After googling for a good sample and coming up empty handed, I’m going to (try to) jot down a “day in the life”/daily “schedule” (if only) of a 3 (as of two days ago! happy 3rd birthday to my little guy!) year old and an almost (tomorrow) 7 week old.
Here’s what I remember from today so far (it’s almost 4 pm already?)
somewhere around 5 am:
baby girl is crying for food. it’s been a little over 2 hours since I went to sleep (I’ll explain later). so, my husband gives her a bottle of the milk that I pumped a little over 2 hours ago. never having fully woken, I pass back out within milliseconds. (my husband is awesome, I know.)
My alarm goes off because I need to pump (it’s been 5.5 hours and I aim to pump every 6 hours). I know it went off. However, somehow I did not awaken. Friday and Saturday nights, I got maybe a cumulative 7 hours of sleep (under 2 hours the first night!). So, last night (Sunday night) my body demanded more… and no alarm could overcome that demand.
That extra 15 minutes you think is worthless? Well, it’s not! My husband wakes me up. He has to go pick up the dog (we boarded her while we were away for the weekend. Yes, all four of us – the 3-year old and the 7-week old included – went to a wedding 4 hours away). Our 3 year old son (still crazy that he’s 3 now! His birthday was Saturday!) is still asleep. Probably from staying up every night at the hotel, screaming and crying for no reason other than he was too tired to sleep (yeah, I know, right? wtf.) Anyway, I need to get the pump going, and baby girl is hungry, too. (God knows I tried to nurse her. For over a month I tried. She lost weight. She was dehydrated. We spent hours and hours with a lactation consultant. So I pump. Have something unhelpful to say? Just write it down on a piece of paper, wad up the paper, and stick it in your bodily orifice of choice.)
8:30 – 11 something am:
The next 2-3 hours are a blur of pumping, poopy diaper, bath time, more pumping, baby care, making breakfast, more baby care… (baby care refers to diaper changes, making and feeding bottles, burping, rocking, etc.)
Around 11 am, I collapse in a heap of tears. My husband was not nice to me earlier (midway through the 3 hour blur) as he felt I wasn’t holding up my end of some unspoken bargain this morning. Ah, the insanity. It’s the season. It’s an ugly season. I don’t love the newborn phase for this reason. Although I do love my newborn. (and somewhere deep down I love my 3 year old. kidding it’s not that deep down)
11 something am to 2:30 pm:
Another blur (it’s kind of all a blur, you know) of baby care, cleaning, dishes, my husband apologizing and talking it out, more cleaning, more baby care, oh and trying to give my 3 year old the attention and quality time he is craving. Also, making him some lunch, reheating leftovers for my husband’s lunch (he works from home – has an office on the 3rd floor of the little 2-bedroom twin we’re renting) and throw some crappy lunch together for myself (some cheese about to go bad thrown on a tortilla and melted in the microwave). My husband makes coffee and takes out the rancid trash (a poop diaper was left there for the weekend while we were away). We both agree, the coffee is what will keep us alive.
Baby girl is calm in her swing, so I take the 3 year old upstairs for a “nap”. We both know he won’t actually nap, but he can be in his room, jump on his bed, read (or rip) his books, run around, shrieking and slamming his closet door, throwing everything he can get his hands on, whining, singing, laughing, talking to himself and acting like a patient in an asylum. But if he doesn’t have this “nap” time, I will be an actual patient in an asylum, so I try to ignore the guilt as it eats away at my heart the entire time he’s in there. I watch on the monitor to make sure he doesn’t eat lead paint chips (again) (yeah that’s a whole nutha’ story. God, help me.) or take his bed apart (it wouldn’t surprise me at all).
He’s in his room. She’s hungry. I make the bottle (my supply isn’t enough for her every feeding, so we supplement with some formula), take the dog out, then feed the bottle… it’s taking a while. Burps don’t always come easily. I am trying to drink some water while I’m at it. I need to pump. God, help me.
He’s still in his room. She’s finally calm enough to put down. I think. I grab the pump stuff. It takes me over five minutes to get set up and grab a glass of water. Just like nursing (only so, so much more work), I get very thirsty while pumping.
I am finally pumping. Because I don’t pump frequently (yeah, every 6 hours is not considered frequent. Every 2 hours would be considered frequent. That would also be considered severe negligence for my life. My 3 year old would be completely neglected and the baby probably would, too. So I am able to pump every 6-8 hours. God is good and has protected my supply so far – for the most part)
I am almost finished writing this post. I will have to update later with the rest of the “daily schedule” (yeah, right). Still pumping. Only about halfway through, by the looks of things. It’s hard to get milk to let down with the 90 degree heat, back ache (even with Pumpin’ Pals, I can’t really get comfortable while pumping) disgusting, itchy feeling from not showering in over 3 days (I often choose to pump or sleep if I have any kind of actual free time. Remember that 15 minute snooze from 8 – 8:15 am? I treasure that highly. I sacrificed the opportunity to not be disgusting and itchy and take a shower. Oh well. Trade-offs, as my husband would say.
During this time of pumping, I am:
stress and guilt over my son’s “nap” time (he’s trying to kick his door down, while screaming)
replacing the pacifier for my daughter to please, please settle down and nap
guiltily messaging my husband knowing he’s too busy with work to respond (I have to vent somehow. I know, I’ll blog!)
cringing from pain from the pump (yeah, even with these “amazing” Pumpin’ Pal shields)
stressing over how long it’s taking my milk to let down
realizing I haven’t peed yet today
wondering if being THIS hungry could help me, I dunno, shed even one measly pound of baby weight? please?
staring at the now-gross plate of leftovers I prepared for my husband and he left sitting out…
More to come! Day’s only half over!