Swan Song of Maternity Leave

 Ahhh, the time warp that is maternity leave. A time warp that, sadly, is in its waning days. It seems impossible that 10 weeks have passed since the birth of my second barnacle offspring, and yet I can't possibly remember what life was like without her. Maternity leave (not vacation, thank you very much man-with-visibly-soiled-hands-trying-to-touch-my-baby-in-the-grocery-store) is such an odd beast-- inexplicable unless you've been there. One would think lots would get accomplished-- you're just sitting at home all day, right? But oddly enough, NOTHING ever seems to get done. Seriously, some days my list of things to do includes items like "brush teeth", and I reserve the right not to divulge whether the list is always checkmarked at the end of the day. Babies (or at least MY babies) are so constantly dependent, so barnacle-ish, and their needs are so cyclical that I am completely incapable of accomplishing anything else. Feed me. Change me. Hold me. Clean up my spitup. Wait, did you put me down? You know I don't tolerate that. Feed me again. And again. Change me again. And again. Add this to the unfathomable degree of sleep deprivation that makes one walk around in a dazed fog reminiscent of the day after middle school sleepovers. Except your tummy doesn't quite have the same "consumed-an-entire-pound-bag-of-skittles-and-pan-of-brownies" feeling. And somehow you manage to get absolutely nothing done. Which is frustrating when your goals for the time "off" include Learn All of Pediatric Radiology, Make Delicious Home-Cooked Meals Nightly, and Clean/Organize Entire House. Let's just say I got stuck at the top of the list in the "brush teeth" department...


What I have learned (or have been reminded of) from Maternity Leave includes the following:


There is a logarithmic direct relationship between the niceness of the clothes you are wearing and the volume and rancidness of spitup that your offspring will deposit on you. 
The corollary to this relationship is that your older child will ask you why you always have pajama day at work lately.

There is a similar inverse relationship between the volume of spitup and your proximity to a burp cloth, time you have to get somewhere, and minutes since you stepped out of the shower. 

Husbands should make comments like, "But you've been home ALL day!" upon penalty of death.

Baby Rogaine ad to air in the near future

Introduce a bottle to your breastfed baby before the week prior to going back to work, unless you want your baby to look at you like you have mistakenly offered her poisonous shards of hot glass.

Laundry. Is. Never. Done.

Getting pegged with projectile baby poop while changing a diaper is enough to halt ovulation for a good 18 months.

27 days (but who's counting?) with no more than 2 consecutive hours of sleep makes you a little grumpy. 

If maternal success is judged by getting your child to nap in a crib, I'm a complete fail. Conversely, if it is based on depth of the butt-shaped imprint you leave on the couch from the incessant nursing your baby prefers, then bring on my trophy.

Hours spent with a newborn sleeping on your chest are not wasted. In fact, they may be the most productive I've spent in my 32 years.

One YouTube instructional video on how to tie the Moby Wrap is far more useful than 14 years of higher education.

You have a narrow window of time to put your kiddos in funny costumes and take pictures without protest. Make the most of it. 

You know your husband has a problem when he buys/sells/trades cars at a rate approaching that of the number of diapers that you change.

My smile may or may not be feigned. Elise isn't even attempting to humor her dad. 

Never underestimate the power of the swaddle.

It is inevitable that whenever you are holding or feeding the baby, your older child will suddenly need to be physically on your person. Nursing a baby with a 3-year-old draped across your shoulders is no easy feat.

70 days is not enough to be ready to give up your little one to the care of someone else. But neither would 700 days. Or 70,000. And I know I'm lucky to love my job, the people I work with, and knowing that my girls will grow up knowing they can do and be anything they want to be (except a hairdresser). So back I'll go, thankful for the snuggles, the sweet baby smell, the touch of tiny fingers and toes, and all the rest of the moments you only get to cherish one time around. It's amazing how 71 days (who's counting?) of sleepless nights are magically erased by one simple sweet smile. 

Ceremonial first visit to Grampa's restaurant garners mixed reviews by the Golding girls:

Elle gave the famous double cheeseburger a look of generalized disdain...

While Elise seems rather pleasantly intrigued.

Ironically, the cheeseburger afficianado is the one who has been noshing on dairy-free milk for the past month and a half...

Sisters

I realize the danger inherent in comparing my two daughters-- heck, I'm still traumatized by the fact that my grandfather asked as he watched me graduate first in my class at Duke University School of Medicine,, "But where are YOUR medals?". Turns out, my twin sister had been given medals for various awards when she graduated from medical school in Florida a week earlier. So at the risk of making either feel inadequate, I couldn't resist a few comparison shots of the Golding girls' newborn-hood. 

At first glance, they aren't that similar- Elle had blondish red hair (which transitioned to no hair) and sear-your-retinas pale complexion. Elise has dark hair and a much more olivey complexion. But you can't deny they are sisters. 

I absolutely did not pose this shot-- just was reminded of the earlier photo the second I saw the one of Elise. Eerie.

Dichotomy of The Bath. These sum up what I've found to be the fundamental differences in their personalities so far. 

E1 = Drama.

 E2 = Pensive Consternation.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

"Hmm. Now this is an experience with which I am thus far unfamiliar. I am not certain how I feel about it and will therefore reserve judgement until I have gathered further evidence."

Other than the hair color, and the age difference (Elise is about 3 weeks older than Elle was in these pics), there expressions are strangely similar.

 Definitely sisters. And for what it's worth, you both get medals in my book.

The first week, in photos

Yes, I am fully aware that there are a million worse things that could have followed the phrase, "Are you sitting down?" when I answered the phone call from Elle's daycare director. But at the time, in my emotionally fragile 1 week postpartum state, being told that she cut ALL her hair off during naptime was right up there with "school has been taken over by radioactive aliens and your child now has a neon pink tail". 


I couldn't focus on the logistics of how my 3-year-old had access to scissors of the hair-cutting strength (whatever  happened to the "safety" variety?!) during naptime, why she wasn't (doesn't ever) napping, and why no one saw the incident in progress. Or at least before she hacked off both sides with amazing symmetry. Yes, symmetrically hacked nearly to her scalp-- somehow feathered a la Farah Fawcett, but with a laughable-if-someone-else's-kid rattail in the back. A proper mullet. A beautician she will not be. All I could say over and over, in traumatized victim fashion, was "her beautiful long blonde hair..."

I resisted the urge to post a musical montage of beautiful long blonde hair photos set to some nostalgic 80's ballad, although I'd be lying if I said there hasn't been one running through my head ever since.

Sigh.

Double sigh.

 I couldn't really get mad at her, as it occurred to me that I've never actually explained to her that she shouldn't cut her own hair. This realization led to panic about a million other things that seem common sense to me, but haven't been explicitly stated to my daughter. Don't get a tattoo. Don't put anything you find on the gas station bathroom floor into your mouth. Or your sister's mouth. Don't skydive. Don't lick a battery...

I also discovered how selfish I am, when another parent in E's class made the statement, "Look on the bright side... at least she didn't cut someone else's hair!" Are you kidding? I would so much rather her have cut someone else's hair! Of course I would have apologized profusely, felt really really bad, disciplined Elle appropriately, and offered some Baked Goods of Repentance. But still, I would have much rather her cut someone else's hair. 

Off we went to Great Clips, where I requested the mullet to be coiffed into something as presentable as possible. Is it the most flattering look for her sweet little round face? No. Does she look a bit like a boy? Ummm, maybe. Do I sometimes think she looks like a little Hillary Clinton? No comment. Is she still my beautiful sweet little girl? Absolutely. Just stay away from the scissors, kiddo.  

The Moment

I am absolutely miserably unfathomably terrible at living in the moment. I recently read a wonderfully well said blog post on the implausability of constantly living in the moment, especially on this journey of SCR (small child raising). But I think there are extremes on either end, and while constantly berating yourself for not embracing Carpe Diem isn't ideal, neither are my incessant forward-thinking, future-planning, next-big-thing-anticipating tendencies. I blame this character flaw at least partially on the nature of medical training-- the past 26 (nearly 27, egad!) years of my life have been compartmentalized educationally into finite blocks of time, each with an identifiable endpoint and expectations of the next big thing. Graduate high school --> Get into college of choice --> Get into medical school of choice --> Start residency of choice --> Start fellowship of choice, etc. Success career-wise has to some degree been dependent on focusing on the goal one step ahead. But somehow along the way, I lost the ability to sit through a 2 hour movie without constant racing thoughts about what I can make for dinner that night or how to protocol the next day's fetal MRI or what we need from Costco. 

That being said, there are a few moments in life that are decidedly and unmistakably memorable. Even for the world's worst of moment liver-inners. 6:55pm on 12/29/2011 was one of those for me, and because I'm sure she'll ask at least once in her life, here is a concise version of the birth story of Elise Cabot Golding. Concise, of course, because I need to work on tomorrow's to-do list...

The day started routinely at work, I read out the ED films from the night before, read some ultrasounds, even started writing a Christmas blog post. Left work at lunch for a scheduled OB appointment with the  infamous last words, "Be right back!" Which of course, for any student of foreshadowing, means those were the last gravid words I'd speak to my co-workers. At the OB office, I offhandedly mentioned that I'd been having a few more contractions lately, but they weren't painful and didn't seem to be increasing in intensity or frequency. She checked me, declared 5cm and 100% effaced and suggested we hook me up to the monitor to see just what the contractions were doing. I have to admit, when actually lying still for 30 minutes, I did notice the regularity and frequency of the contractions. I guess I hadn't stopped checking things off the to-do list long enough to be aware (see the recurring theme?). The conversation went like this:

OB: You're contracting every 4-and-a-half minutes, dilated 5cm and fully effaced. You need to go to the hospital and have a baby.

Me: No, I need to go back to work and finish the day. We're short staffed for the holiday, you see. 

OB: Unless you'd like to deliver on Hawthorne avenue on your way back, or in the elevator, I think you should go on to the hospital.

So I went.

Once I got checked in and settled in my posh Labor and Delivery room, it was around 3pm. Thankfully your Dad was off that week so I called him and he made his way to the hospital. In keeping with tradition, we jammed to the Beastie Boys on his iPhone while anticipating your arrival. A couple hours later, the nurse decided to check again to see how far the OB could venture away before your arrival. 

At the risk of being too graphic for you (Mom embarrassing you already, go figure), upon feeling for my cervix she instead felt your head. 

"Don't. Push."

Doctor summoned, push, push, and there you were. 7lbs 12 oz, 20.5 inches long. I don't dare advertise your delivery story to many other moms, and looking back as I write this a few weeks later I wonder if the ease of labor was purely to mitigate the sheer and utter exhaustion your nighttime habits have brought to my once quasi-functioning self (debatable, I know). 

But regardless of how you made your entrance into this world, that very moment will forever be engrained into my mind-- every detail from the sweet sound of your first cry to the touch of your soft skin. For your dad, big sister, and me- life just became more complete. And in the one single moment, I became what God created me to be. 

Your Mama.