I’ve survived the first week—actually, the first ten days. So far, this mom thing is a piece of cake. Maybe I have an exceptionally good baby. Little Ivy sleeps at four hour increments at night, waking only once for a short feeding and then it’s back to bed for all of us. It doesn’t make sense to me for Nick to get up with her. He can’t feed her (not yet anyway) so why should we both be awake? He’s the one who has to go to work the next day, so I take on all of the nightly responsibilities.
Labor was easier than I thought too. After nine hours of pitocin induced contractions, I caved and asked for an epidural. Three hours later, I pushed for half an hour and out she came. The worst part of giving birth was the stupid blood pressure monitor! Mine was high, so they took my vitals every fifteen minutes. That sucker clamped onto my arm so tight I thought it would pop off!
Hospitals are horrible places. This was the first time I’d ever been admitted to a hospital. Sure, I’d been to the emergency room dozens of times for car accidents, broken arms, sprained ankles and various other self-inflicted childhood injuries, but all of that was in and out. Ivy was born early in the morning, so Nick and I were pretty much up all night. Once there was a regular room available, we were moved from a labor room to a recovery room. I had yet to sleep a wink, so by the time I was given all of the instructions on how to care for myself during my stay I was ready to pass out. No sooner had I fallen asleep than a horrible woman came in with her torture devices—another blood pressure monitor. Fine, fine. Get it over with so I can sleep. She took my vitals, told me to get some rest, and left. As soon as she leaves, a candy striper brings me breakfast that wasn’t worth eating. I was too tired anyway.
“I’ll be back for your tray in a while. Try to get some rest.”
Rest. Right. That’s what I needed.
A few minutes later, Ivy’s doctor comes in to tell me that she’s doing fine. He’d be back tomorrow. In the mean time, I should get some rest.
I was certainly trying.
Next came my doctor. She poked and prodded, told me I’m fine, but should try to get some rest.
Yes, I’d LOVE to.
The candy striper returns for my tray and wants my lunch request.
The blood pressure lady comes back.
The lactation consultants want to know how breastfeeding is going.
All of them have the same parting words—“Try to get some rest.”
If you people would stop coming in here, maybe I COULD get some rest! But that’s how it went for the next two days. Hospitals are the worst place to get any rest. I can’t even blame visitors—I didn’t have any! It was all hospital people. By the time Saturday rolled around, I was more than ready to go home, have a decent meal and a nice long nap.
Being in the hospital was supposed to be the best part, everyone said. Take advantage of the nursery—no one else will take the baby for so long and you’ll need your rest. Well, home sweet home was the best thing for me. A side trip to Taco Bell for some veggie chalupas and then we hit the hay. I got more rest in that single afternoon than I did during my entire hospital stay. I was so rested, in fact, that we all got up and went to church the next morning. I haven’t needed a nap since I’ve been home. I have tons of energy, but not enough arms. Now that Nick is back at work, I’ve resumed my household duties and Ivy and I are keeping things under control. We’ve been shopping, baking, vacuuming, hanging out laundry—you name it. Next week, I’ll resume my workout. Bathing suit season, here I come!