NEW MOM DIARY VOL. III: DAPHNE'S ARRIVAL

By Jackie Weiss

My last diary entry, titled "Two Days to Due Date" was written not a moment too soon. Daphne Olivia made her debut just about precisely on time, replacing "Alice", as we referred to our unborn child, with a healthy 7 pound, 14 ounce baby girl sporting a red face, a full head of brown hair, and a delightfully pleasant disposition.

To say that she arrived "just about precisely on time" is to withhold proper credit from little Daphne. Actually, she would have been born exactly on her due date, rather than one day later, as was the case, were it not for her mother's misconception about what constitutes having one's water break. For the benefit of those who may share my misconception, I will clarify.

As I wrote in my last entry, I had taken to carrying a towel in my bag to work with the expectation that when my water finally burst, it would be with an unmistakable gush like a large water balloon shattering on pavement. In fact, at around 2 a.m. on the morning of my due date, I began to feel a small trickle, that I assumed was a precursor to, but not yet actually, the real thing. In the morning, though I felt crampy and drippy, I decided to buck up and go to the office anyway, where I spent the day becoming increasingly less comfortable. By late afternoon I was feeling lousy enough that a visit to the doctor was in order. After a brief inspection, my doctor informed me that yes, my water had broken many hours ago, putting me at some risk of infection if I didn't deliver soon. As I wasn't having regular contractions on my own, the doctor instructed me to march myself over to the maternity ward across the hospital from her office where they would induce my labor.

For the most part, my labor was easy, helped in no small measure by an epidural. The main complication was that at five in the morning, when it was time for me to start pushing, my doctor was still tucked snugly in her bed in Riverdale, the result of miscommunication between her and the hospital staff. It took her two hours to arrive, at which point the epidural had worn off, and I could feel the baby chomping at the bit to get out. When the doctor finally arrived, I whimpered for another shot of anesthesia. "There's no time for that, honey," she told me. "You're about to have this baby. Push!"

Daphne was born ten minutes later. Although I could not see her immediately from my vantage point, Greg, who was squeezing my hand, watched as she was whisked to the two pediatricians waiting at a warming table in the corner of the room, and told me later that her initial complexion was deep blue. I waited for what seemed like slightly too long to hear her cry (in the movies it is always immediate), and felt a huge relief when the cry finally came. After a quick check-up, Daphne was pronounced fit for presentation to her mother. I held her and looked at her face, which was alert and had turned bright pink, and she was immediately familiar. To me, she looked like me.

I spent the first couple of weeks following the delivery feeling sore and tired, but buoyed to a considerable degree by the fact of this new tiny person who had arrived on this earth and in our lives and was instantly so precious and dear. By week three my soreness had dissipated, though the tiredness persists. It feels like eons since I've had more than three hours of sleep at a clip.

Daphne's first weeks feel like an eternity ago, though she's only just a month old. In the beginning we had an almost constant stream of visitors and the phone rang off the hook. After Labor Day Greg and all the guests had to return to work. Suddenly, I am a full-time mom, alone with my infant daughter most of the day.

The primary generalization I can make thus far about my new job is that I am busy constantly with tasks that did not exist in my life a month ago. Feeding Daphne is obviously the big one. She eats approximately every three hours, around the clock. Mostly, I nurse her, but that is frequently not enough. Boy, can this kid eat! This feels like a guilty confession, given the dominant paradigm nowadays that breast milk is best, but generally I have to top her off with a few ounces of formula after nursing. By the time I've finished nursing her, mixing and feeding her formula, and burping her, quite a chunk is gone from the three-hour period until her next meal. And I still haven't changed her diaper, boiled water for her bottles, straightened up the apartment, which has been overrun with her paraphernalia, and attended to her constant stream of laundry. Tasks that are non-Daphne-related have been getting short shrift, to put it mildly.

The toughest part of the job for me is that it can be isolating. Daphne is beautiful and adorable, and (our good fortune), generally even-tempered and easy to read. But she's not yet a great conversationalist or even particularly interactive. Mostly, when she's not attached to my breast or being changed, she is asleep or about to be. For me, adult companionship is at a premium. I do have a few friends with newborns, and even though they mostly live uptown, I've packed Daphne into a cab and made the trip several times, despite the effort and coordination required, because social interaction with other new mothers can feel like a soothing salve. I'm extremely grateful when someone comes to take care of me -- like the times when my mother has come to play with Daphne and has brought all the ingredients for a complete dinner for me to heat up when Greg gets home. A tip for guests in a house with a newborn: do whatever dishes are in the sink before you leave, and you will likely earn the mother's undying gratitude.

I've never been so happy to greet Greg when he gets home from work! He is madly in love with his little daughter, and brings a renewed home energy each day, talking to Daphne, explaining things to her, feeding her bottles, rubbing her stomach when she has gas pains, and generally delighting in her. We are stubborn about incorporating Daphne into our regular lives as much as possible. Consequently, she likely holds the title for being the youngest patron ever at several Greenwich Village landmarks like the White Horse Tavern, where she joined her parents for burgers at the tender age of around three weeks. Though she seemed less-than-impressed with the establishment where Dylan Thomas was said to have drank his last pint (she slept in her seat at our outdoor table the whole time), she was the toast of the tavern that night, and many of the other patrons stopped by to ogle her.

So our learning process continues, and little Daphne appears to be thriving. She has been gaining weight like a champ, and now tips the scales at almost 10 pounds. Much of it seems to be concentrated in her enormous cheeks, though she has added a chin or two since birth, bringing the total to around eight. A few times during the last few days Greg and I have suspected that she may have smiled at us, although the cynics will say it is probably just gas. It feels like she's been around forever already, but everyone wiser and more experienced assures me her infancy will feel like it is over in a flash, so we must hold fast and enjoy it while it lasts.

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