Welcome to the world of BETTER PLACE. After two weeks of misery and self-defeat, I'm back in fighting form. And by "fighting form" I mean "zzzzzz..."
Sorry if I worried anybody with my earlier, hormone-induced rant. Clearly one should not blog while freaking. Thanks for your great, great advice and reassurance. You guys are so smart. And gorgeous. Have I mentioned gorgeous?
I met with a postpartum doula yesterday and I'm feeling all kinds of better. It definitely weren't cheap (I've gotta get into the doula racket) but seriously, best money I ever spent. So after fourteen days of weeping and flailing and gnashing of teeth, what was the problem?
Nothing. Turns out I'm fine. How embarrassing is that?
You'd think I'd have learned a thing or three, being a nanny for so many years but, eh, not so much. I was under the mistaken impression that whenever Will cried or rooted for the breast he must be hungry. So I'd feed him. And feed him and feed him and feed him. Needless to say, after three-hour sessions at the Boobtown Buffet (followed by hospital grade pumping), my titties were starting to squeak. Because he would still be fussy even after all that time at the boob, I assumed I wasn't producing enough milk to meet his neigh-on-10-pound needs. And let me tell you, a sore, sleep deprived, filled-to-the-brim-with-grade-A-anxiety Ali is not pretty. Has anyone seen that clip of a self-medicated Paula Abdul weeping hysterically over having to design costumes for the Bratz movie? Before I gave birth I thought it was hysterical. Now, I completely understand.
Among a myriad of other useful things, Wonderdoula showed me how to get him to latch without pain, how to put him in the sling (I HAVE ARMS AGAIN!) and helped me formulate a plan so I can actually consider leaving the house. (14 days. But who's counting?)
So yes friends, I am back. I'm still working on fumes but at least I'm here. And here is good.
Birth story to follow!