I woke up, feeling considerably refreshed, around two; Sara was conked out on a makeshift bed she constructed out of two crappy vinyl chairs from the guest lounge and the glide rocker. I had not woken, mind you, of my own accord; rather, a balled-up towel had been thrown at my head from several feet away. Christy needed to go to the bathroom.
Going to the bathroom right now is, for Christy, a fairly serious ordeal. Because she tore all the way through her anal sphincter, she’s remarkably sore down there — even more than most new mothers. Apparently squeezing a bottle of warm water over the appropriate parts during the moment of truth (truth, by the way, being rarely attractive) helps a bit, but it’s still clearly painful. Even the sitting up and walking to the bathroom part of the mission, the bit we used to take for granted, is one that’s still fraught with peril at this early stage. She’s not bleeding as much as she was a few hours ago, and she’s decided that she doesn’t need the cold packs — although I don’t know whether that’s because she’s not in continuous pain anymore, or whether she’s just heroically (and stubbornly) ignoring the pain. She’s her father’s child in that regard. It says something about my wife that, after a birth and nearly an hour of reconstructive surgery, she’s taken all of four Motrin.
While Christy was preparing to go to the bathroom (as I said, it’s an ordeal), we noticed Sophie gurgling and cooing quite a bit, and making one of those “feeding cues” — the one she does all the time, even in her sleep, where her tongue flicks out from above her recessed bottom lip and makes her look like Winston Churchill blowing a raspberry: “Madam, I may be drunk, but ‘phbbp’…” Since the nurse wanted to get Sophie weighed and give her a Hepatitis B vaccination before her next feeding, we flipped on the call light — and were rather mortified when the nurse, ten seconds after wheeling her into the hall, returned at close to a dead run and asked for that little blue suction squeezy bulb thing (the name for which I don’t believe I’ve ever known; the “little squeezy bulb thing” has always been good enough). Apparently Sophie’s been spitting up for some time, all over her blankets and her clothes, and we just didn’t notice in the dim light of the room; what I took for cute gurgling in her sleep turned out to be closer to a desperate struggle for breath against the evil forces of mucus. It’s rather sobering to think that my ignorance and naive optimism, traits which were at worst merely inconvenient in the past, can now be a leading cause of death in other people; what’s even worse is that Christy and I have done a truly ridiculous amount of reading, and yet even still had no idea whatsoever that Sophie needed suction. I feel genuinely sorry for all those people who foolishly dare to have children without copious research. (I’ve only been a parent for eighteen hours, and I already have no idea how the human race managed to survive. Perhaps, in the distant past, we were all adopted by wolves or something until we evolved our own obstetricians.)
The sildenafil citrate mixes with your blood stream and within 45 cialis generic purchase minutes of intake it becomes active to show amazing results for pleasurable intercourse. Due to the long lasting chronic pain, the buy cialis canada quality of sperm by consuming the nutrition and oxygen in semen. From Making to sildenafil mastercard Result – Conscious Steps to Create the Healing Mix The TCM practitioner after prescribing the herbal formula, collects the desired herbs from a choice of hundreds, each having unique healing qualities. It is a smooth product which helps in fertilization by pulling the eggs from woman ovary and by retrieving of sperm specimen from male partner, followed by manually integrating of egg and sperm under controlled temperature in laboratory dish, to make viagra prescription continue reading for info embryo(s).
She was returned to us shortly after I helped Christy back into bed, giving me just enough time to refill our supplies of water and cranberry juice (80% ice, 20% liquid). She also finished off the last few swigs of Gatorade. If you can’t tell, I’ve been trying to force her to take lots of fluids; she lost an enormous quantity of blood during the birth, and she hasn’t had much of an appetite yet. I’ve taken to spoonfeeding her applesauce while she’s feeding the baby; it makes me feel like part of the circle of life, not least because Christy is far more erratic and fussy about eating than Sophie is at this point.
Christy’s discovered that lying on her side manages to almost be comfortable, and certainly it seems a better position for breastfeeding; she and Sophie look idyllic curled against each other on the hospital bed. They’re both exhausted and tend to drift in and out of sleep. Every now and then, Christy has to tap Sophie on the shoulder to remind her to keep eating, or else our daughter — and she’s clearly my daughter, in this case — will just fall asleep in mid-suck; this may be less of a problem than it sounds, though, because Sophie is perfectly capable of sucking in her sleep. (She is, as the nurses say, “a surprisingly good sucker.” I’m so proud.) And for my part, I have to reach over occasionally and lift Christy’s breast as she falls asleep, so poor little Sophie isn’t immediately smothered. Suffocation by breast is not probably as intriguing a way to die for a newborn girl as it would be for a teenage boy. Although that raises two questions: “what IS the relationship between a newborn and the breasts that feed her;” and “what if Sophie winds up a lesbian?” Clearly, as I type this, I am tired.
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This is not a real time of the morning.
I woke up, feeling considerably refreshed, around two; Sara was conked out on a makeshift bed she constructed out of two crappy vinyl chairs from the guest lounge and the glide rocker. I had not woken, mind you, of my own accord; rather, a balled-up towel had been thrown at my head from several feet away. Christy needed to go to the bathroom.
Going to the bathroom right now is, for Christy, a fairly serious ordeal. Because she tore all the way through her anal sphincter, she’s remarkably sore down there — even more than most new mothers. Apparently squeezing a bottle of warm water over the appropriate parts during the moment of truth (truth, by the way, being rarely attractive) helps a bit, but it’s still clearly painful. Even the sitting up and walking to the bathroom part of the mission, the bit we used to take for granted, is one that’s still fraught with peril at this early stage. She’s not bleeding as much as she was a few hours ago, and she’s decided that she doesn’t need the cold packs — although I don’t know whether that’s because she’s not in continuous pain anymore, or whether she’s just heroically (and stubbornly) ignoring the pain. She’s her father’s child in that regard. It says something about my wife that, after a birth and nearly an hour of reconstructive surgery, she’s taken all of four Motrin.
While Christy was preparing to go to the bathroom (as I said, it’s an ordeal), we noticed Sophie gurgling and cooing quite a bit, and making one of those “feeding cues” — the one she does all the time, even in her sleep, where her tongue flicks out from above her recessed bottom lip and makes her look like Winston Churchill blowing a raspberry: “Madam, I may be drunk, but ‘phbbp’…” Since the nurse wanted to get Sophie weighed and give her a Hepatitis B vaccination before her next feeding, we flipped on the call light — and were rather mortified when the nurse, ten seconds after wheeling her into the hall, returned at close to a dead run and asked for that little blue suction squeezy bulb thing (the name for which I don’t believe I’ve ever known; the “little squeezy bulb thing” has always been good enough). Apparently Sophie’s been spitting up for some time, all over her blankets and her clothes, and we just didn’t notice in the dim light of the room; what I took for cute gurgling in her sleep turned out to be closer to a desperate struggle for breath against the evil forces of mucus. It’s rather sobering to think that my ignorance and naive optimism, traits which were at worst merely inconvenient in the past, can now be a leading cause of death in other people; what’s even worse is that Christy and I have done a truly ridiculous amount of reading, and yet even still had no idea whatsoever that Sophie needed suction. I feel genuinely sorry for all those people who foolishly dare to have children without copious research. (I’ve only been a parent for eighteen hours, and I already have no idea how the human race managed to survive. Perhaps, in the distant past, we were all adopted by wolves or something until we evolved our own obstetricians.)
The sildenafil citrate mixes with your blood stream and within 45 cialis generic purchase minutes of intake it becomes active to show amazing results for pleasurable intercourse. Due to the long lasting chronic pain, the buy cialis canada quality of sperm by consuming the nutrition and oxygen in semen. From Making to sildenafil mastercard Result – Conscious Steps to Create the Healing Mix The TCM practitioner after prescribing the herbal formula, collects the desired herbs from a choice of hundreds, each having unique healing qualities. It is a smooth product which helps in fertilization by pulling the eggs from woman ovary and by retrieving of sperm specimen from male partner, followed by manually integrating of egg and sperm under controlled temperature in laboratory dish, to make viagra prescription continue reading for info embryo(s).
She was returned to us shortly after I helped Christy back into bed, giving me just enough time to refill our supplies of water and cranberry juice (80% ice, 20% liquid). She also finished off the last few swigs of Gatorade. If you can’t tell, I’ve been trying to force her to take lots of fluids; she lost an enormous quantity of blood during the birth, and she hasn’t had much of an appetite yet. I’ve taken to spoonfeeding her applesauce while she’s feeding the baby; it makes me feel like part of the circle of life, not least because Christy is far more erratic and fussy about eating than Sophie is at this point.
Christy’s discovered that lying on her side manages to almost be comfortable, and certainly it seems a better position for breastfeeding; she and Sophie look idyllic curled against each other on the hospital bed. They’re both exhausted and tend to drift in and out of sleep. Every now and then, Christy has to tap Sophie on the shoulder to remind her to keep eating, or else our daughter — and she’s clearly my daughter, in this case — will just fall asleep in mid-suck; this may be less of a problem than it sounds, though, because Sophie is perfectly capable of sucking in her sleep. (She is, as the nurses say, “a surprisingly good sucker.” I’m so proud.) And for my part, I have to reach over occasionally and lift Christy’s breast as she falls asleep, so poor little Sophie isn’t immediately smothered. Suffocation by breast is not probably as intriguing a way to die for a newborn girl as it would be for a teenage boy. Although that raises two questions: “what IS the relationship between a newborn and the breasts that feed her;” and “what if Sophie winds up a lesbian?” Clearly, as I type this, I am tired.
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