Barren Mare

Mastitis minor

After that last post- later that evening- my condition of "all overish and yucky" turned into "hmmm, and perhaps just a little warm, too."  E. concurred that I did feel just a tad toasty, so I casually dug out the digital thermometer and popped it into in my mouth. Oh, how that familiar beep beep beeping takes me back to my bygone fertility monitoring days. And...oooh, yikes. The reading was 102.1! 

That can't be right, I told myself. I don't feel nearly crappy enough to warrant a fever that high. I took it again and it came back reading 101.6.  Well, oookay. That's a fever, then. Taking a quick peek at the afflicted boob, I also noticed a rather worrying pink patch, which hadn't been there a couple of hours ago.  Whereupon I immediately launched into Mastitis Alert Code Red. I fired off a text to my doctor friend (who incidentally had suffered through a bout of mastitis herself in the early days of nursing), asking her if I should commence taking the antibiotics which were left over from my recent ear infection. I had never finished the course, you see, as I suspected it was contributing to Botany's sudden nasty nappy rash, and also because I felt so much better.    

My doctor friend called me back straight away to say, yes, start taking the drug ASAP- she reckoned I might still need a different type of antibiotic more closely tailored to the type of infection but in the meantime it could do no harm to use what I had to hand. So I did, together with some paracetemol. And you know, I felt fine, really. So much so that I got up the next day and went out to my mother-baby group as usual, which generally entails a long chilly walk through the park in pram convoy. That evening, the redness looked a bit worse but the fever was gone. Another day on the antibiotics, lots of nursing on that side, and whew- crisis apparently nipped in the, er, bud.

Anyway- although I do think it was probably the onset of masitis, it was such a minor incident that it almost doesn't bear repeating. However, I relay it partly because I deem it yet another valuable reminder of what I am coming to consider the overriding principle of parenting: namely, "be ye not complacent about anything- because as soon as you do, that very thing (feeding, sleep, health, etc.) will go horribly wrong and bite you in the ass." Or in this case, in the boob.    

In other news, Botany has learned to roll over. Such an exciting milestone- at least for her, since now all she wants to do all the time is roll, roll, roll.  However, she is not terribly proficient at rolling back (from her tummy to back) yet, so there is a fair bit of stranded bleating going on. She hasn't quite figured out how to roll at night in her cot- I think because she is hampered by her sleeping bag- but I can tell it's coming. In which case I predict the already erratic sleep is going to go completely to hell.  Watch this space...

Blebbity bleb bleb

I've had a whole bunch of posts rattling around in my noggin and no time to write anything, since at present it seems all my spare baby-free hours are spent searching for a place to go on holiday in February.  The requirements have become increasingly complex almost to the point of ridiculousness: must be dog and baby friendly, someplace pretty but not tooo far away, somewhere with stylish decor and good heating (essential in the raw damp old Scottish weather). DVD player and wi-fi desirable. Hot tub, aromatherapy and spa treatments aspirational. 

Unfortunately, the first item on the list (that being "dog") already limits things quite considerably. That and the fact that as usual, we have left it too late and most of the good places are booked up. We could compromise but frankly, I have stayed in enough chilly wee hovels up the side of a damp glen to last a lifetime. There is one house we really like the look of, but it is miles and miles away in the arse end of Arse-na-Nog. Even if Botany is willing to put up with the journey, it just feels kind of...remote.

Anyway, much as I want to get around to writing about all those other fascinating topics (weight loss! my loathing of public transport! dreams about losing the baby in the bed!) what I really want to do right now do is throw myself at the mercy of the wise old internets and talk about the thing on my left boob. (If you're in the middle of eating your breakfast, now might be a good time to look away). I think it may be a milk blister, also charmingly known as a bleb. See how educational blogging is? I had no idea what a bleb was before yesterday and now I get to share it with the entire world.

The thing looks blebbish, and has been hanging around for about a week now. I've tried applying warm compresses and nursing more frequently on that side. But no joy. It remains, bleb-like as ever. If I may get a bit graphic- it's not really all that raised as such, and when prodded, it does appear that milk comes out of that duct so I am not convinced that it is, in fact, a bleb. In which case I am not sure what the hell it is. I don't self-diagnose thrush, because it is only one wee white spot and I can't see any corresponding spots in Botany's mouth.

Is it possible to have a bleb where it's just kind of a bit covered over rather than actually plugged?  Where milk still comes out? I've tried scratching away the top surface with a (clean!) fingernail but much as I am keen to wheak out the offending material, I don't see anything really in there to grab onto (sorry- personally, I am a bit ghoulish and love this stuff). Then a few hours later the white coating is back and we start over.

I am beginning to get worried because it's now actually becoming a bit sore- waking me up at 2am in discomfort. But that could be from all the poking around I have been doing, rather than from the alleged bleb itself. Unfortunately, even though I am trying to get her to nurse more often on that side, Botany's new favourite trick is to vigorously yank her head away to look at something else with my beleagured nipple still in her mouth- causing to me yelp in pain.  No doubt this is not helping either.

I am living in mortal dread of mastitis setting in, especially as I am starting to feel a bit "all overish" and yucky. The solution is probably to trot myself down to the GP and whip out the (theoretical) offending bleb for a proper analysis- but I do like to go armed with as much googled factoids and anecdotal evidence as possible, if only because I can see it annoys the doctors in my practice that somebody is thinking for themselves.

Now, I am off to seek out holiday cottages that also accept blebs. 

All things about her are worth remembering

Saddened by the recent events at Flotsam-please stop by and give Alexa a hug.

I know things have changed a lot in the world of parenting since my mother's day, but all the same, I am continually curious to know she managed her own adventures in childrearing. Perhaps, as I dither over every choice- (which nappies to use! when to start solids! is the nursery too hot or cold! should I buy a jumperoo thingie!-)it comforts me to hear that my mother apparently used an entirely different approach and yet I still turned out to be a relatively healthy, well-adjusted individual. That is, at least so far.

Unfortunately, it would also appear that she has blocked out a lot of what went on, since a number of my queries were met with a bemused shrug and a simple response of "I can't remember."  I gather the years of coping with two children born eighteen months apart was not exactly a terribly happy time for my mother. At first I felt a tiny bit aggrieved by the idea that the moments of my precious infancy were not forever emblazoned into my parents' memory banks. So what if it was nearly forty years ago! So what if my mom was so busy and overwhelmed it made her head spin! Surely it was too good- or at least too important- to forget?   

Then I started to think about how much of Botany's first weeks are already a fuzzy blur. The newborn amnesia seems to be taking hold. And while it may be part of nature's plan to numb the rough edges of the experience that as a species we willingly go through it again, I realised that even though a lot of it wasn't exactly what I'd call fun, I want to be able to tell my daughter everything.

So before the shutters of my memory go down completely over that crazy, chaotic, miraculous time here is some of what I remember:

I remember Botany had been home for about three days when E. got food poisoning and lay on the sofa all night and wouldn't go near the baby because he was afraid he was somehow contagious. Botany screamed her head off until about midnight and I sat on the floor of the nursery, changing her for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, crying hysterically. I finally put her in her cradle and pulled the covers over my exhausted head, deciding I would let her cry on her own for just five minutes so I could get a moment's rest. The next thing I knew it was 2am, and all was quiet. 

I remember the first time she smiled at me. It was my birthday and she had been typically crankypants all day and then, when I finished feeding her she looked up at me and gave me a big happy look. Best birthday present ever.   

I remember how much she cried day in, day out.

I remember the exquisite pain of the first couple weeks of breastfeeding, the muffled squeak of agony from my throat every time she latched on. I remember having to endure the red hot poker pain every other hour.

I remember my dad sitting holding Botany in the rocking chair every day for an hour and half while she slept.

I remember the day the health visitor came to the house to weigh Botany. I got the baby undressed and just as we were about to put her on the scales, Botany pooped all over me.

I remember the house being swamped with cards and baby presents. I was stunned and gladdened by the incredible kindness of friends and neighbours.

I remember how we had so much stuff to pack when we went on holiday that we had to hire a bigger car. I was so worried about how she would be on the long drive and then she slept like an angel the whole way.

I remember going to bed, exhausted, wondering how I was going to find the energy to get up and do it all over again tomorrow- bearing in mind that tomorrow started in about two hours.

I remember staggering out of bed in the middle of the night, over and over again to feed her. When she would finally drop off, I would sit and hold her for an extra minute, transfixed by the sight of a sleeping baby in my arms.

I remember, after one particularly horrendous day crying as we sat nursing for hours and hours. Finally I blew my nose one of those damn ubiquitous muslin squares, held the baby a little closer and resolved to embrace all parts of the experience, good and bad- because after all, she was only going to be three weeks old for this small small space of time. Then it would be gone, in the blink of an eye- except for whatever memories I can manage to carefully store up- for years to come, for later, for when she needs them herself.

Stringing up the Christmas lights

The title of this post comes from E., who just now ordered me to "stop what I am doing immediately" and help him string up a set of lights over the window sill. Heh.

It's a last minute attempt to inject some festive cheer in an otherwise a slightly toned-down Christmas. There are some presents in the living room, but no tree. There are stockings but not all that much to fill them. Thanks to E., there is a ginormous organic turkey and some other nice food; however, the meal is scheduled for late afternoon which at the moment is prime baby meltdown time and I've cautioned everyone that the shoogling tasks will need to be divided equally amongst all the adults.  But the grinch in me predicts somehow it is still going to be yours truly sitting up in the nursery with my dinner half eaten, trying to calm her down, since after all I am the one with the milky boobs.

I don't know if it's the ongoing tribulations of the sleep regression or just the excitement of having different people around to coo over her every day, but Botany's naps (or lack thereof) have gone from bad to worse.  Now she will only nap for a short time in the pram on a walk, or fitfully in my lap, nursing, after working herself into a lather.  The lying down nap-nursing is totally failing now- all she wants to do is kickykickykicky and make this very annoying "eh-eh-eh" sound, while I long to doze off. It is most frustrating. I feel like a magician who has looked into the bag of tricks to discover the rabbit is missing.

The lack of decent nappage means that by mid to late afternoon, she is generally a screamy mess. This is not much fun for anyone. I'm not quite sure how to "'fix" it, either. Unlike the night time routine, leaving her to cry for just a wee bit in the cot only results in escalating meltdown- a furious, wailing, teary baby. My mother keeps trying techniques that work on another baby in the family- for example, standing next to the cot, laying hands on her tummy. Botany just lies there looking up at her, making the "eh-eh-eh" sound.  Eventually we just give up and then inevitably she is so overtired. I'm feeling fairly rundown with a looming chest cold and reverting back to constant daily crying of the first three months is not exactly filling me with the joys.

But I don't wish this post to sound completely negative and humbuggy. I'm sure tomorrow will bring happy moments, too. It's really just another reminder to myself that parenting, like Christmas, is in reality usually not a Hallmark card, and quite often comes as a mixed bag of highs and lows.

To all of you- and to families built in whatever way you can and in whatever shape and size- I wish a very happy, safe and peaceful holiday.

Hopefully a call I won't have to make again any time soon

Way back when Botany was still about five weeks old, my postnatal group covered 'baby first aid'. At the start of the session, the nurse stood up and asked if any of us had been to the sick kids' hospital yet. No one raised their hands. She smiled knowingly and said, "Well, if you get through five years without a visit there, you'll be doing well. Post the number on the fridge in case you ever need it."  And everybody looked at each other with raised eyebrows, giggling nervously.

Early Saturday morning, E. departed for his business trip- slamming out of the door in a huff  after an argument with me about why he hadn't managed to let the dog out before it was time to leave. I was a little hysterical and a lot weepy- even more so as I stood in the freezing rain, watching his taxi drive off as the dog performed the poo dance- and still more so as I sprinted back into the house to pick up the baby, who was just waking up with her usual sets of squeaks.

I cried off and on for the better part of the morning, even after E. phoned from the airport to make up.  A week just feels like a long time to be completely on my own with the baby, I said. Even if I do 99% of the childcare most of the time. A whole week, with E. far away overseas, feels scary. Then he had to go as his flight was boarding.

I tried to buck up and put a brave face on things for Botany, seeing how she was in quite a happy mood and I didn't want to spoil it for her (or for me). We were stuck indoors all day with the rain rain rain so we played and danced and nursed and napped together and read stories. Then about 2pm I went to change her and disaster struck.

She had a little oobleck in the corner of her eye and I tried to wipe it away with the (clean! it was clean!) muslin cloth. And then she turned her head to the wall, face crumped up in an angry red grimace and she HOWLED. Howled and screamed and howled and clawed at her face and would NOT open her eyes. I grabbed her up, thinking oh my god what have I done, I have BLINDED the baby!  And she carried on wailing at the top of her lungs, inconsolable (despite rocking and nursing and cuddling) for about twenty minutes, with increasing intensity- while I, already a tad frayed from the morning, came unraveled.

Some key lessons were then learned. All of which of course seem like common sense in hindsight.

Lesson One: Figure out in advance who to call in an emergency. When I realised Botany was not going to stop crying in the near future, I realised I needed some back up, stat.  But then I sat there with the phone in my hand, baby shrieking and writhing, trying to process what to do and unable to hear myself think. In the end, I called one of our uber reliable friends- someone with a car and no children (since I reasoned that anyone with kids was apt to be busy and not able to drop everything to run to my rescue).

Unfortunately the friend in question was shopping on the absolute other side of town and it was going to take her at least half an hour to get there. And as the screaming continued, it dawned on me that a trip to the sick kids' hospital was a very real possibility.

Lesson Number Two: They weren't kidding about having the hospital phone number on the fridge. I had to look it up- it is actually a very easy number to remember and is now engraved on my brain but flailing around the kitchen looking for the phone book was not exactly helpful.

Lesson Three: Don't fuck around trying to explain the problem in great detail to the person who answers the main phone line- just ask to be put through to A&E.

Lesson Four: Hard as it may be, put the hysterical baby down someplace safe and go in the other room during the call. Because otherwise you won't be able to hear a thing and any vital advice and information you receive will be drowned out.

In this case, the advice from the nice lady in A & E was this: try bathing her eye in lukewarm water and then nurse her and if that doesn't calm her down, give her some Calp*l (baby ibuprofen) and see if she will go to sleep. If that doesn't work, bring her in to the hospital. I hung up, took a deep breath, and thought- for fucks sake! Why is the answer always "Give the baby Calp*l?!"  But, having nothing else at my disposal, I decided to try doing what the nice lady said.

Having attempted the nursing part first, Botany immediately latched on like a frantic barracuda and promptly fell asleep. She woke up when my friend arrived, opened both big beautiful eyes and gave the friend a wide gummy grin as if nothing had happened. I of course then felt like a complete goober for having overreacted, dragged friend away from shopping and making gibbering calls to the hospital.

"Listen," said the friend, bringing me a soothing cup of tea (even though at that point I would have prefered a triple whisky). "How many babies have you had? Just one? Yes. So you're learning. There will no doubt be other alarms in the future, but you're learning. It's OK."

And she's right. Even though I don't like the words "other" and "alarms" in the same sentence as "future". But at least now I am just a little of a good Girl Scout than I was a few days ago. I am a little more prepared.

What I had been intending to say went something along these lines

I hadn't been posting much because my parents were visiting and we were extremely busy with a number of activities. Including getting them moved into their new flat and extended baby shoogling.  Prior to their arrival, I had misty visions of long, leisurely afternoon naps (mine) while they walked Botany to the park in her pram, but somehow this didn't seem to happen. Probably because when the opportunity arose I was inevitably too busy gabbing to my mother and would end up accompanying her on said walks; arriving back at the house hours later all floppy and weary and un-napped.

Yesterday, even though I didn't really have time, I sat down and wrote a longish account of how Botany isn't anywhere close to sleeping through the night in apparent contrast to AllthePerfectBabies in my postnatal group, AllofWhomSleepLikeAngels.

And then Typepad ate the post. 

Oh well, I guess it wasn't that interesting, except from the standpoint of seeing how many grammatical errors I tend to make in a state of continual sleep deprivation. Other than being made to feel like a failing chump at times in contrast to the AllStarMothers, I'm actually not all that bothered about the sleeping thing at the moment. I kind of figure that she is only just three months old and given that she is exclusively breastfed and still relatively small, she's basically not going to sleep through. If I start having any sort of expectations of long nights of peaceful sleepity sleeps, I am only torturing myself. Or at least this is what I tell myself at three a.m when she wakes up. And then again at 5am.  And occasionally in the hour in between.

The other part of the missing post is where I discussed my intention to keep this site going for at least the immediate future, even though I had to confess to having some doubts about whether to continue, in light of my transition from infertility to mommy blogger (I use the latter term not to be derisory, but it is an easy categorisation). In hindsight, it's maybe all for the best that I lost the post because it possibly strayed into navel-gazing.  To paraphrase: I appreciate the direction has veered considerably from where I started out, and I am well aware both that not everybody wants to read about the minutiae of my parenting experiences from now on - but I'm cool with that.  Ultimately I like writing it for the sake of writing. And I feel often feel better and more connected (comments! so many helpful comments of late!) for having done so during these first few postpartum months which I have unexpectedly found quite isolating, anxiety-provoking and frequently pantwettingly scary.  Hopefully you can take what you like and leave the rest.

So, onwards. 

Botany and the boob

After nearly 11 weeks, it feels like we have maybe begin to turn a corner. Most days, she's more delightful than not.  Yes, she still has screamy meltdowns and spells of general pissitude, particularly at the end of the day but nothing like before. And the now frequent cooing, gurgling and grinning? I am floppy with love at the sight.  So you were all right- it does get better. It's still damn hard work and there are plenty of ups and downs- but I am beginning to think maybe I can do this.   

I'm conscious that on the breastfeeding front, we have a relatively charmed time of it- and for that, I am extremely grateful. Sure, I confess I had my doubts at certain points; for example, during the first couple days in hospital, I was the only woman in my room who was breastfeeding, and I really felt like the odd one out as my baby screamed all night while the others lay in a contented stupor. I flailed a bit as some of the nurses were less than helpful in answering my pleas for advice about whether I was doing it right.  Luckily, the day I was discharged, l had some terrific support from one of the midwives who took some time to help me with positioning and assist with expressing some colostrum into a syringe (an experience I am not particularly desperate to ever repeat) so that we could see that Botany was in fact getting something to eat.

I wasn't too crazy about the first couple of weeks when every latch-on was initially accompanied by exquisite searing pain; and when it seemed like that latch-on had to occur every other hour or so. But by then it was confirmed that Botany was gaining weight well and I could see she had gold medal champion breastfeeding potential, so I was determined to continue. And it did eventually improve- to the point where I apparently developed nipples of steel and can now basically let her gnaw away on me for hours on end without batting an eyelash. Yay.

However, it wouldn't be a rose garden without a few little thorns; one in particular causing a certain amount of inconvenience (a term I choose carefully, because I don't think it's entirely accurate to classify it as an actual problem.)

Back during the colic days, someone commented about the possibility of my having an overactive letdown/too fast flow. I sort of shrugged it off, because I didn't really see any signs of it, other than a little bit of occasional spraying. But then over the weeks, the spraying became more like a fire hose in action, the milk going everywhere in a strong, unstoppable stream and poor little Botany gasping and choking. She'd pull herself off and the spray would keep going all over her face, clothes, me; eventually I'd stem the flow with a cloth before we could resume. Recently I've gotten in the habit of keeping a bottle by the nursing chair, to catch the output (figuring why was I wasting my time pumping when all this bounty was soaking my shirt without prompting.) If it's really going crazy, I nurse her uphill to calm things down, and during the night feeds, I routinely lie down with her to keep her from getting a gobful when she's half asleep and unprepared. 

So, fortunately, there doesn't now seem to be any major adverse effects other than soggy clothing and a bit of occasional fandango in that she sometimes copes with it by doing by latching herself on and off repeatedly in order to catch her breath. It's a slight pain in the ass if I am nursing her in public; there was one day when I began to fear that people sitting next to us in the cafe were going to look down to find they were were now drinking cafe au lait instead of black espresso. It also makes for nursing activity which is a little more athletic than I'd prefer when trying to discreetly shield my boobs from passers- by. And I do now wonder if in fact it was a contributing factor to the colic symptoms experienced earlier. But I try to ascribe to the theory of too much a of good thing can be wonderful, and so we manage.

The other issue is that she won't take a bottle. Or, rather, she may drink about an ounce, with considerable teary thrashing, wailing and protest. I sort of blame myself; you see, on the health visitor's advice, we did initially give Botany a bottle once a day so that she could get used to it (and not become too fixated on the boob).  She wasn't exactly wild about it, but she'd drink it, as long as somebody other than me was feeding her.

But then we hit the colic weeks. Prior to that point, the logical approach was for E. to give her a bottle, either when he got home from work or the last feed before bed. However, given that it suddenly took very little to work her up into a lather, I was keen to avoid anything and everything that might contribute to her apparent digestive discomfort. Particularly at 6pm- which was the time most likely E. would return home but which was also the Prime Witching Hour.  And 10.30pm? Forget it. All I wanted to do was collapse into bed after a peaceful dreamfeed, not deal with a screamy windy baby.

So Bottle-Time lapsed for awhile. And when I finally worked up the nerve to reintroduce it, she had totally gone off the idea and refused outright to have anything to do with it. ever. again. 

Being a solution-oriented kind of girl, I tried everything I could think of to get her back on track. I have tried: heating the milk to very warm, heating to lukewarm, not heating it, heating the teat, not heating it, giving her three different types of formula, giving her only expressed breastmilk, giving her a mix of the two, having E. give her the bottle, having his mother give her the bottle, having my mother give her the bottle, me giving the bottle, giving it in different rooms in the house, giving it in the morning, giving it at night, giving it when she was very hungry, giving it when she was not so hungry; trying FIVE different types of bottle and teat- slow flow, fast flow, medium flow, upside down doing the conga flow.

NOTHING WORKS.  She hates it and she cries cries cries, before the beloved boob appears as a peace offering, because I can't stand to see my darling baby so distressed over anything, much less food, especially when it is freely abundant courtesy of yours truly.

At this point, I've pretty much given up and am resigned to it. Indeed, although I initially panicked (and had the sense that the prison doors were clanging shut around me until she is weaned) I am not going to go so far as actually complain about it. I do feel a little wistful sometimes when I hear other mothers discussing how their husband does the last feed of the night so they can go to bed early, or out to dinner, or do something that involves being away from the baby for more than a couple of hours at a time. I sometimes feel a little weary with the responsibility of being the sole food source. And I do worry what would happen if I ever, say, fell under a bus.  It'd be nice if she would take just one bottle a day so I could occasionally have a break.  But- so be it. If I had a choice, I wouldn't trade one second of those peaceful moments of feeding her, with her warm little body snuggled up next to me, her little hand in mine.    

Pause

Erm. Sorry to interrupt the birth story series- I'm going as fast as I can, honest!  And, um, I hope it does not annoy you too much when I tell you that on Saturday we are taking Botany and Little Guy and going away for a week. An attempted holiday.  I say "attempted", because for all I know it could end up being a complete flipping nightmare. We are going somewhere we have been before, someplace that feels sort of "safe", yet where we can do lots of walks, lots of food and hopefully a little relaxation.

I do feel like I could do with a change of scene. Botany has been a little less classic colicky- that is, most days, she doesn't particularly have long screaming evening sessions- and that is a big relief. She's continuing to thrive and is generally well.  But on the downside, she is mostly a real fussypants throughout the day; she seems easily pissed off by anything and everything, including changing, the dog barking, being put in her pram, having to wait for more than five minutes for boob time once she has decided she is hungry. The latter being often. I've come to love feeding her, because at least then she seems contented; one tiny paw extended up proprietorally on my bosom. At least I sometimes get a gummy smile afterwards.

So basically, all my time is spent trying to soothe her and make sure she is cozy/well fed/clean & dry/entertained, even if she can't seem to be exactly happy. Basic routine stuff- no parenting awards being won here for exceptional duty- but it is exhausting to have the constant grumpiness swirled into the mix. The best remedy seems to be lots of walks and fresh air- and I mean lots.

All in all, come evening, once she is finally down for the night, I am often ready to fall over with weariness.  Some days I can barely manage to lift the fork to my mouth for dinner, never mind write a new post.  But I'll try to get out one more instalment before I go.

Meantime, patience!  I hear that good things come to those who wait.

Consolable

I am probably tempting fate and calling down the wrath of the Furies upon myself- but things are, I dare say, going a little bit better.  I don't know for sure if I can attribute the strategic campaign for improvement in the Colic Wars to the probiotic drops; however, after a week or so, Botany does seem to be experiencing a lot less digestive discomfort.  Accordingly, over the last few days, we have been having only garden variety mad baby grizzling, rather than the extendo-nightmare colic scenario.  The difference being consolable wailing, rather than inconsolable- and let me tell you, it is such a difference indeed.

Apart from the drops, the other thing that seems to be helping a lot (at least when she is a consolable frame of mind) is white noise. The hoover not being an option, I tried turning the radio onto "static" and placing it by the cot/pack n'play/bouncy chair.  And it seems to calm her down- not send her to sleep as such, but it quells some of the crying.  I've ordered a white noise CD with such grooving tracks as hair dryer, washing machine and vacuum cleaner, and we will see how it goes.  Unfortunately, she absolutely loathes full swaddling, so I've pretty much given up on that one.

I should probably compile all your comments over the last several posts into some sort of primer for colic-reflux- first time mother newborn shock.  Because they are invaluable.  I think what I mostly needed to hear at this point is that all the emotions I was feeling are totally normal.  How the old expression "Your life will change" is bandied about so much prior to birth- but does not remotely begin to cover the total sense of upheaval and disorientation, even loss.  One commenter very aptly described it as "otherworldly''- and it is. It really is. It's taken nearly a month to even begin to recalibrate, and there are still some ropey moments- not helped of course by things like colic bouts

In terms of getting another doctor- the way it works here is that I attend a NHS (that's National Health Service for those of you who don't speak UK acronym) health practice staffed by about 8 different GPs. So when I phone to get an appointment, it just depends who is available- luck of the draw, as it were.  I could request someone but that would mean having to wait longer for a slot; perhaps not what I want to do if my baby needs immediate care.  But I found out today that Dr Bitchslap is leaving, so chances are I won't have to encounter her again. Whoo hoo.

Also the health visitor came today and weighed Botany.  [Aside: a health visitor is a qualified nurse who specialises in "community care".  Basically a nurse who comes round to my house at regular intervals over the coming months to check on the baby's general well-being (and mine, too, I suppose).]   Botany pooed all over me just before I put her on the scales- a lovely dribble of mustard all down my front- but even with the lightening of the load, she weighed in at 9.5lbs.  9.5lbs!!! That's up from 7lbs 12 oz two weeks ago.  Good grief, this child has evidently been eating for Britain. Delicious fat tummy.   

I will get round to writing the birth story one of these naps, I will, I will.  They have been running a jackhammer outside for the last week, so napping myself is sort of off the cards for the moment.

Newsflash- all babies cry!

On Wednesday, Botany screamed & cried on and off from late afternoon until about 10pm- including an earsplitting, non-stop 3 hour marathon session. I was so frazzled that I had to hand her to E. and leave the house for 15 minutes, weeping as I walked around the block.  When I came back, she was still crying. 

Since during these bouts she is so clearly in some sort of digestive discomfort, and because I can't really rule out reflux (of which she does have some symptoms, albeit not the really obvious ones), I called the health visitor on Thursday morning. She gave me more or less the same chat as last time- was I making sure Botany wasn't getting too much foremilk?  Was I winding her properly?  Had I tried gas drops? Blah blah blah.  Finally, she told me to make an appointment to see the GP, which I duly did for that afternoon.  Heart thumping at the scariness of leaving the house with a shrieking infant, I loaded Botany into her pram and headed out.  And she slept, angelically, the entire time.

Cue a consultation with the most condescending bitch of a doctor I have come across in several years.  She was running late, and although Botany was still asleep, I was getting twitchy about running into feeding time.  When you only have an hour and half or so between feeds, it limits the amount of time you want to spend, say, hanging around a doctor's waiting room.  So when I went in, I kept gently rocking the pram back and forth in hopes the baby would stay asleep.  After a few minutes, Dr. Bitchslap leaned over and actually pushed the pram away from me, out of my reach.

Oh, I am sorry, was my attempt to soothe my child interrupting your finely honed concentration, Doc?

What she basically said was this:  some babies cry a lot.  They call it colic but they don't know what causes it and there is nothing to be done about it except wait for her to grow out of it.

What about reflux, I asked?  Nah, she said with a dismissive flick, that's really not very common. And she didn't want to prescribe anything at this stage. To back up this comprehensive diagnosis, she listened to Botany's heartbeat and looked in her nappy.  Yes, she has a pulse and yes, she poos.  Bingo!  No reflux.

Dr Bitchslap also gave me a ticking off for expressing milk at this stage- saying it was "too early".  I don't know what the hell that is supposed to mean. It's not as if I am pumping vast quantities a day- maybe a couple of ounces so as to give E. a chance to give her a bottle once a day (which the health visitor recommended we do before Botany becomes too in love with the boob to ever switch). And given that my right side in particular seems to have a more than abundant flow, I don't see why that would be a problem. If nothing else, I think we can safely say that the issue is not that the baby is hungry.

The doctor also pooh-poohed the notion of foremilk and hindmilk (which again, the health visitor had suggested I try to avoid giving Botany too much of the former, as it may cause excessive gas). Accordingly to Dr Bitchslap, it's all one big happy milky mix inside my breasts- and hadn't I been reading a bit too much on the internet, she asked with one eyebrow raised.  Maybe I just needed to "talk to some other mothers" so as to understand that their babies cry, too.

And that was it- we were summarily dismissed. She didn't bother to ask how I might be doing- for example, whether the hours of crying might be affecting my mental health just a little, etc.  It's probably just as well, because I think I might have burst into tears at that point and I have a rule about trying not to cry in front of complete assholes like her.   

So, onwards. Some days are a little better than others, and I hang in for those times.  Even on the bad days there can be bright spots- for example, I received a first series of gummy smiles in celebration of my birthday yesterday (even if it was maybe just wind- but nice wind, in that case.)  I'm continuing to try various things to soothe my darling though grizzly baby in the evening when she howls- but the vacuum cleaner is unfortunately out of the question, as it makes Little Guy go ballistic with barking.

Pity, since the stairs are in a shocking state and could desperately do with a hoover.