There comes a single moment in the course of an infant's life when their parent knows for certain that their life has been irreparably changed in ways it was hard to truly envision until it actually happened to them. And when that moment comes, the parent shakes their head, has an inner dialogue about how they can't believe they are actually doing this 1, and moves forward with a new badge of honor pinned to their shame vest. It's a difficult moment. It comes with immense responsibility.
It is the moment when a parent discusses their child's poo publicly.
I am a relatively conservative person when it comes to talking about bodily functions. I wasn't brought up to think vomit, feces, urine, flatulence or burping were ever an appropriate topic of conversation outside of a medical setting. But baby poop has suddenly become a significant player on my life-stage and it has made me realize that this is an inevitable fact and the time has come to face it. And this moment has come to me courtesy of Lilah.
When the girls first got home from the NICU, we used a white-board in their room to track the time and amounts of formula they ate and when they filled their diapers. This was necessary at the time because preemies' eating and diaper habits can quickly point to problems they're experiencing. Now that they're bigger and still healthy, we only track the last time they had a bowel movement.
"Last poo: Wed AM" is what the space below Lilah's name read. The evening of Thanksgiving, Lilah awoke several times in the night screaming, which was odd because normally she babbles loudly to let us know she is awake. (And on another note of significance, Charlotte slept through the entire night! 2) Lilah continued to be fussy and cried for me and then Nanntastic Cindy all day. We speculated that she might be working on a tooth, so gave her Tylenol and tried to comfort her. On Friday night, Lilah woke up screaming every hour. We rocked her 3 until she calmed down and then put her back into bed.
We realized on Saturday night that she was constipated beyond belief. We used several phrases to describe this: "The troops are stuck at the gate", "Logjam", "The turtle's pokin' it's head out" (thanks, Mike Myers), all of which speak for themselves. This little girl was in some serious pain. I tried pumping her legs. I tried taking her temperature "the ol' fashioned way". And, because I could actually see the poo languishing in the transitional zone, I even tried using a food syringe to suck part of it out. Nothing helped.
I called the Consulting Nurse to see if there were some more home remedies I could use. She suggested "P" juices (prune, plum, pear) and if, it came to it, an over-the-counter pediatric suppository. We mixed pear juice with Lilah's formula, and I was tasked with the lovely job of administering the suppository. If I could read her mind it probably would have been something like, "You do know what my problem is, right?! And you want to put more in there?! Are you freakin' kidding me?!" She was a screaming, miserable little girl.
And then we left! We had pre-arranged for my really good friend (because only a really good friend would watch your twin babies for hours while one of them screams bloody murder) Angie to watch the girls while we went on a Christmas Tree expedition in the Baker/Snoqualmie National Forest, and it was our last chance to go, so we kept the plans and hoped that a major blow-out would happen before she arrived. It didn't. And we came home to a still-screaming, miserable little girl. I administered another suppository. I am evil incarnate. I know. I got in a warm bath with her 3. It still didn't work.
Lilah continued to wake up every hour all Sunday night, screaming and inconsolable. Finally, at 5 a.m., I thought I would change her diaper and saw the turtle-head making an appearance. I like to think that my words of encouragement made a difference: "Come on, Lilah, You can do it! Push! Push! Keep going! You're almost there!" but it was probably just timing. And finally, after 5 days, very little sleep, and a lot of unhappiness all around, it was out.
I actually stood there for a moment admiring it. I debated whether to save it to show Sean. I thought about what I would compare it to so he would know exactly what we had been up against. This is about to be THE parenting moment. This poo was the size and shape of a wine cork and hard as a rock. This poo was huge. HUGE. Way too big for an 11 pound baby to have to pass. I don't know how fruit juice would have made a difference in softening or reducing this sucker, but I did know that whatever impact it had was probably waiting further upstream, so I had that to look forward to.
And yet, the adventure is not yet ended. With all of the strain, pushing, wiping and irritation she endured, her bottom is chapped and blistered, red and raw, and still causing us all (yes, most of all Lilah) continued misery. She won't sit on our laps to eat, instead arching her back or turning sideways. She cries when we set her on the changing pad, clenches her cheeks and straightens her legs so we're denied access. (Mostly me because I've obviously destroyed any trust that she had for my skills as a diaper-changer.)
The only good to come of this whole situation is that my independent girl, the one who pushes away and leans back so she can have a better view of everything going on around her, has, at least temporarily, become a cuddler. I was almost grateful at some points in the middle of the night as I held her close and she snuggled in against my chest, as I felt her breathing become calmer and slow, as I inhaled the sweet smell of her head and felt her pulse against the soft underside of my chin. I gently rocked from side to side, shifting my weight from one hip smoothly to the other hip, and hoped that she was enjoying this moment, this incredibly lovely moment, as much as I was.
And then she'd shriek.
1 - Granted, there are surely many of these moments yet to come. This however, is the first among the long series of shame badges I will earn as I move up the ranks of parenthood.
3 -This is love: 1) Holding a shrieking baby for as long as it takes in spite of permanent hearing loss; and 2) Taking a bath with a baby when you're actually hoping she will poop in the water.
2 comments:
omg, I actually went through something very similar with Monica, but she was closer to 2 yrs old. We spent all day trying to get that brick out.
Must have been even harder with a kid who was bigger, stonger and more likely to struggle!
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