With every passing day of me not updating, I keep making up excuses for myself, to include “nobody’s really cares what’s happening,” “Some blogs don’t get updated that frequently,” and my usual go-to, “Eh, nothing really exciting has happened to write about.” Of course, the last one is the least true; so much has happened, and Kaleigh is really coming into her own. …which is both awesome and terrifying. The truth of course is that we've been so busy and have been on so many adventures since she was born that I've barely had time to change my pantaloons, let alone put [proverbial] pen to paper.
Go ahead, image-search "dirty pantaloons". I'll wait.
I’ll pick up where we left off. Kaleigh had just arrived, and as hard as it may be to understand, the brief period of time that we were in the delivery room before being moved to postpartum were simultaneously the slowest and fastest 60 minutes of my life. Immediately after I yanked out her goopy body, she was plunked down onto my wife’s chest for some quality bonding time. Everything soon became like one of those scenes in a movie where the central character is in focus and moving slowly, but everything around them is fluttering about, out of focus. I was making a conscious effort to try and slow down in order to capture as much as possible as “mental photographs” while not doing anything klutzy or stupid (e.g., tripping on my wife’s umbilical cord). SPEAKING OF: ladies, if you’ve ever been curious as to what cutting that little lifeline is actually like (since it is a task traditionally offered to the father), I have come up with two simple DIY analogues, which you are welcome to try. For best results, use actual bandage scissors:
Cutting the cord with a crane kick, I suppose.
1) Take either a handkerchief or an old, thinning washcloth and soak it thoroughly in water. Wrap it into a spiral (as if you were going to wear it Karate Kid style) and wring it out until it is no longer dripping, but is still damp* (I intentionally did not use the “m-word” here for a number of my friends; you’re welcome). Cut along dotted line.
2) Cook a big, juicy, not-recommended-by-your-cardiologist New York Strip steak. Trim off the fat (aka, “concentrated flavor strip”) but leave a little bit of residual meat attached to it. …Snip-snip!
Obviously, unlike real life where they don’t recommend repurposing your baby as either a headwrap for the All Valley Karate Championship or as delicious meal, you can feel free to do with these fake umbilicals as you see fit afterwards.
Perfectly marbled umbilical cords. You'll never look at steak the same way again.
So anyway, the time was flying by. I had procured juice and ice for my wife, took more photos than Ansel Adams in Yosemite, and actually managed to spend some quality time with my daughter. At one point, one of our nurses said something about Kaleigh’s diaper; I replied, “oh yeah, we’re definitely gonna want one of those.” She looked at me blankly for a second, and then gestured down towards my daughter. HOLY CRAP, she was already wearing one. WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM?!? Did she come out wearing it or something?? Apparently the nurses, in their Batman-like surreptitious stealth, were able to diaper my child in the 1.07 seconds that it took for her to traverse the airspace between my wife’s crotch and her chest. It was like a NASCAR pit crew, but for baby poop. (If only they were for hire afterwards!)
Before we were thrown out of our big, comfy room, I was able to get off quick phone calls to all the essential personnel (i.e., family). While my parents live out of town and were preparing to depart on the morrow, apparently Jan’s family had been staging at our townhouse, and were ready to deploy as soon as we contacted them. I was not made aware of this until after I called; apparently, our home’s proximity to the hospital combined with my father-in-law’s blind excited rage made for a slight acceleration in their estimated travel time. With Jan clutching Kaleigh, and I weighted down like a Bactrian camel transporting a nomadic mongol yurt, we were whisked away to the postpartum floor.
Oh, just headed up to the postpartum floor; don't worry, I got everything.
The anecdote of my wife’s family mobilizing with the alacrity of a special forces squad is herein noteworthy, as we were surprised to find them following us down the hallway of the postpartum floor on our inaugural trip to our room. Unfortunately for them, having an actual baby was the shibboleth for room entry, and instead of being welcomed by a bed and executive briefing by the charge nurse, they were instead greeted by a militant young lady who enforced our privacy with the resolution of an Abu Ghraib prison guard. They were forced to stand in the hall while we were given a matter-of-fact briefing on how to appropriately bathe my wife’s nether-regions, not drop the baby on the floor, and operate the remote control. Due to the timing of Kaleigh’s arrival, we were not able to move up onto the postpartum floor until the late evening, about an hour before visiting hours ended; mercifully, the nurses sensed that we would be receiving some visitors, so they delivered their spiel so quickly that I was surprised that I did not hear it end with “please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, sit back, and enjoy the ride.”
After an impressively snug swaddling by our night nurse, everyone was allowed to come in, and Kaleigh got to meet her maternal grandmother, grandfather, and aunt. Although I later heard from my wife that she wanted nothing more than to actually hold her baby in those first few hours, I also was able to observe how relieved she was to get to use both of her hands to eat the first solid meal she’d had all day. OBVIOUSLY, I took a bunch more photos throughout their visit, the visit of my brother and his girlfriend, and the after-visiting-hours-so-I-had-to-sweet-talk-the-nurses-as-I-am-prone-to-do visit of Matt when he got off work.
My brother, meeting his niece for the first time; me, proud and exhausted.
Ultimately that evening, everyone left, the nurses went back to their station at the end of the hall, and I closed the door on the three of us for the first time ever. Jan and I looked at each other with a simultaneous glance of “Holy crap, we did it,” and “…holy crap, what do we do now?” We all settled in for a little quality bonding time sitting side-by-side as we introduced ourselves to our little tax deduction. It was around this time that I glanced at the paperwork that Jan was forced to sign upon arrival on the floor; it was not unlike the infamous user agreement of a certain fruit-themed computer company, in that we essentially had no idea what it said and were completely unaware of what it was to which we were complying, but knew that if we didn’t click “ok”, they wouldn’t let us play with our new toy. Apparently, Jan signed a form stating that she WOULD NOT SLEEP IN THE BED WITH THE BABY. If you stop to think about it, this makes some sense… parents are more tired than usual and may sleep more soundly, and someone who flops and flails may end up smothering their child. In the moment though, new parents are so tired that they are barely able to understand the word salad “baby… bed… sleep”, and may not tolerate it well if they are legally bound to be separated from their child. Plus, usually forms like this aren’t made unless the healthcare system has had a problem with this phenomenon before. HOLY FREAKING CRAP, I MAY NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.
NOOOOOOOOOO! DIDN'T SHE READ THE FORM?!? (*Not Jan.)
Luckily, Jan and I were not the only ones who were tired from the day’s adventures of birthing, and Kaleigh seemed quite content to lie in her bassinet and zonk out completely. I unfolded what could generously be referred to as a chair/bed (ched?), as Jan secured herself with every pillow in the northeastern United States. We stared (not creepily) at our daughter as we marveled at how well she was sleeping, as opposed to the baby a few rooms down the hall who, by the sound of it, was having his fingers pulled off one-by-one by a large mongoose. Ah, we got the peaceful child; what a breeze this parenting thing will be.
Oh, if only we weren’t so naïve.
