It took us just about a year to get pregnant, and it would have taken us much longer, I'm convinced, if I hadn't found a very proactive, incredible doctor. From the time we saw the second line, I had about two weeks of feeling incredible and on top of the world before I became so sick I lost eleven pounds in a matter of days, not weeks. I was put on a very expensive prescription of Zofran for eight months of my pregnancy. It wasn't until the last month when I stopped needing it twice a day. And that last month -- when I was off Zofran -- I became so sick due to acid reflux I began regularly throwing up again. So, no, my pregnancy wasn't easy and because of this I sort of (stupidly) assumed that once Kyle was here, everything would be good, everything would be better. I didn't expect to sleep much or to shrink down to my goal weight overnight and I knew breastfeeding and sleep training and scheduling would all be hard, but I figured after everything we had been put through, he would be the smiley, lovely baby of our dreams. And ... well ... he's not. Of course we wouldn't trade him for the world and he is absolutely a dream come true but he's also a baby with something wrong with him and we're desperately trying to pinpoint just what that is because most hours of the day he seems to be in a pretty serious amount of pain. You can see the pain written on his face.
Our first thought was colic but the screaming bouts seemed too sporadic. I took him back to the pediatrician last week and she listened intently while I listed his symptoms through sobs. She concluded reflux. I was relieved to be Told Something and Given Something but I didn't think it added up. After hours (and hours and hours) of researching and asking questions and just going with my gut, we've decided this is a gas issue. A pretty severe one too. He seems uncomfortable most of the time and his little legs are always going a mile a minute while his cute little hands are constantly clenched in fists. He almost always calms down after he passes gas and when we put pressure on his stomach in any way, you can almost hear him sigh with relief.
(Hey, it took just about six weeks before I brought up baby farts!)
So, new plan of action: ridding my diet of dairy, trying a new formula when we need to supplement, trying gripe water, too. Also: praying and drinking like hell.
(If you have any experience with this, please share it. This is one time I'd like the advice as long as that advice doesn't turn judgmental or preachy.)
I hate that my poor, adorable little guy spends much of his days with me, screaming or uncomfortably furrowing his brow or scrunching up his face while he kicks repeatedly and tries to work things out. (Although I do like to sing "Work it Out" while he does this; who doesn't like background music?) I hate that most of my memories from this time are of me worrying or obsessively Googling or feeling anxious or just plain exhausted. I hate that I avoid going places because I don't want to risk Kyle screaming through lunch or a dinner party or an aisle of Target. And I really, really hate that I feel so sorry for our situation when I stumble upon other situations that are far worse than ours. We are still unbelievably lucky. I have a great support system, a great husband, a house, a warm bed and warm food. No matter how often I find myself crying, I know we're lucky and I cling to that.
Something else I cling to is that this hard, difficult, gray phase of exhausting newbornness won't last forever and soon he will be smiling and happy and past this uncomfortable, crying stage. I'm smart enough to rationally know that nothing lasts forever, that every phase has a beginning and an end and we're already well on our way to the next one. But, let's be honest: at 4 a.m. when my son is painfully crying and nothing -- not even his mother -- can comfort him, it's hard to focus on the rational truth of time passing. In those dark moments it feels like this is our new reality and that it'll never pass. I pour myself a glass of wine and try to take very deep breaths while repeating to myself, "We're OK."
There are many times I simply don't feel OK, though.
I have avoided putting this all out there because more than anything else I don't want to peg Kyle as a difficult baby. I have a very instinctual need to protect him, even from the pitying glances of well-intentioned people. A part of me wants to gloss over all this and only cry behind closed doors so no one will talk at dinner about how they're just so relieved their kid isn't like our kid. I always feel like shouting, "But he's beautiful and soft and perfect! You'd be lucky to have him! We're so lucky to have him!" I also thought I'd be better at this, better equipped to handle the stress and the exhaustion. Bottom line: I thought I'd be stronger and it's very hard to admit to anyone, let alone quite a few people, that I'm not as strong as I thought I was.
For whatever reason, though, it's not in my nature to gloss things over, so here I am, opening my book for you to read my story. As I read today on another blog post: "Documenting the moments because they were beautiful and to be savored, every last painful or delightful morsel of each." This is our story, and I want to tell it and that means every last exquisite and excruciating moment.
I don't have a red bow to tie this post up with. We have good days and we have bad. We know we'll get through it, together, but we just don't know when or even how. I do have faith, thank god. Faith that we'll be fine, that we'll some day forget how hard these first weeks have been and we'll even consider doing it again one day. I have faith my son will reach for me one day and I'll be all it takes to sooth and comfort him. I have faith we'll figure this out but it's so much easier to see clearly on the other side of things, isn't it?
So I find myself holding my son in my arms, bouncing up and down to calm his cries and whispering in his ear about the view we'll one day see from the other side.
(Still insanely well-dressed, fussy or not.)