Well, duh, you're probably thinking. Brittany, you had a baby five weeks ago. I'd imagine that's a norm in your house.
Except, in the mornings, it isn't.
Because we co-sleep, I'm normally awakened by a fidgety baby. Even a coo-ing baby who is rooting around on my chest.
But the morning time is Ella's good time, and she'll fuss, but only a little, when she wakes up and wants to eat.
She rarely cries in the morning.
So, needless to say, I was taken aback by her wails at 7 a.m.
Still, I rallied and started her morning routine - new diaper, clean outfit, and then right on the breast.
Immediately, I felt like we'd regressed four weeks in our nursing.
She was latching on and off, on and off, on and off - a sign, I'd read, that they're growing and that they're gassy.
My poor baby.
And, unfortunately, my poor breasts. In her efforts to eat, she managed to rip off a callous I'd spent weeks "working on," toughening my breasts and making breast-feeding significantly less painful.
It hurt so bad, I cried. Aloud.
Still, finally, Ella managed to latch on and continued to eat. For an hour.
Finally, she fell asleep on the breast, and I righted her sleepy self, burped her, and put her in her swing, hoping I could get 30 minutes to get dressed and eat breakfast.
No such luck.
Within three minutes, she was up. And screaming.
I grabbed her, putting down my cereal and almond milk, and she immediately began thrashing around and rooting at my chest.
I couldn't believe it. How could she be hungry?
Still, I'd been told to feed her on-demand, so I did just that. I popped her back on my fuller breast - the one she'd ripped the callous off of the hour before.
And then I screamed.
Dear God, it hurt. It hurt just like it had weeks ago.
I couldn't believe it. And I also couldn't believe Ella didn't seem phased.
She proceeded to nurse for another hour - most of which she slept through.
Still, every time I tried to take the nipple out of her mouth, she'd go back to sucking and/or crying.
She would not let me remove my breast.
Finally, another painful hour later on the other breast - which wasn't feeling so hot itself - she fell into a deep enough sleep that she released the nipple all on her own.
I went to put her down for a nap in her pack-n-play.
And then she woke up. Again. Screaming. Again.
So, me - two-plus hours into my day, top-less, in my pajama pants, without a drop of food in my belly - picked her back up.
And - what do you know? - she started rooting again.
I couldn't believe it. And neither could my breasts. They were screaming out in pain, and it wasn't even 10 a.m. yet.
So, I tried everything else I could think of: I sang; I swayed; I rocked; I shoosh-ed. I used the swing, the bouncer, the play-mat, the Moby, the baby sling, the sound of running water.
We walked outside; we walked inside. I patted and pranced.
And, still, nothing. All my normal tricks weren't working.
When she wasn't in my arms, she screamed. And when she was in my arms, she rooted violently at my breasts - thrashing her arms and yelling in a ticked-off, infant-manner at me.
Finally, tired and out of ideas, I did the unthinkable: I latched her onto my aching breasts.
I cried out. She nursed.
Then fell asleep on the breast minutes later.
Side note: For those of you wondering if she was getting enough, she was. She was pooping throughout this entire cycle. And I was producing a lot of milk, as she was chugging and swallowing vigorously every time she latched on.
Still, this time, I was determined she'd stay asleep.
It didn't matter that I was shaking from hunger, seeing as it was almost lunch-time, and I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. It didn't matter that I was smelly and tired myself.
I went to the kitchen, carting my sleeping babe, grabbed some trail mix and sat down on the couch.
All the parenting warnings aside, I was going to hold her while she slept so I could have some peace and quiet. And some food.
That lasted about an hour.
I'd started to regain my sanity.
She woke up; I managed to grit my teeth and not scream when she latched on to nurse for her lunch-time feeding. I felt we'd be OK.
Then, the screaming started again.
Her's, not mine. (Yet.)
She was rooting and screaming, even after eating for another hour.
The only time she wasn't screaming was when she was on my breasts, comfort-nursing (i.e., eating a bit, then comfort sucking for the majority of the time.)
Unfortunately, though, she'd nursed so much that my breasts were raw and even a little bloody by mid-afternoon. I was back to where I'd been weeks ago - crying through her feedings.
Meanwhile, Ella would fall asleep, only to wake up the second the nipple slipped from her mouth, ticked as all get out that she wasn't nursing.
Meanwhile, I was still in my pajamas. I was so tired. And I'd been holding a screaming baby, who had chafed my nipples, almost constantly for about eight hours straight.
Tears actually sprang to my eyes when I heard my husband's car pull in our driveway; I was just that relieved. I was going to get a break. I was going to be able to eat something. I may even get a shower.
But my dreams were dashed when he walked through the door, and I saw his face.
"I have to go back in tonight. And I have to work all weekend to. I won't get a day off till Monday," he said.
I almost screamed.
Today of all days, I thought.
Then, I burst into tears.
I regaled my day of rooting, screaming, nursing, and bleeding to him, and he was sympathetic.
But there was nothing he could do: When the military's your boss, you really don't have a choice.
He went back into work; I sat on the couch deep-breathing through yet another nursing session.
She finally managed to knock herself out. I picked her up off the breast, thinking I might be able to make myself dinner.
And then she woke up 10 minutes later - you guessed it - screaming for no good reason. Rooting even though she wasn't hungry. Refusing sleep even though she'd slept one hour all day.
So, I did it.
I went into her room and grabbed it.
Something I hadn't planned on using for at least another week.
I got a pacifier.
And, with tears in my eyes, I popped it in her mouth.
She stopped crying. Her eyes stared back at mine.
And then, I lost it. I bawled. I picked up the phone and called my mom and cried when she answered, "I just gave my baby a pacifier, and she's not six weeks old yet. I failed!"
Meanwhile, Ella had spit the paci right out and was bawling right along with me.
My mom tried to talk me down over my hysterical sobs and the wailing baby in my arms.
But I was so tired, and in so much pain, and so irrational, the poor woman couldn't do much.
I finally hung up the phone and tried the paci again.
Ella saw it coming this time, ducked, and refused it out-right. She continued screaming.
I cried with her.
I wasn't sure if I was more relieved that we were obviously not at risk for nipple confusion anymore, of if I was crying because my last chance to quiet her and escape my pain for an hour - the pacifier - wasn't working.
And, so, my evening was more of the same.
Ella cried. I cried. I even yelled a little. Which made my cry more because what kind of mom yells at their infant?
This wasn't the baby blues. This was just one really bad day.
Finally, it ended.
She nursed herself to bed, and I went with her, tears dried to my face, wearing the same pajamas I'd woke up in that morning.
***
When I arose the next morning, my baby girl still asleep, I was afraid.Afraid of having another day like the one before. Afraid of how she'd be when she woke up. Afraid of losing my cool and yelling at my baby more than once.
I teared up, laying there with Ella on my chest. I didn't want to be afraid of my baby. I didn't want to be the kind of mother I'd felt like the day before.
I didn't want to feel that out of control and close to the edge while I was the sole caretaker of my child ever again.
Blessedly, it was as if it never did happen.
Ella napped normally, ate normally, and didn't make me yell or cry even once on Saturday.
Sunday was even better: Even though the hubs was still at work, Ella and I spent most of the day out-and-about, and she did great.
Still, this weekend wasn't my proudest moment. It's hard to breakdown to the point where you're losing it on your own baby. I was honestly hanging by a thread, and I hated every minute of it - my pain, her pain, our tears, the screaming, the pacifier, her reaction to it, everything.
Five weeks in, and I'd already experienced an all-time parenting low.
Luckily, we survived. Ella doesn't seem any worse for the wear. And I'm slowly starting to realize that, sometimes, with babies, it just happens.
The proverbial poop hits the fan, and you just have a bad day.
A day where you're hurt, and they're hurt, and you both cry, and you survive on a wing and a prayer and a hand-full of trail mix.
Still, here's hoping we don't have another one like it for a long, long time.
***
Happy Tuesday, everyone!
