Well, predictably enough, I'm Wiped to the Fuck Out. Happy with it, because Godzilla, if I do say so myself, is the awesomest baby to ever awesome shit up. And the F-word has taken my breath away with how good he is at being a dad. I was expecting something like it, obviously, or I wouldn't have procreated with him, but to see it in practice is fucking beautiful.
I'm not doing much in the way of sleeping anymore - Godzilla's growth started spurting on Sunday night and he's been on my boobs pretty much non-stop - has already gone from weighing just under 10 pounds at birth to just over now after losing some ground his first couple of days, when he spent the first night in the special care nursery and then ran into our breastfeeding learning curve. That means not really sleeping. Which at the moment is okay. It's fascinating what the human body can bear, especially when the payoff is a fucking supercute baby who isn't too hard to soothe and gives great cuddles.
The birth - objectively speaking I'm told it couldn't have gone much better. The F-word described it as a snuff film (though he was splendid as a helpmeet for the duration; I didn't want to kill him once). It was pretty awful while it lasted. I found it to be a true truism that as soon as the contractions are finished you can't remember what they felt like, in any except the vaguest possible terms: fucking horrible. I went into labour spontaneously the morning I was to be induced, thank god, because I've heard induced labours are worse, and I was already having a lot of James Brownsian "I can't go on!" moments.
No drugs, except a little nitrous oxide in the beginning, which I gave up on when it wasn't fun like being at the dentist; in fact it made me sick. And I didn't not take drugs to be tough or natural or because I thought it would be better for me and Godzilla; I didn't take drugs because I really didn't think they would help. The pain wasn't the problem. In fact when it really started hurting - which was the physical act of pushing Godzilla out - that's when things were easiest. The pain sort of reminded me of what I was doing, whereas up until that point I had pretty much lost the plot, and then Godzilla was out, and everything was worth it.
One thing pregnancy, childbirth, and the hospital time afterwards has convinced me of is that women should get a bit more control over how they do all this. Or at least not get judged for their choices. If they want drugs they should have them. If they don't they don't. And it was probably a mistake to put so much pressure on me to get an induction on my due date. It's true Godzilla's stay in the special care nursery for observation was probably down to him spending those extra days in the womb - he breathed in some meconium - but he was fine without intervention and the labour could have been much, much worse for us if I was induced, particularly as early as the preceding Monday. And I had what I consider a very responsibly led pregnancy, with a great midwife.
Anyways, time to get cuddling again. He's just so awesome.
I'm not doing much in the way of sleeping anymore - Godzilla's growth started spurting on Sunday night and he's been on my boobs pretty much non-stop - has already gone from weighing just under 10 pounds at birth to just over now after losing some ground his first couple of days, when he spent the first night in the special care nursery and then ran into our breastfeeding learning curve. That means not really sleeping. Which at the moment is okay. It's fascinating what the human body can bear, especially when the payoff is a fucking supercute baby who isn't too hard to soothe and gives great cuddles.
The birth - objectively speaking I'm told it couldn't have gone much better. The F-word described it as a snuff film (though he was splendid as a helpmeet for the duration; I didn't want to kill him once). It was pretty awful while it lasted. I found it to be a true truism that as soon as the contractions are finished you can't remember what they felt like, in any except the vaguest possible terms: fucking horrible. I went into labour spontaneously the morning I was to be induced, thank god, because I've heard induced labours are worse, and I was already having a lot of James Brownsian "I can't go on!" moments.
No drugs, except a little nitrous oxide in the beginning, which I gave up on when it wasn't fun like being at the dentist; in fact it made me sick. And I didn't not take drugs to be tough or natural or because I thought it would be better for me and Godzilla; I didn't take drugs because I really didn't think they would help. The pain wasn't the problem. In fact when it really started hurting - which was the physical act of pushing Godzilla out - that's when things were easiest. The pain sort of reminded me of what I was doing, whereas up until that point I had pretty much lost the plot, and then Godzilla was out, and everything was worth it.
One thing pregnancy, childbirth, and the hospital time afterwards has convinced me of is that women should get a bit more control over how they do all this. Or at least not get judged for their choices. If they want drugs they should have them. If they don't they don't. And it was probably a mistake to put so much pressure on me to get an induction on my due date. It's true Godzilla's stay in the special care nursery for observation was probably down to him spending those extra days in the womb - he breathed in some meconium - but he was fine without intervention and the labour could have been much, much worse for us if I was induced, particularly as early as the preceding Monday. And I had what I consider a very responsibly led pregnancy, with a great midwife.
Anyways, time to get cuddling again. He's just so awesome.
