Fear of Little Fingers

I have developed two recent fears, both regarding Raphaela's little fingers. The first involves cutting her nails: since her birth, I have always gotten others with more confidence to cut them, as I am petrified of removing a piece of her body along with the nail. This all started when I read in one of the many baby books on my shelf, "and when you draw blood..."

The second recent issue revolves around my long curly hair, and the fact that Raphaela always grabs a handful. This morning I noticed a particular strand wrapped around one finger, practically cutting off circulation. I went into a major New Mother panic, and was ready to take her to the emergency room.

When do these feelings go away?

Happy Thanksgiving Day

My three favorite holidays, both religious and secular, in descending order:
1. Thanksgiving Day
2. Succot
3. The December Holiday Season (Chanukah, Christmas; specifically in The City)

I have so much to be thankful for this year, and I feel that every moment that I spend with my daughter. I also feel the loss for her, that she will not necessarily grow up with her American cousins and experience the holiday traditions that make days like this so special. The food, the predictable arguments, Macy's Day Parade, the mass migration of the men into the den to watch football all afternoon, the midnight deli feast to which only the adults were invited.

The amazing smells of my grandmother's cooking. That feeling of being surrounded by family, for better or for worse. I will have to find Israeli traditions to replace that void.

Like Riding a Bike

Having finally arranged child care for Raphaela, an arrangement that I can accept because I trust the person, because it is only for four hours; and because having her out of the house makes more sense, as it allows me to concentrate on my patients.

Or at least I hope so, because putting her in someone else's hands for even 12 hours a week will be an emotional trauma that I will have to work through, as has every parent before me. If I am distracted at work thinking about her, I might as well not go back at all.

This decision means that I will miss one feeding, but for that we have the Avent hand pump.

I had secretly feared that not working for over two months would make me rusty, but today I adjusted my friend and colleague, and got a badly needed Chiropractic adjustment myself, and I knew what I was doing, I felt confident and ready when the time comes to start working on my patients again, and even getting paid for it.

I am, however, choosing to be selective about which patients I inform when I return to work, because between giving Raphaela away so to speak and picking up Chiropractically where I left off, I want the cheerful patients, the relatively easy cases in the beginning. Thankfully I have the option of creating my own work schedule, and its content. In fact, that is one of the main factors which convinced me that I could be a single parent by choice.

Feeling Grossly Inadequate

Moved to the edge of insanity by two days in which Raphaela did not nap for close to 15 hours straight, followed by two nights where it took several hours to get her to sleep, I finally got the electric breast pump I had borrowed from Yad Sarah over two months ago, and took it out of the box. You see, the other night I was so exhausted and frustrated that I had no desire to put my own child on my breast, and wanted at least to have the option of giving her a bottle with my milk. I also did not want to get to a place where my very kind neighbor - whom I had called over around eight pm in a state of panic - asked me if I thought the baby was hungry, and I said, "I don't care."

My friend Rachael pointed out that since Raphaela and I had spent the whole day together, and into the night, she was probably as sick of me as I was of her. It is in these moments that I truly feel the burden of being a single parent.

True to the scientist part of my nature, this breast pump may have provided the key as to why my daughter gets so ornery at certain parts of the day, and sometimes needs over two hours to calm down at night: she may very well be hungry.

When I started pumping, I expected to receive at least 60 ml from the effort, and barely scraped away with half that amount. At this stage, Raphaela needs between 90-120 ml at each feeding, and clearly, my milk supply is inadequate. That is one of the fundamental problems with breast feeding, you cannot measure the serving you have provided.

First off, I feel like a failure; despite my best efforts and intentions, I am not giving my child enough food. That translates to serious guilt in every religion, not just the Jews.

Now I must come up with a plan, which includes supplementing throughout the day with bottles, but finding the right formula that will not activate what I suspect is lactose intolerance. (I find the soy based formulas stinky.) I plan on pumping as often as possible, to increase my own milk flow. I also plan on reading the latest book borrowed from my friend and upstairs neighbor, which tackles the specific issues of sleep patterns and behaviours.

Thank G-d babies do not remember most of the traumas of early infanthood, hopefully all she will remember is that I tried my hardest and that I love her.

Visions of My Future

I spent two hours today with Raphaela at the birthday party of Zoe (Zoharia), the eight year old daughter of my friend and Chiropractor. Twenty one very loud girls playing musical chairs and mystery gift party games, and touching everything in the house that was either rare or breakable or off limits. My friend's husband kept following the swarm with a garbage bag, trying to clean up after them practically before they finished an activity, and finally gave up and retreated to the back yard, away from the chaos.

Raphaela was a hit, not just with the girls but also with Zoe's older brother and his friend, who all saw her as a dress up doll with small fingers (relative to their size) and who actually smiled and ate and pooped. My assumption that the fascination with babies is genetically and sociologically programmed only into the women-folk was mistaken.

Raphaela has attended her first birthday party, and in my mind I have already started the guest list for her one year old birthday extravaganza.

Today I also finally bought myself a rocking chair, Israeli style rather than the classic American wood jobs I would expect to see in my grandmother's house. We tried it out with tonight's feeding and enjoyed, and at the moment, Harry is sitting there, curled up on the blanket I left for him. I would not have expected any less.

Truly, A Miracle Child

Not only did I lose weight while pregnant, but according to the optician today, my eyesight improved. I had been having trouble reading and had been getting some headaches, which I attributed to the position of my head during breast feeding. Turns out my myopia went from minus 4.25 to 3.75, thank you Raphaela!

(I can see the headline: "Amazing Fat Sucking Baby Cures Vision")

Now if only she could learn better sleeping habits, we would all function better, except for Harry who waits until just the worst possible moment to desperately need food/attention/to be let out. His timing is uncanny, and straight out of the textbooks on sibling rivalry. I realized that Harry makes the perfect developmental toy for Raphaela: he's black and white, he moves and makes noise, and has a fuzzy texture.

Though her skin was flawless at birth, Raphaela started with the classic baby acne in the last week. In response, I am cutting down on the processed sugar I intake, as it gets processed immediately into milk; and I have started the baby on non-lactose formula, for the one to two bottles she gets each day. She has to look great for her American passport photo.

All Clear!

I had my six week gynecological appointment today; my stitches are fine and every organ is back in place. I weigh exactly the 78 kilo that I started at, at the beginning of my pregnancy, and now that I am allowed to resume running, my stomach may actually get return to my previous level of fitness.

(Why can't doctors check women without sticking their fingers in the least comfortable way possible?)

I also received a very important message from my subconscious today: after investigating another, better child care option, I started crying, because I understood that I am not ready to go back to work. I am not ready to give her to someone else, to miss that time watching her grow, no matter how much I enjoy being a Chiropractor. It feels so much less important than investing in my daughter.

I love her more and more every day, even when she resists to sleep, and must find a way to make this work thing work, without traumatizing me, and without going into minus at the bank.