10 Days with a Newborn - Day 7 - Snip Day
Disclaimer: I am in no way a medical professional or a mothering guru. Everything I write is in relation to my journey as a mother experiencing mother-like things. If you need any kind of help/guidance, please seek the assistance of a professional.
Day 7
OK ok, it’s been forever since I wrote the last post on my '10 days with a Newborn' series, but don’t worry, I took extensive notes at the time. Although this day is etched in my memory, no notes required. Day 7 was a doozy. Day 7 was tongue-tie snip day.
Firstly, it was hot! I’m talking 38 degrees hot. Secondly, I’d had maybe 4 hours of broken sleep. Sammy was fussy all night and wouldn’t sleep much longer than 40 minutes at a time. The sleepless nights were starting to build and it was making me snappy. At my husband, and even sometimes my 5 year-old. So the guilts were sitting just as high as the frustration and tiredness. I wanted so badly to give Evie more one-on-one time, but everything had become about Sammy. I tried to explain that this wouldn’t be forever, but I could tell she was sad. She asked if she could come to the doctors with Sammy and I. I told her absolutely not. I didn’t need her seeing all that blood, or hearing her sister’s cries. I’d heard those cries before, from Evie herself when she had her tongue-tie laser cut. It was traumatic to say the least.
This doctor’s appointment would be the first time I’d left the house. Back in Evie’s time I would have been stressing. Anxious about wake windows and how long until she would need a feed. I would calculate from her last feed, roll through the times in my head, so I had the schedule all worked out to make things as frictionless as possible for the day. With Sammy, I just upped and left, the only real anxiety about pre-cooling the car for her.
I got to the doctor’s office. It was quite far from home, and not a doctor I’d seen before, but there are only a few who do tongue-tie snips, so beggars can’t be choosers. There were so many people in the very small waiting room. Sammy was in her capsule and starting to fuss. With Evie this would have stressed me out, as she probably wanted a feed. With Sammy I whipped my boob out and shoved her on. My care factor for keeping my private parts private disappeared in the birthing suite. It might still be somewhere on the Box Hill Maternity Ward—someone let me know if you find it.
Sammy got called up and we headed into the office. This doctor was old-school. Probably in his late 70s, a big creasing smile, and a soft way about him—like he had all the time in the world for me, even though I’d just seen all the people in his waiting room. The first thing he said to me was, “Look at you, and look at your baby. You’re both doing great. I can already tell you’re a good mother”. I mean, what the hell? Was he trying to get me to break down and cry in his office? I said thanks, and that I was trying my hardest.
He said, “Of course you are. Mums are the most incredible people on earth, with the most important job on earth. I’m not just saying that, it’s the truth. I have 5 kids of my own, and 12 grandkids. What I’ve seen mothers do is extraordinary.”
Ok, I wanted to cling onto this man and cry my eyes out. I’m pretty sure if I did, he would have let me. It’s really rare to have people, including mothers, recognise how hard it is to raise children…but to have a man do it, for some reason, felt all the more special, like I was actually being seen. So much of what we do goes unnoticed, as if that’s just what we’re here for. But the struggle is real, the exhaustion is real, and we never get kudos for it. I needed the kudos.
With all those emotional feels in the air, it was at this point I realised that Sammy had done a massive poo. I mean huge. Big, squelchy, mustard-yellow ooze, which had slithered its way to every exit possible from her nappy, flooding her suit and onto the capsule seat. Dr Crazy-Nice acted as if this was the most natural thing in the world, like breathing, and left to get me some things to help clean her and the seat up. As I changed her, I realised my blasé attitude to leaving the house, meant I hadn’t packed a lot of essentials. No dirty nappy bag and a change of suit. He picked up the filthy nappy and disposed of it for me, then told me it was so hot she probably didn’t need clothes anyway. There was no end to this man’s goodness.
When he finally got around to looking in her mouth, he declared that while she did have a tongue and lip tie (like her sister), it was too small to do anything about. I nearly cried. My nips were taking a beating, our Boob Balm was keeping things bearable, but her latch was reaggravating things every time. He said he was sorry, but he wouldn’t do the snip, it would be too dangerous, and he doesn’t like doing them if they’re not too bad, as they can distort the shape of the mouth. I think he could see the devastation on my face, knowing that I had to continue breastfeeding, even though she had a confirmed tongue-tie (I’d been through that drama before, and promised myself I would never do it again). This was when his Yoda-like wisdom and advice came at me, and I want to share it with you. Keep in mind, this came from a doctor who was both a paediatrician and an obstetrician, who had worked for over 20 years on the maternity ward before going at it alone, and had 5 kids and 12 grandkids. He told me this…
“Do whatever it is you need to do; however you need to do it, and just don’t tell anyone. It’s no one’s business how you feed and raise your child. There is so much pressure on mothers, about breastfeeding, formula, mixed feeding. None of it matters. You do what works for you and if you don’t want to tell anyone, don’t.”
Then he said, “The only things you absolutely have to do right now, is not shake your baby and make sure she’s feeding every few hours. That’s it. They’re the non-negotiables. Everything else is your own personal journey, and will make no difference to your baby’s health and happiness.”
I took Sammy home, wearing only her nappy, sitting in a capsule I’m sure still had essence of poo on it. She still had a tongue-tie. She had one good sleep that night, then woke every 20-45 minutes. It was emotionally painful. Yet she was feeding every few hours. I hadn’t shaken her. I was doing the hardest job in the world, but I was doing it magnificently.
Read Day 1 - The Hospital
Read Day 2 - Home Again