months!) are short. It is hard to believe that Delilah Wren is a quarter-of-a-year old already! How can that be? Time is flying by, as it does. You blink and things change. A year ago this babe was just a long-held dream, one I decided to share with the world via this blog. My first posts were published in January 2017. Today, my dream is a little person, with a sweet and sassy personality showing through more and more with each passing day.

And, yes. She was totally worth the wait!

Having just cracked the 10 pound mark yesterday, and measuring 22 inches long at her most recent visit to the pediatrician a week ago, our little bird is outgrowing her newborn clothes and finally fits into this cute 0-3 month onesie that I purchased for our pregnancy announcement. She is taller than she is heavy, so we will definitely be graduating to the next size up in pajamas soon! Or just wearing lots of pants with feet freeeee! :) 

Delilah is smiling much more now, multiple times a day, which is such a treat, and she even seems to be trying to figure out how to laugh with the occasional burst of energetic sound. She is extra smiley in the mornings and when Daddy makes funny noises. 

She still loves her WubbaNub something fierce but she also has a new bunny lovey friend that she likes to hold. Baby girl knows her hands are her hands and — despite the danger of her razor-sharp claws fingernails that she tends to wield wildly — we've been trying to make sure her paws are free from mitts more often so that she can touch, explore and grab. She clutches the bottle (or our hand on the bottle) during feedings and, while she sometimes misses, Delilah is determined to get the pacifier back in her mouth on her own when she loses it. 

She is also more interested in playtime as well as her play gym now, looking directly at the toys dangling above her while waving her arms and kicking her legs. She is tracking objects with her eyes (when she's interested) and even appears to be looking at the book during story time (when she's not falling asleep!). Hush Little Polar Bear and Corduroy have been on heavy rotation. Tummy time is getting better too, even though she still mostly hates it. 

Our sensitive girl is easily overwhelmed and overstimulated. Diaper and outfit changes annoy her and bath time is yet to be as calming as we'd like it to be. She can go from giddy to irritated in a flash, and when she wants her food she wants it NOW. But a bit of bouncing, soft strokes on the head, and a suck on the pacifier can usually soothe her. And if she just won't relax or fall asleep we ask Alexa to play Ed Sheeran (ha!). While daytime naps are hit-or-miss (and usually short-lived thanks to the dogs and the postman), Delilah is a pretty good sleeper at night (knock on wood!), hitting the hay around 8 or 9 p.m. and snoozing until about 4 or 5 in the morning. For that, Mommy and Daddy are grateful!

All told, life with a baby is a roller coaster. She's up, she's down. We're up, we're down. The three of us, we're all learning and growing. The days are long, and they aren't easy. But, without a doubt, they are so, so worth it.

Delilah's Newborn Shoot

Our little bird, Delilah Wren, had her newborn shoot on Nov. 29, 2017 at home in Alameda, Calif. Having dreamt for so long of welcoming a baby into our lives, Greg and I agreed that hiring a professional photographer to capture our precious wee one in all her squishy newborn glory was an important and necessary investment. (We also planned to do a maternity shoot but, alas, that was scheduled for the day after our sweet girl was born!) Corinne McCombs Photography was the absolute perfect choice for this special moment; she did such a beautiful job. Due to Delilah's sudden arrival almost a month early, we weren't quite ready to do a newborn shoot in the days after returning home from the hospital. The nursery wasn't fully done and, as new parents of a late pre-term baby with some weight and feeding issues, we were positively stressed and sleep-deprived. So it wasn't until Delilah was five weeks old that she gave a (likely gas-induced) grin for the camera. Even though she wasn't as "new" as most babies are during newborn shoots, she was still fairly sleepy and relatively amicable to being posed. And Corinne was a total pro — patient, kind, generous with her time and, because she's a mama of three, so good with Delilah. She's seriously the baby whisperer! Delilah looks adorable, of course, in every photo (new mamas are allowed to not-so-humbly brag about their children, yes?). But even more impressively, despite my self-critical nature and worries about how I'd look in the photos, I am in love with so many of the images Corinne captured of our family. Greg and I will forever cherish these photographs and here, if you'd like to see, is an ample collection of our favorites. Enjoy!

Delilah's Birth Story, Part I

Delilah’s entrance into this world was completely unexpected. Traumatic, really. Her birth and the days following were some of the hardest and saddest of my life. And yet, of course, meeting her was the happiest moment of my life, too. I cried tears of joy. Therein lies the common theme running throughout Delilah’s birth story: a mixture of emotions, a pendulum swinging wildly between immense gladness and profound grief.

I had hoped and planned for an unmedicated labor and vaginal delivery. A “natural” birth. We all know how that turned out. (Spoiler: It didn’t.) But let’s back up. Because Delilah’s birth story doesn’t start on Oct. 23. Her sudden early arrival into our lives was put into motion days before.

Aside from the fact that we had to use IVF to conceive, I considered my pregnancy rather uneventful. But one issue did crop up that threatened to throw a wrench in my “natural” birth plans. At my 20 week ultrasound, Greg and I learned that the placenta was too close to my cervix and that if it didn’t move out of the way I would need to deliver via cesarean section. This issue with the placenta usually resolves itself as the uterus (and baby) grows and fortunately we found out that — finally! — at almost 34 weeks, it had moved the requisite two centimeters away from my cervix. Hooray! However, at the same appointment, we learned that there was now a new reason I might need a c-section: baby girl was breech.

We hoped that she would turn on her own, and I tried to give her a nudge in the right direction by doing an exercise designed to get my “butt in the air,” as recommended by my OB. (On the ground, on all fours, head to the floor!) But no such luck. At my Oct. 20 checkup, Delilah was still breech. Since I was 36 weeks pregnant, the chances that she would flip on her own were slim to none. Baby girl was starting to outgrow her cramped quarters and my amniotic fluid would only decrease in the weeks ahead, giving her even less wiggle room. I had already read up on external cephalic version — a procedure in which the baby’s position in the womb is manipulated manually, from the outside — and my midwife recommended that we schedule an ECV for the following Monday if I still wanted a shot at a vaginal delivery.

So on what was the first day of my maternity leave, Greg and I drove to the hospital in Walnut Creek and went up to Labor & Delivery for my 9 a.m. appointment. (When obtaining visitor badges from security the guard asked, “Are you delivering today?” to which we quickly replied, “oh, no!” I’m sure I made a joke about needing baby girl to cook a bit longer. And then, I kid you not, as I approached check-in at L&D a nurse spied my still comparatively small baby bump and commented, “You don’t even look pregnant!” Little did anyone know that I wouldn’t be pregnant for much longer.)

After getting prepped, my OB, Dr. Wells, came in to perform the ECV. But after poking around on my tummy — to get a feel for baby’s position, to see how moveable her head was and to see how I would tolerate the procedure — he gave devastating news: He wouldn’t do the version. Not because of the baby but because of me. Despite my attempts to relax, I was tensing up and visibly uncomfortable with the moderate amount of pressure he was applying to my abdomen. My doctor felt that, whether I wanted to or not, I would fight the procedure. My abdominal muscles were too tight. In order to turn the baby Dr. Wells really needed to dig into my belly and, given how I was reacting, he felt that if he went through with the version I would be in excruciating pain, and most likely it would not be successful.

I was heartbroken and pleaded with my doctor to go ahead, insisting that I would calm down, that I would relax, that I would get into a “zen” state. I didn’t want a c-section and I would bear the pain of the version. Dr. Wells was unconvinced and, though disappointed, I trusted his experience and decision. I knew going into the procedure that he wouldn’t do it if he believed it would be unsuccessful or pose a risk to the baby. But he did offer me an alternative: I could try the version with an epidural.

I had conflicting feelings about this option, though. It seemed counter to everything I was hoping to achieve. I wanted an unmedicated birth, so why would I get an epidural in order to have one? We tentatively scheduled to return to the hospital that evening, at 5:30, for the epidural-assisted version, and in the meantime Greg and I went home to further think over this option. I spent the rest of the morning and that afternoon debating back and forth. I called my mom. I texted my best friend. Greg was on board with whatever I decided. Ultimately, it seemed to me that an epidural was inevitably. Either get it for the ECV or get it for a c-section. The ability to have a vaginal birth was important to me, so I decided to forge ahead with a medicated external cephalic version.

We drove back to the hospital and I was prepped once again. The anesthesiologist came in to start the epidural, which was painful but not unbearably so. Still, my sweet husband teared up watching me have to get the very thing I had been trying to avoid. I was also given a shot with medication aimed at relaxing the uterus. When the time came to start, the epidural was still mild — I wasn’t in labor, after all. They just needed me to be numb enough to be comfortable and not resist the version. After once again checking out baby on the ultrasound monitor, Dr. Wells fully lubed up my belly so it was nice and slippery. He placed his hand low on my abdomen and did one small upward movement. Immediately, I felt a wet warmth between my legs, but it took me a few seconds to realize that I needed to communicate this feeling to my doctor.

“Something is happening down there,” I said. “Something is coming out of me.”

The doctor lifted the sheet across my lap and his face said it all. The way he looked at the nurse, stunned and concerned, I knew what was coming. What I didn’t know was why, but I found out later that I had a placental abruption. With one small movement gently shifting upward baby's bottom, my placenta had torn away from the uterine wall and the fluid I felt pouring out of me was blood — a lot of it.

Dr. Wells took a long breath before speaking.

“Well, I think the best thing to do is get you delivered.”

And with that I went into a strange, trance-like state. A weird sense of calm washed over me. I let my head fall back into the bed pillow and stared at the ceiling. I knew I had no control over what happened next. Greg, on the other hand, was hysterical. He leapt out of his chair, his hands grasping his head in disbelief, a look of confusion and fear on his face. This part is a bit of a blur, but I think I told Greg “it’ll be OK” as they wheeled me out of the procedure room, straight across the hall into the operating room.

It all happened so fast that Greg couldn’t come with me, but luckily I was already prepped for a c-section. The IV and epidural were already started. There was a flurry of activity around me, as the medical team finished prepping me and themselves for surgery, and the anesthesiologist upped my epidural. Within minutes, I could feel Dr. Wells cutting into me. Yep, I could feel everything, I just didn’t feel any pain. But that didn’t make it any less scary. I kept asking for my husband, I wished to hold his hand. I could feel the doctor spreading apart my insides in order to get to the baby and although it didn’t hurt it was a frightening sensation. I think I started crying out, “Oh my god, oh my god,” and a nurse asked if I was OK, to which I exclaimed, “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels crazy!”

Next thing I know, I felt — or at least, I believe I felt — the doctor pulling Delilah out of me. I couldn’t see anything, but I distinctly remember visualizing what I was feeling. And yet, because of the shock of it all, it took a moment for me to realize that the baby I heard crying was mine.

She was here.

In a matter of minutes, Delilah was born. At 6:08 p.m.

Remarkably, only nine minutes had elapsed from the time they wheeled me out of the procedure room to when Delilah took her first breath. Nine minutes. Those nine minutes simultaneously flew by and felt like forever. 

Outfitted in scrubs, Greg was finally allowed into the room about five minutes later. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to cut the umbilical cord but he did get to see and hold our daughter first. She was weighed and measured and probably cleaned off some while I lay on the operating table, still in that surreal state, a bit disconnected from reality. I didn't snap out of it until a nurse eventually brought Delilah out from behind the surgical drape. She was bundled up in a blanket. All I could see was her tiny, sweet face and I instantly broke into heavy sobs. 

A few of those tears were for the way everything unfolded; it wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. But most of those tears were out of true joy at the sight of my girl. I never really imagined what she would look like, and seeing her for the first time felt a little like a surprise. 

She was early, but she was perfect. I wasn’t ready, but she was mine.

There's more to the story... Stay tuned for Part II! (Update: Here's the link to the rest of the story!)

Are You Breastfeeding?

I want to share something that happened last week. First off, it is a good thing that I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt and to think the best of others. These traits served me well in the interaction that I’m about to share, as someone not as kind or tolerant — or simply in a bad mood — would likely have told the other person to “mind their own business” in not-so-nice terms. 

Anyway, one night last week I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things, including a can of infant formula. As I checked out, the clerk inquired, “Do you have a young baby?” to which I replied yes, she’s eight weeks. The next question came as a surprise, especially given what I was purchasing. “Are you breastfeeding?” she asked. Taken aback, I paused for a few seconds, considering my words before replying “a little bit.” (Which, I admit, is somewhat of an odd reply.) Standing at the checkout, a line of people waiting behind me while the clerk bagged my goods, I quickly and briefly explained that my daughter came early, so we needed to use formula to get more weight on her. This isn’t the whole story, but it was the easiest explanation to give in the moment. 

An early attempt at breastfeeding, two days after Delilah's birth.

Of course I shouldn’t have felt obligated to explain or defend myself and, yet, I did. Fortunately, I’m not that easily offended. I know this checker meant no harm by her seemingly innocent question. (And, to her credit, she did not give a judgmental look or word in response.) But truly it is too personal of a question for a complete stranger to ask. And it is the kind of question that has the power to send a new mama spiraling. Even though I wasn’t offended, I left the exchange feeling sad. A fresh wound was poked, a current disappointment brought front of mind. I always planned to breastfeed, exclusively, for as long as I was able. Within an hour of my baby’s birth that plan started to deviate, and within days it was completely derailed. 

There are many reasons breastfeeding has not come easily, to Delilah or I. Because of the nature of the delivery — an emergency c-section — we weren’t able to do skin-to-skin or initiate breastfeeding immediately. When she was eventually brought to me in the operating room, she was bundled up in a blanket and Greg tried to place her head on my chest. But I only had her next to me for a short while. I didn’t get to really hold her and do skin-to-skin until more than an hour later, when I was moved to the recovery room. While there, a nurse tested Delilah’s blood sugar and found that it was dangerously low; they had to give her a bottle of formula. I was so disappointed I couldn’t watch. I had to look away from my baby, and I tried to hide my tears. 

The formula wasn’t enough to raise her levels, so Delilah was whisked away to the NICU and put on an IV. It was in the NICU, several hours after her birth, that I was finally able to try breastfeeding. While Delilah’s blood sugar eventually stabilized and she was taken off the IV two days later, she was losing weight. It’s normal for babies to lose weight after birth, and full term babies typically have enough body fat to tide them over until mama’s milk comes in. An up to 10 percent loss isn’t cause for alarm by hospital standards. But Delilah had lost 13 percent, going from 5 pounds 9 ounces at birth to 4 pounds 12 ounces. The neonatologist recommended a strict formula feeding schedule to get our daughter’s weight back on track. I was told a lot of different (and sometimes conflicting) information in the hospital when it came to breastfeeding, but the general consensus was to limit Delilah’s time on the breast to just a few minutes as her efforts to feed burned too many precious calories. (I was encouraged to pump in the interim.) 

A nurse helps to initiate breastfeeding and get Delilah to properly latch, several hours after her birth.

Working on breastfeeding in the NICU. Delilah still hooked up to monitors, but her IV removed.

Daddy gives Delilah a bottle of formula in the hospital.

With the formula feeds, Delilah did gain weight and she was 5 pounds even at discharge. But then, when she lost a couple ounces after coming home from the hospital, I was actually instructed not to breastfeed at all. Period. At least until her weight rebounded again. So I refrained, for a little over a week. I didn’t want to jeopardize my daughter’s health. But I have no doubt that completely cutting out my baby’s time on the breast severely damaged my already diminutive milk supply and hampered her ability to properly latch, deeply and effectively. When we were in the hospital, we were told our tiny, late pre-term girl had a strong suck reflex. She latched fairly well for her age and size. But an all-bottle-and-no-breast diet gave her what I would characterize as a sometimes lazy and shallow latch.

Clearly, our rocky start led to a litany of problems that have made breastfeeding a challenge. And our girl is still small. She continues to play catch up when it comes to her weight. Even with pumping, I don’t make nearly enough milk to sustain her slow growth. So formula it is. Other women may have given up breastfeeding entirely at this point, but I still try. I try to put her on the breast. I try to improve her latch. I try to pump more. I try to increase my meager supply. I still believe that “breast is best” so I breastfeed "a little bit" — meaning, I do what I can to give her whatever I can, even if it is just a measly ounce. (That’s a good day, for me.) But I also believe that, ultimately, “fed is best.” Babies need full tummies to grow. If I can’t do it, formula can. I’ve slowly made peace with that, but every low-production pumping session still stings. Every time Delilah pushes off my breast and wails with frustration, my spirit breaks.

It was with one seemingly innocuous question during a nighttime run to the market that all these memories, all my inner thoughts and quiet hurts, came rushing back — a sucker punch to the gut, a knife in this fragile mama heart that all too often is filled with guilt and feelings of inadequacy. So the moral of the story is, don’t ask a woman if she’s breastfeeding. It really doesn’t matter how she is feeding her baby, just that she is. 

And she’s doing the very best she can.

Breastfeeding at home. A wonderful bonding experience, even if Delilah doesn't get everything she needs.

Passed out after a breastfeeding session. Content momentarily, but still needing a bottle afterward.

Season's Greetings

This year's Christmas card pulled double duty as it also served as Delilah's birth announcement! I used some of our favorite photos from baby girl's newborn shoot (more to come). 

From our little family to yours, Merry Christmas!

TWO

This little bird is two months old! Delilah's over 8 pounds now, though still a skinny thing. (Not too many rolls just yet, but we're working on it! She's got a little double chin happening.) Our sweet girl loves her WubbaNub, being sung to by mommy (Christmas carols, lately), bouncing on a yoga ball with daddy and cruising along in her stroller. And when I say "loves" what I really mean is that these things soothe her and usually put her to sleep! Which has been a challenge at times, as baby girl has been going through a fussy phase the past week or so. But we are trying to take it in stride knowing that it means she is growing and developing. She seems to have discovered that her hands are, in fact, hers and she's getting better at grasping things, including her beloved WubbaNub pacifier. She even grabbed Daddy's nose! And social smiles are on the horizon :) Delilah definitely smiles in her sleep or when she passes gas, and we've seen a few grins here and there... I could have swore she was smiling at Jasper the other day! But I'm waiting for the momentous occasion when I (or Greg) do something hilarious (by her standards, anyway) and there is no mistaking that those upturned lips are an intentional smile in our distinct direction. Overall, Delilah is more alert than ever, her bright eyes taking it all in... Sometimes she gets overwhelmed and other times she is happy and content to soak in life. Those latter moments are fleeting but precious.

ONE more reason to celebrate...

... Delilah Wren is one month old today! Happy one month to our little bird. Stay wild. But please, go to sleep. (Ha! She's testing us today, that fuss monster, er, I mean, sweet baby.)