So when you get warned about c-sections you get warned about not being able to lift over a certain weight or drive a car for anywhere up to six weeks. I’ve seen blog posts and articles about numbness around the incision area and then other people are having pain years down the line.
What I didn’t see any warnings about though was the changing of the dressing.
We’re gonna brush over the fact that I wish I’d had the forethought to have laser hair removal treatment. The dressing is this kind of sticky plaster, it’s almost like a second skin. I had genuine fear moving around after Matt took the dressing off, I won’t lie. Now I know that my insides were all stitched up, I saw them do it. There’s even video evidence incase I happen to forget.
Oh yes, I have an actual video of my son being evicted from Casa de mi. It’s great. I enjoy showing it to people. It brings me joy.
Anyways, even knowing that my insides are secure, I also know that there is legitimate risk of my incision splitting open or the healing of my insides being hindered by doing too much too soon. I doubt very much that my insides will make their way outside, but why run the risk?
I know for damn sure that Mazikeen accidentally headbutting my incision in her eagerness to get to the little man when we got home from the shops, did not help me in any way. It hurt like a bitch. I almost cried. Mazikeen knew that she had done something wrong and was determined to check that I was okay, which was the epitome of unhelpfulness as I hobbled to the bedroom to lie down like a guy who just got kicked in the balls.
Matt yelled at me half an hour later for trying to pick up the baby to rewrap him, which resulted in me swearing and almost crying again because, well, pain. He then apologized for yelling at me, he just needed me to stop being stupid and trying to do everything myself when I should be asking him for help.
Now as I lay here with my little man on my chest, basking in our new reality and the unbelievable softness of his hair, I remember all of the other things I now fear. Things that I didn’t fear a month ago, not really.
What happens if I drop him? What if Matt drops him? That’s a whole other height level. What if he stops breathing in the night while I’m asleep? What if we’re driving and we get hit by another car? What if he gets sick and there’s nothing that I can do to make him better? What if Matt or I die?
There’s a lot of what if s. Matt hates it when I get caught up in the what if’s.
Before Predator was born, Matt and I had planned to have him in his own room from the beginning. The logic behind the decision was that Matt would only be home for two weeks and when he went back to work he needed to be getting enough sleep and not constantly woken up. The last thing I needed was to get a message saying that he’d managed to weld himself to a canopy. Now if someone else happens to weld him to a canopy…his work boyfriend for example, well that’s not on him.
Then Predator was born and for the four nights that we were in hospital he was roomed in with us. For the first four nights of our new life, he slept in a bassinet next to the bed. I fell asleep with my hand on him, feeling his chest rise and fall or gently rocking him to ease him back to sleep. For those nights I closed my eyes knowing that I could open them at any second and he’d be right in front of my face.
I also woke up with a dead hand every time because the edge of the bassinet cut off the circulation to my hand.
I asked mum on the second day to pull out the bassinet she’d bought when my nephew was born.
Matt brought it up yesterday that he wanted to keep Predator in our room for longer than the two weeks we’d planned. We’ll need to come up with a new schedule for who takes what feeds in the night, and if Predator is having a really bad night and not settling then I might need to take him into the other room till he goes back to sleep. But at the same time having the peace of mind that I can reach through the bars of the bassinet and feel him breathing…that will save me more sleep than I’d lose if he was in another room.
As I hold one of his tiny little hands in mine, his other wrapped around a finger on my other hand, I think about all the things I can’t wait to see him do. I can’t imagine loving anyone the way I love him.
I’d even run the risk of him becoming an eshay, or whatever his generations version is, if it means I get to see him grow up and have kids of his own.
One thing that I have come to realise is not conducive to a) a good nights sleep or b) keeping my blood pressure under control, watching Grey’s Anatomy. I watched the first two seasons when I was recovering from having my wisdom teeth out at fifteen but was in such a drug induced haze that I missed most of it. I then binge watched it a few months ago, which was bad enough because I started to overthink everything that could possibly go wrong with me, Matt, my baby…
So, you’d think that maybe I would choose to not watch it again when I went into hospital.
Just for anyone who’s new here, I never said I was smart anymore. I’m quite certain that I’ve said it a few times that I should not be left to my own devices or trusted to take care of myself.
Will I stop watching a show that is probably going to give me some low-key anxiety? No. I really won’t. Why? Because I’m a mess, clearly.
For now though I will try and get this posted and do some work on my book before the child spits the dummy, literally, and demands to be fed again.
Before anyone comes at me for the unsafe sleeping positions, I was next to them the entire time. The sheet was only pulled up to his chest to keep him warm while he was in between us and it was either have him sleep soundly between us while I was awake and upright or have him fussing and upset in the bassinet.
Just enjoy the cuteness okay.
S.J Smith Books 