©Richard Frank
Nine months ago, during the last storm of the snowiest winter in Philadelphia history, my stomach began to gurgle loudly like a draining bathtub. It took about an hour to realize what this meant: my daughter finally wanted out.
Toward the end of my pregnancy, I’d found out that my baby was facing my belly in my womb—”sunny side up,” the midwives called it, which sounded to me like an apartment listing that calls a tiny studio “cozy.” I was told to hang out on my hands and knees as much as possible and the baby should turn in time for delivery. She was angled in a way that meant she’d have to do nearly a full 360. Apparently fetuses can only rotate in one direction, like a flushing toilet. If only we were in Australia.
I killed time in my last few weeks by watching the winter Olympics on my hands and knees. When I needed a break, I crammed—re-reading key passages from my stack of childbirth books and handouts from classes at the hospital. Which breathing techniques to use for which stage of labor, which types of massage to request, which props to use. I was prepared.
Here is what I knew. If you just relax enough and surround yourself with people you trust, you’ll be able to have a natural childbirth and it might even be euphoric; you must, must, must breastfeed the baby immediately after she is born, plus keep her in your room with you that first night no matter how tired you are; and with Dr. Harvey Karp’s five S’s technique—swaddling, side/stomach position, shushing, swinging, and sucking—a bawling infant is magically soothed.
Here is what the books didn’t tell me. That I would be in so much pain I wouldn’t even want to be touched, let alone ask for a back rub. That the only type of breathing I’d possibly be able to muster was to blow raspberries. That I would get stalled for half a day at 5 centimeters. That just the teensiest, eensiest bit of Pitocin would send me into a series of 10-minute-long contractions that would leave me yelling for an epidural. That my baby wouldn’t turn, making it impossible for me to push her out without an episiotomy. That she’d take her first poop inside me, breathe it into her lungs, and need to be rushed to the NICU immediately after being born.
No nursing her; no keeping her with me in my room. I was kept up all night by a screaming newborn, but it was my roommate’s, not mine.
They had Sasha hooked up to machines for the first 3 days of her life. I tried nursing her a bit but we couldn’t really seem to get the hang of it, especially with all those wires in the way. I was given a breast pump without much instruction, so I basically didn’t use it. Besides, the only thing holding me together were the moments that I could go to the NICU and put Sasha inside my hospital gown, pressing her warm bare skin against my own. I wasn’t about to give that up to pump little splutterings of a substance that wasn’t even milk yet out of my boobs.
A few days after we took Sasha home, we discovered that my episiotomy stitches had busted and I needed to be recut and stitched. It was sort of like going to the dentist, getting shot with local anesthesia, except in a much more sensitive part of your body. The surgery left me unable to climb stairs for 2 months—or walk, really—so I lived on an air mattress in my dark living room during that time. I couldn’t stand long enough to change the baby’s diapers. I couldn’t carry her around to comfort her. I couldn’t even sit and comfort her because sitting on my butt hurt too much. With the help of pillows and rolled-up swaddling blankets to get us in exactly the right position, I could nurse her. But it turned out that because I had neglected to pump at the hospital I had low milk supply and had to feed her 3 ways each time she ate: at the breast, then a bottle of pumped milk followed by a bottle of formula. I was swollen, I was sore. I wept every time I went to the bathroom, during every infrequent shower I took. There were fluids pouring out of me from every orifice, except maybe my ears.
We tried the “five S’s.” We tried really hard. Sometimes they worked. But more often they didn’t. And at those times we didn’t just have a crying baby on our hands; we had a crying family. It all came to a head one night when my husband, Jonathan, was sick—passed out on the couch with a fever. It was 2:00 a.m. I was trying to nurse Sasha and she was yanking her head back and doing what Jonathan called her Fay Wray scream. She was clearly starving but she just wouldn’t eat. I frantically dug through my breastfeeding handouts, trying to find an answer. Nothing. It was too late to call anyone. I started doing this thing that I think a lot of people do when they’re desperate, where I’d loop my memories over and over in my head. I’d relive the birth as if it were a movie and I’d always get stuck on this one frame. This split second during labor when I was sure, absolutely convinced, that if I had just gotten on my hands and knees one last time and accepted a massage from my midwife instead of opting for drugs, everything would have gone differently. I would’ve been able to turn the baby, which would mean I wouldn’t have needed an episiotomy, which would mean I wouldn’t have needed to be restitched, which would mean I’d be more capable with Sasha, which would mean she’d be happier right now, which would mean she’d be nursing calmly in my arms, gulping and making little sighs of baby satisfaction. But I was weak and I did choose the drugs, and here we were: Fay Wray. I was suddenly so full of rage that I nearly threw the baby across the room. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever felt and I quickly put her in her bassinet and walked away.
Just about every mom I know, or at least the honest ones, has had at least one experience like this. Especially in the early days. When I told my friend Kirsten about what I was going through, about how I couldn’t stop looping, she told me this: These first few months are the longest shortest time. Remember that. They go on forever. And then they’re over.
When Sasha was about 9 weeks old, I had to take her with me to a dentist appointment. I knew I’d have to feed her there and I was terrified she’d go into Fay Wray mode. The receptionist offered to let me feed her in an exam room. So we sat in the reclining chair, me feeling practically naked without my pillows and swaddling blankets to prop her up. She lay there with her mouth around my nipple but wouldn’t latch. I braced myself. And then Sasha looked up at me. She looked me right in the eye, not at the top of my head, which is where she usually looked. She kind of gave me this smile and she grunted a couple times, like unh, unh. Her first laugh. It made me laugh, which made her laugh more, which made me laugh more. I wondered if the receptionist could hear us cracking up like a couple of maniacs.
This is all to say that it changes. Motherhood is not always giggles and hand-clapping and learning to walk. But things do change and often they get better. And the things you’re going through, even if they’re not in the books, they happen to other people, too. In this blog and podcast you can hear other moms—and sometimes dads—tell stories about their longest shortest times. And maybe, in your darkest hours (both literally and figuratively), you’ll hear a voice that reminds you that this part is only the beginning of the rest of your life with your new little person.
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25 Responses to The Longest Shortest Time
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Amazing story! so good to hear it-helps to process. Its a crazy time.
Bravo, Hillary, for telling the unadultered truth about the early days of parenthood! I have a friend who calls those first few months after birth “The Baby Cave.” It’s dark and lonely and isolating. You have to completely surrender yourself to your newborn, and it’s exhausting in every way possible. But as my mother always said, “This too shall pass.” And parenthood becomes a lot lighter and rewarding.
Great post. Have you ever read Naomi Wolf’s Misconceptions? It is probably one of the most revealing and insightful books about pregnancy and caring for an infant. I recommend it to every new mom I meet.
Hillary, this really took me back, oh yes, to what feels just like yesterday. My baby turned 14 two days ago. It really, truly, heartfully is the longest shortest time.
My son was also born last February and things did not go as planned… at all. But I too, remember that first laugh and smile and it made the first 8 weeks of craziness melt away. Now that he will be 1 next month and we start to think about having another baby, I try to really remember the good times and remind myself that things change in an instant.
I always appreciate real stories of those first weeks. It’s not easy!!! I remember being so tired of hearing people say, oh enjoy this time because it won’t last. I did not enjoy waking up 600 times a night to feed the baby! (My kids are older now – 4 and 8 – but I still remember those times.) As a side note, I also live in Philly and I also have a daughter named Sasha!
Hillary, you’ve hit the nail on the head. I would have to remind myself that each day is 24 hours-it only felt longer. The distinct, clear memory of those first days has stayed with me for 22 years! And it is difficult to admit, but necessary, that even the best mothers feel like striking out sometimes, when they can’t make the crying stop, or can’t get the milk to flow.
Ah, I’ve totally been there — starting with trying to find a place where I could have a water birth, just like the ones on you tube, where the baby would just plop softly into my hands in a nice warm tub, and crawl unassisted up to my milky bosom and start slurping away. One epidural and four months of around-the-clock pumping later, I had about 3 ounces of milk a day, a mostly formula-fed baby, and was getting through the pain of nursing one session at a time. How is it possible that I didn’t even notice when it stopped hurting to nurse? She’s 15 months now, still nursing, still not getting more than a spoonful of milk, but still loving it. New moms, hang in there.
I’ve been there. I used to put my wailer in her crib while I cried myself in my shower (with the exhaust fan and heat fan running to cover her screams). Breastfeeding is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Screw natural child birth…anyone who can breastfeed for a year should be given the mother of the year award with an instant ticket to heaven. Motherhood is anything but predictable, I love that your blog is discussing the unpredictable that no one else wants to talk about.
Thank you so much for this raw, honest post. It’s nice to know that others found those first weeks impossibly hard.
-Kate (a now-happy mother to 8-week-old Riley)
Awesome blog!! totally honest and relevant. I’m the mother of a toddler and one on the way. Had a beautiful epidural birth with baby #1 and can’t wait for more drugs the second time around. I never could breastfeed due to issues similar to yours and that was okay, too. Mothers become such judges of other mother’s choices- I know this is not a novel thought, but it became so clear to me after I had my daughter- and I think part of it is because we’re not honest with ourselves.
Oh my, this took me back to those early week-long days with a vengeance — I also planned a peaceful water birth with midwives (sigh) that ended up being a three-day long induction process in the hospital in which I narrowly avoided a c-section (still with my midwife, who saved me from the section,and saved me from worse horrors). There is a special place in the afterlife for midwives, I hope. Thank you for writing this with such truth and love — it really resonated for me. Now my son is 2-1/2 and it seems so long ago, but I don’t want to forget the joy and fear and exhaustion and delicate, trembling thrill of getting to know him (and, honestly, myself) in those early weeks.
oh girlfriend, we could talk. i wrote pretty candidly on my blog, at the time, about these troubling times. i went through that darkness and discovered a rage in me that i never knew existed; and it scared me shitless. i still talk about it in therapy and have to work through flashback moments of that same feeling managing a now toddler. but its different.
i just know i felt infinitely better hearing others stories. the ‘yes i wanted to fling him’ ones. those honest and difficult and scary stories of anger and deprivation and fear. and isolation.
im with you. good for you for writing about it!
Great post! I only wish you had been able to start this blog about a year before you did, when I had my baby! Thank you for doing this.
Thank you. I have cried through your website, and I am so grateful for your storytelling. My daughter is 4 months old and I still can’t really tell my story yet. But 4 friends have had babies in these 4 months, and while I genuinely rejoice with them, I am realizing that I genuinely mourn my experience each time as well. Thank you for providing an understanding place to find comfort and reassurance.
This made me bawl. We had similar birth experiences; I wanted to go natural and did all the “right” things to prepare. My baby was posterior and asynclitic and I kept stalling. It was the most excruciating thing I’d ever felt. We transferred to the hospital where I got an epidural, Pitocin, and an unwanted episiotomy. Due to meconium I couldn’t hold her right away, which was probably the most important thing I’d wanted out of the birth. I felt like a weak, wimpy failure, like it was my fault I hadn’t had the magical, empowering experience the natural birth folks talk about. It seems like light-years ago now, and I’ve mostly gotten over it. But it was rough for a while.
blue, It is really amazing for me to read this because I’ve never talked to anyone else (of my generation) who’s had an episiotomy. Thanks so much for your comment.
Hi Hillary. I want to let you know the stories I’ve encountered here
influenced me to begin my training as a birth doula. Women supporting
each other throughout pregnancy, birthing and all aspects of
motherhood is timeless, and I believe it’s essential to our physical,
emotional and spiritual well-being. Sharing tales of our most intimate
joys and fears is powerful stuff. “The Longest Shortest Time” is a
forum for perspective, strength, inspiration, and more than a few
laughs . What a gift to mothers and their families. Thank you!!
Thank you for the honesty! My son is 2 months old now and means the world to me but I wish someone would have warned me about the complete rollercoaster you feel after having a baby. So nice to find this website!
Thank you SO much for creating this blog and podcast. My son is 3 and 1/2 weeks old and I am grateful to hear your story and those of other parents to help me get through the next few months. I too had visions of a beautiful natural delivery and I was so confident that I was not all that nervous about labor. I was much more nervous about the prospect of induction, which I narrowly avoided when my son decided to make his appearance at 41 and 1/2 weeks. I did end up delivering naturally, but it was after 30 hours of excruciating back labor. I did not feel a natural urge to push at all, which made learning to push feel like learning calculus. I had horrible flashbacks of the delivery for a week, and breastfeeding was the most difficult thing in the world. I felt like I’d been a fool for believing I could handle everything with ease. I am still adjusting to this new life, and your podcast has kept me sane the last few days.
I have so enjoyed reading your blog and listening to your podcast throughout the last couple of weeks since I discovered it. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must have been for you those couple of months! My story is almost identical to RJ… I planned on a peaceful, natural birth. I managed to narrowly avoid induction after more than 41 weeks. I had 20 hours of miserable back labor and I did not know how to push. I had to deliver my almost-9-pound, sunny-side-up baby’s head AND arm out together, which caused me to tear. I was able to deliver naturally, but the birth room looked like a slaughter house by the time he arrived. My body was so traumatized that for about 8 hours after the birth, I was short of breath and my heart was racing uncontrollably. I had always heard that you “forget the pain” as soon as the baby arrives, but I had horrifying flashbacks for a couple of weeks. I breastfed my son for just over a year, pumping three times a day when I had to go back to work full time, but I never had a strong milk supply. At first nursing was incredibly painful, and I had a colicky baby. Then from about 4 months on, he would never latch on for more than about 3 seconds at a time – unless he was practically asleep. So for about 13 months I nursed him 3 or more times per night when he would wake. I don’t know how I survived it, but I now have an amazing, vibrant 20 month old toddler!!
[...] the obvious medium was blogging. Easy enough. I came up with a title, drew a logo, and made my first post on The Longest Shortest [...]
I had such a similar moment. Hubby was playing video games at the other end of the house and my girl maybe 3 weeks old at the time was so hungry and not latching and was screaming, screaming, screaming. And I let her scream thinking my husband would hear her and come to us. Finally I screamed his name and boy did he feel terrible. He’s never done that again. He ended up having to go get tummy drops while I cried with her as we waited. God that was horrible.
Also, I’m 30 and my baby is 4 months. I thought we would birth naturally but the pain was incredible and I begged for the epidural. She came so fast down the birth canal that my skin had no time to stretch and I got an episiotomy.
Even after all that, I already want another baby! As soon as my girl is 2 or 3, we’ll start trying.
Beautifully written. Brought tears of recognition to my eyes.
hillary!
what a great post and blog this is. i consider myself to be just out of the woods of the longest shortest time and finally clear headed enough to reflect on it a little bit. so i’m discovering your blog at at great time.
i have two sons 20 months apart. i got pregnant with my second child the same week i weaned the first one, so i was pregnant or breastfeeding without break from may 2009-july 2012. and, my second son didn’t sleep through the night reliably until he was almost a year old.
pregnancy, childbirth and early motherhood have been more emotionally and physically grueling than anything else in my life. and i’ve been though some tough shit. it is mind bending how it can be so wonderful and so brutal at the same time. i have never been so happy but i also have felt some days like i am being ground to dust by the experience and effort of it.
i also had an episiotomy with my first childbirth, which i had actively feared from the time i first heard of it, probably decades ago and which, after 3 hours of pushing, i welcomed. i was very fortunate to have an easy healing process from it. i was less fortunate with my early breastfeeding experiences, having several mastitis infections with high fevers and ER visits.
feeling incapacitated when you are trying to keep a newborn baby alive with your breasts is terrifying. my breats never did anything before! how can i trust them to handle the most important thing that’s ever happened to me?!
my second son was also in the NICU for two days after his birth and i felt the stress of that early disconnection for MONTHS.
life is much more stable now. how else would i have time and energy to write a long comment on a blog! thanks!