You’re not planning on making this easy are ya!? We were hoping you’d be face down by now. But no. Instead you are stuck at two o’clock gazing at the clock on the wall. A bit early to start figuring out time don’t you think? If you could just turn a little, 45º clockwise will do. Slide down a little too while you’re at it.
Liza on the other hand is now 8 cm dilated and needs a couple more to go. She’s understandably quite fed up really. Her canola was uncomfortable so Katie (covering for Chris who’s having a late lunch) re-arranged it and the swelling is reducing. She now has better mobility in her wrist and fingers. She plans on delivering you on her fours so she needs her hands void of discomfort.
PatPat suggested oxytocin to strengthen the contractions (which were already pretty good and strong). That’s currently dripping into your mother’s vein, along with the “sea water“. The plan now is to push you down further with the stronger contractions and hopefully dilate to ten (somewhat) simultaneously. Two birds single stone typ’a thing.
I want this, no, I need this to work. Your mother has decided on a C-section if it doesn’t. My view is to keep an eye on the big picture but silo every scenario and make the best possible decision for it. So I’m not against a Caesarean if that’s medically required. But right now, my fingers are crossed waiting for the magic number ten and for you to make a small descent. Chop chop! Let’s get going lad. You can do this.
I spent the night thinking about the best way to capture the last twelve or so hours. Do I start from the side, middle, or the now? You’ve been born, clearly. That much is evident.
You were sideways the last time we spoke. The oxy was supposed to push you down further and get you to turn facing the floor. You didn’t oblige. In fact, you did the complete opposite. You went from two o’clock to twelve o’clock facing upwards and counting stars. I laughed when PatPat said it. Typical.
Between him, myself, Chris, and Liza, we decided to proceed with a cesarean. The labour had stalled and way over-prolonged. A “failure to progress” as they call it. Your mother wasn’t fully dilated either. A dead end.
There were a lot more people in the room (than the photo suggests). One of the anaesthetists, Mark Esler I believe his name is (because he had it written on his clogs in marker pen), had a wittily funny way of delivering medical information. There were other quirky people in attendance. The ambience made everything less tense.
Chris stayed beyond her shift to see what you looked like. Despite her intrigue, she was also a great pair of shoulders to lean on. I gave her a big hug at the end. Your mother did too. We were truly humbled by the support we got.
Liza was very tearful in the build-up. Like many others, nothing went according to her birth plan. It’s not so much that, more that she really wanted a natural birth and got everything but. I was giving everything I had to hold back the tears. At one point, I wanted to leave my seat before returning. But that would make her feel worse because she would know. It would mean I was agreeing to the significance of a “natural birth”, which I wasn’t. As far as I’m concerned, whatever the best medical decision is at the time is the right thing to do. Nevertheless, I understood her anguish and frustration. I am a planner too.
The drugs made her quake, shivering as though she was cold with a fierce fever. Funnyman Mark said to embrace and not worry about it. Said it with finer words, of course, using some clever metaphor I can’t remember. You’d have to ask your mother what it felt like but it looked like a rocking ship at sea. With a C-section, the birth is rapid.
PatPat gave me a one-minute warning (to get the camera ready) and before we knew it, you were here. Born August 4, 2022, at 7:24 pm. You were massive at 4.025kg, long as a reptile. There was no way you were coming out naturally. As they pulled you up, the medical team kept going, “oh there’s more, there’s more him…” For small parents that we are, you’re a giant baby. You did not look pleased to be out either.
Everyone’s been asking your name since. A few moments ago, your mother and I agreed you look like a Lian. It’s the first syllable from Liza and the second half of Kilian. I think it’s a great name. But I’m not precious about it.
The close and stitch after you were pulled out took about another half hour. Everything went superbly well. No issues whatsoever. Back on the labour ward, we were handed over to Elaine. Irish lady. She had the vibe of someone who was doing 70 things a minute. Pacing up, down, in and out. But it all made sense when she said she was an aunt to fourteen children, grew up with four sisters and a brother. She couldn’t be still even if you tied her down.
She changed your diaper, which was full of some dark sticky stuff, meconium. Your “vitals” were also fine. Liza was sweating out the drugs. Her urine bag was on the dark side of brown, suggesting dehydration so she was encouraged to drink lots and given a drip. We were both famished so I ordered food via room service. Your mother had soup and a fruit salad which she walloped. I think I ordered myself the entire menu. It seemed to take an age but I was reluctant to press or chase. The food was surprisingly delicious. But my expectations were low. It’s “hospital food” I thought. Yes, but no. It was very good. I’ll probably do the same tonight.
We were stunned at how calm and self-soothing you were. Worryingly calm. You stayed under the warm light fiddling and trying to suck your fingers. You also love a swaddle.
But after speaking to Lucy this morning, this state of calm is normal for babies within the first 24 hours. They can’t be fucked about anything. Tonight will set the precedence for what to expect. Lucy is the nurse midwife teaching your mother how to breastfeed. I’ve been calling them nurses all along like the ignorant git that I am. There’s a difference.
I got Liza on the phone to her parents. The news went round to some close family members (who are now calling me “Pah boy” meaning “father to a boy”. We video-called Junior. Lyn called, crying with so much joy. We are the criers of the family she and I. But don’t let that fool you, she’s also a warrior. Turns out Fusi’s wife, Jem, has a sister who gave birth the same day. So there were congratulations all around. I also told T and Rozalia (who should be visiting today).
My dad was at a wake when I called. It feels like that’s all he does these days. Attend wakes. He had a beautiful story to tell me. The last time I was in Cameroon, Liza and I gave him an envelope on your behalf. We were already pregnant then. It had your ultrasound pictures and a gesture amount of money from a child to his grandfather. He hadn’t used it and told me he’d picked it up earlier that day. Something drew his attention to it, he said, sounding all mystical. I don’t think I’ve heard my dad this happy. His joy was contagious. He called me again this morning.
After the checks on the labour ward, we were taken to the post-natal ward. You won’t believe my relief at seeing two beds. It was just after eleven and I was functioning on less than empty. The nursery was full so we had you for the night. A nurse came in every couple of hours to check on both you and your mother. You were calm throughout and only cried when provoked. I was grateful for sure. You were very considerate and adult-like the one time I needed you to be. I doubt Liza slept much though. She still had that canola sticking out and was probably prying over you all night. Maternal instincts I guess.
It’s 2:53 pm now and so far, PatPat’s been in to see us along with a paediatrician to check you out. Pat’s an incredible doctor human. He fielded Liza’s questions about possibly leaving tomorrow evening, pain management post-surgery, recovery timelines and so on and so forth.
The paediatrician reaffirmed how big and tall you were and going to be. You have very long feet and fingers. Oh and a posterior tongue tie. You’ve also managed to scratch your face already with those Japanese blades you call nails. So there’s a long red line across your left cheek to your ear. Speaking of colour, you currently have a brick red shade. You are changing so quickly. You could be anything tomorrow.
You’ve been in your crib for the last hour, waking and crying yourself to sleep intermittently while your mother had some time to herself. I’ve been typing away and haven’t picked you up once. I spoke to you a few times to calm you down but that’s the most I did. In PatPat’s words, long may this behaviour continue. Probably won’t but we’ll wish for it anyway.
I’ll hang out with Rozalia when she gets here but only for a bit. It’ll be a great chance to take a walk and make some calls and announcements. I wanted to get this post out the way before the details escape me and inbound calls and messages start flying around. It’s done now.
Early evening yesterday, after Rozalia left for her dinner at Silo, Lucy picked you up and went, “Is it me or is his skin slightly yellow?” I noticed her push down your nose like a button on a telephone. A series of events quickly followed.
Her suspicion was neonatal jaundice. She swiftly left to catch Dr Swee Fang (the paediatrician who had seen you earlier) before she could clock out. Moments later she came back to explain what jaundice was in case we worried. How thoughtful. (This is so coincidentally funny. She literally just knocked and poked her head through the door as I was typing this about her. We just exchanged a few words.) Your mother’s in the bathroom so she’ll be back later.
So yes, when she came to reassure us, I’d already googled “baby jaundice”.
Infant jaundice is yellow discoloration of a newborn baby’s skin and eyes. Infant jaundice occurs because the baby’s blood contains an excess of bilirubin (bil-ih-ROO-bin), a yellow pigment of red blood cells.
Infant jaundice is a common condition, particularly in babies born before 38 weeks’ gestation (preterm babies) and some breast-fed babies. Infant jaundice usually occurs because a baby’s liver isn’t mature enough to get rid of bilirubin in the bloodstream. In some babies, an underlying disease may cause infant jaundice.
It’s harmless as long as you don’t have any underlying issues. Phototherapy is a viable treatment. Lucy again returned with what I think was a handheld jaundice detector. It emitted a beam of light every time she pushed it into your chest. She took a reading and said it was a bit high.
Dr Fang dropped in as well. She ordered a number of tests to eliminate the presence of an infection. “I’ll be in touch this evening”, she said as we exchanged numbers. A nurse (not a midwife) came round and took you away, for bloodwork I imagine. (You still have the plaster on your left hand.) They most likely put you under a light of sorts as you returned quite warm. I stopped your mother from interfering unnecessarily going with you. There was no need for us to see you being poked and crying be there. So I made us stay behind.
Dr Swee – love that name – called the room that evening saying you were all clear. No jaundice, no infection. It was certainly a relief but your mother and I were honestly never worried.
Carine (midwife not a nurse) had stopped by that morning to say hello. We said we had you booked for the nursery that night. She said she hadn’t seen our names on the list and dashed to check you into one of the two remaining slots. Unsurprisingly, Elaine never got round to it. Item number 71 was just one too many. Contrary to everyone else we’d met, she came across as way too busy.
I ordered an unnecessary amount of food. Fully giving into my inner gluttony. The meals here are better than in plenty of restaurants. We had dinner and went to bed. The macaroons Rozalia brought from Pierre Hermé were right on the money for mouth-watering. One leads to the other and so inevitably, we ate too many.
Louise brought you back this morning. Besides your mother, it seems you and I didn’t sleep so well. As usual, I struggled with the temperature of the room and the new bed. Story of my life. I can’t sleep away from the house. You apparently cried a lot. So much so that they had to put you in an over-priced self-swinging baby cot to settle you.
In her words, you took a “humungous poo”. “That’s a good thing”, she said. The meconium is out of your system completely and you are digesting food well. She did ask if you had a tongue-tie and trouble feeding. So clearly that is an issue that needs addressing. The tie has to be snipped. Lucy’s going to confirm availability but it won’t be today. It doesn’t have to be done here either. If we can’t pull it off before we leave, we’ll ask Marc and Jess where they did it for their kid(s) locally.
One thing that has been consistent so far is how “cute” you are. You’ve been getting it from all angles son. To me, you look a bit Asian. But you’re also changing every hour. Mexican tomorrow?
PS – I was in the bathroom when they carried out a hearing test. You can hear all frequencies. All good. Also, I sent your full name to your grandfather who said to make sure it said Wanchambi on your birth certificate, without the “Ta” so that’s what we’re going to do. I’ll still call you Tawa though.
I remember Wez saying, “honestly, those first couple days, you don’t know whether you’re coming or going”. All I’ll say is, now I understand what he meant.
It’s been a day since we brought you home. Our inexperience hasn’t killed you yet somehow. You’re currently snuggled on my chest because you refuse to be put down alone. The volume goes up instantly the moment I try to displace you, literally on demand. If this were a product on Amazon, we’d be rich and have the best reviews. You’d get comments like “screams instantly“, “Best screamer ever. I love it“, and “Where have you been my whole life!?” And you do it all without any tears. So you’re faking (and it’s working). Good for you. You’ve hacked the code.
The moment you came out, you had your fingers in your mouth. I think this is how you’ve been self-soothing pre-birth. I do worry though that this will give you dentition issues down the line. So I want to kill the habit. In fact, one of the nurses midwives at Portland walked in with your entire hand in your mouth. (I’m exaggerating, but still). A black lady. She pulled it out going, “I’m still paying for the dental bills for my young one. Whatever you need to do to stop this, do it”.
In Africa, we stop it by rubbing a scotch bonnet on your fingers. There is no attention to whether the child rubs it on their body, face or eyes. The shit we’ve been through! And given the scars on your face, you’d have chilli all over it. Instead, we’ll use a pacifier. It apparently makes it a bit more difficult for you to learn to breastfeed so I am a little conflicted. But the benefits are clear and worthwhile. Besides, I’m sure we can find workarounds wrt “nipple sucking”. Liza’s filed your nails by the way.
You had bad hiccups the first night at home. It unsettled every nerve in your mother. She was visibly worried even after I showed her evidence that it was no cause for alarm and there was little that could be done about it. She sat with you through every one of them, keeping you upright the entire time. Emotionally speaking, I understand her anxiety. Thankfully, you were very calm about the hiccups. Almost like “it is what it is”. You didn’t cry or fuss. That was very nice of you. I think your mother would’ve made us go back to Portland. I am near certain of it.
A nurse showed up earlier today. Cath her name was, from Kingston Hospital. Turned up unannounced. Portland said to expect her on Tuesday. She was keen I guess. Maybe she read some of your Amazon reviews and couldn’t wait any longer. But it all seemed carefully planned to me. The whole thing about “wires crossed” and a “mix-up with the schedules” was definitely part of the charade. There was nothing impulsive or whimsical about it. It makes sense to catch the parents off-guard before they can mask and sugarcoat their treatment of the baby. I would’ve done the same.
But all went well. She loved our home. Your mother got a checkup out of it – the section line, her blood pressure, some breastfeeding tips etc. Your jaundice (and bilirubin level) was good and there was nothing to worry about.
Wez dropped by around 10 pm. Your mother had been talking to Nic (his wife) about sore breasts filled with milk. So he had an electric and manual breast pump with him along with all the details of how to use them. I was on a FUSi call with Manu and didn’t get to speak to him. I left him at the door with Liza. But I’d seen their family earlier in the day watching my team play a pre-season-friendly football game. They’ve been invaluable to us.
So far, no swaddle has held you hostage. You’ve found your way out of every straight jacket, Houdini style. I have a sneaky feeling you’ll be left-handed. Yours is incredibly strong and you always lead with it. Hopefully, not into boxing. You share a birthday with Obama. He’s also left-handed I believe. Not that it means fuck’all.
I was left-handed and still left-footed. In Cameroon, it’s considered rude and disrespectful to greet elderly people with your left hand. I think it’s the same notion as in Muslim cultures. It’s classed the “dirty hand“. I think it’s society’s way of dealing with the minority. So every time I used my left, it got smacked. That’s basically how I landed on my right. They forgot about my foot though. Currently, you are like a conductor of an orchestra in the way you swing your arms. If there was music going, it’ll be absolutely hilarious.
The midwife we were expecting showed up while I was at my physio appointment at Nuffield. Your mother texted me the update. “All good, nothing to worry about”. Fantastic! Even better, she removed the stitches to her C-section as planned with no issues.
On the flip side, it sounds like the other ladies from our NCT class are having a lot of trouble with their little ones. I hear Helen who had OC is struggling to breastfeed, Beatles chic said her one screams her lungs out the minute they step out of the house, so much so that they have to u-turn… And on and on. I hope it gets better for them.
Meanwhile, we took you out for a walk yesterday. It was a pleasant stroll after you realised we weren’t paying any attention to your crocodile tears. So a few minutes into the 40 min walk, you practically slept through the rest of it, in your preferred banzai position. Even when I expected you to whinge on some of the bumps on the pavement, you only made a face and moved on. Nothing more than a brief grimace. You’re also breastfeeding just fine now, albeit after several attempts (and great guidance from Lucy at Portland Hospital). In all, you are a great kid. Super chilled. Long may it continue.
I’ve also caught you smiling a couple of times now. What a great thing to witness as a father for the first time. It gave me so much joy. I was telling Liza about it when she said she’d seen you do it as well but just forgot to tell me. When you get a chance, we’d like to know what you’re dreaming, overhearing and laughing about. This house is constantly shaking with laughter though. That must be said. It’s how we live. The midwife said you are more responsive than other babies your age. I think it’s all related.
You don’t like being left alone though. But that’s perfectly understandable. Apparently, this phase is called the fourth trimester. So we’re doing a lot of skin-to-skin and swaddling you lots. You’re currently out cold laying on the floor in a swaddle. I think it makes you feel safe and less exposed. I don’t know if that makes sense. Hopefully, it does.
Your mother’s on the phone with the health insurance company trying to reclaim the expense on some of your medical bills. We’ve also been trading emails with the hospital to get your tongue-tie addressed and it’s booked for Thursday. It sounds very much like a routine 5 min procedure.
The postman delivered an Artipoppe baby carrier this morning. I didn’t know Liza had ordered it. I like the packaging a lot. It tells me everything I need to know about the brand.
Ah! One more thing. You now have an email address. I just created one. It’s mrlianateh@gmail.com. Unexpectedly, ‘lianateh‘ was taken. Now that was a surprise. We simply assumed it was a peculiar combination of names no one else would have. But we assumed wrong, clearly. I tried several permutations and combinations but nothing else quite rolled off the tongue smoothly enough. Your mother tells me that ‘Lian’ is a Chinese unisex name which means ‘white lotus’. I didn’t know that either. But which other Lian has the name ‘ateh’!? Whoever they are, I don’t like them.
As I was going through the exercise routine with my physio, I pointed out there was a crossover between her recommended ones and some of my yoga poses. She could see from my notes – it was her first time with me as she was only providing cover – that I was expecting a child. So we talked about you for a bit. I say all that to say, she spoke highly of a yoga book for babies by Fearne Cotton. It’s now on my watchlist. Maybe when you’re older.
Babies start rolling over as early as 4 months old. They will rock from side to side, a motion that is the foundation for rolling over. They may also roll over from tummy to back. At 6 months old, babies will typically roll over in both directions.
Yesterday, your mother and I took you to our physio session with Bruno. Until recently, I couldn’t feel much from the break downwards on my leg. It was completely numb, like touching an ice block. But those senses are slowly coming back. And with them, a lot of pain. It’s a gift and a curse. I can feel everything. So yesterday’s session was quite challenging. We did mobility exercises. Every twist and turn was excruciating on the knee and the break itself. It almost felt like I’d progressed backwards regressed, even though the reality is I’m taking huge steps forward. No pun intended.
Liza wanted to discuss a path to recovery after her C-section. You and I were resting in the corner as they went through some light motion. You were silent and dead quiet the entire time, sleeping on a folded blanket on the floor. We had you on your back and as I was staring, you rolled over to your side as if trying a new, improved and more comfortable position. More interestingly, you stayed on your side and didn’t wince or cry which made the gesture seem intentional. It was an amazing thing to witness. I didn’t think you could do that at six days old. But you’ve turned out to be quite the surprise.
Speaking of floors, we’re trying to figure out why you hate your cot so bad. We bought you a fancy Snuzzpod with bells and whistles but you can never settle in it. You get all aggy. The £6 IKEA baby changing mattress we have on the floor seems to be your preferred resting place. Either there or our bed. I had to swaddle you last night before you could sleep in your fancy crib five-star hotel. More on that later.
I’m typing from a car charging station. We’re taking you to get your tongue tie snipped. The car’s currently at 36%, which should be enough to get there at least. I’m contemplating whether to leave it charging, walk home, get ready and come back for it so I get more charge. I might do just that.
We parked and strolled to the Octav Botnar Wing (of Great Ormond St Hospital) with enough time to kill. Liza filled in the registration form while we sat down waiting for Dr Stefano Guiliani.
He consulted and confirmed the tongue tie with a two-second examination. I held your hands down while he snipped the “string” between the lower side of your tongue and the floor of your mouth. It didn’t take all of five seconds. There was a teeny bit of blood and the procedure was completely painless. Honestly, I felt I could’ve done it myself (especially after seeing the invoice). I’ll have to massage your tongue every day for about three weeks so we don’t get a reoccurrence. Yes, the tie can return.
From there we walked to Menya Ramen and had a delicious lunch. The amount of FUSi work I have to finish keeps me up at night. But I’ve been too tired (and sleep-deprived) to do anything creative. So when we got back, I slouched on the couch with some comfort food. I finished watching The Gray Man and Prey. I won’t remember the former. Prey was an interesting prequel to a classic.
I fed you using one of the anti-colic Tommee Tippee bottles your mother bought from Amazon. It didn’t work so now I’m googling around for “how to” videos. I felt sorry for you hiccupping on the floor so I carried you to sleep. You were smiling in moments and pulling funny faces as you dosed off. They made me laugh.
While changing your nappy, I noticed a bit of bum rash emerging. I showed Liza and applied some of the Aveeno baby cream we received from Zeddie. It’s the only thing we had. I’m sure it’ll suffice for now. But for sure, we’ll keep an eye on it.
We’ve had you for a week. It’s gone quick. Blimey! You were 4.025kg when you came out. As expected, you lost a bit of weight in the days that followed, but it was way under the worrying limit, a 6% weight loss to 3.780kg. Today, however, when Cath the nurse came round to scale you, you weighed in at exactly 4.000kg. So your numbers are up in record time, less than the usual two weeks. Her message was, “whatever you guys are doing, keep doing it”.
I must admit, the number is unsurprising. You can currently eat a small elephant in one seating. I knew from day one, 20ml of milk wouldn’t do shit to you but make you mad, which it currently does. You get all “stop fucking around with me”. So you’ve quickly graduated to big boy meals. Enjoy!
Mid-morning yesterday, we picked up your grandparents from the airport. Waze took us through the tiny bendy backstreets on the way back which made your grandmother uncharacteristically car sick from all the swaying and swerving. So much so that she had to swap seats to the front and we had to make a couple of stops so she could get some air.
I let them settle in and popped out to find you a Moses basket in Kingston. Liza thought it’d make you more mobile around the house and her mother wouldn’t have to stoop so low to get you to and from the floor (where you prefer to sleep). Surprisingly, the only place I could find one was in John Lewis. They didn’t have the stand in-store so I bought one from Amazon by Clair de Lune which was delivered today. It took less than no time to assemble.
Temperatures yesterday went as high as 33o. It was hot upstairs, intolerable outside and best in the basement which always manages to stay cool. But even there, you could break a sweat by simply blinking. Your umbilical cord stump couldn’t handle the heat either and fell off. It had been a source of pain for you so I was happy to bin it.
That was all manageable until your mother fed you. She called me panicking, saying you weren’t your normal self. I could tell straight away something was off but couldn’t allow myself to show it. In my mind, we needed at least one parent calm and logical. Internally I was shitting bricks. The best way to describe how you were behaving is like a toy with very low battery power. Your lights were dim. You couldn’t keep your arms up like you normally do, boxer style. They were lanky and falling sideways when we tried holding you up. You weren’t kicking either. I told Liza you were just lethargic from the Formula, a ploy to keep her angst and apprehension in check.
We put you in front of a blasting fan and tried to instil some mobility by moving your limbs vigorously. Not much changed. Your mother asked if she could slap you up. I greenlit the suggestion. That must have really hurt because you cried. But you stopped way too quickly. The smacks didn’t match the cry. So she did it again. And thankfully, you cried for a bit longer. We’ve never been happier to hear such an irritating sound.
We took you to the nappy changing table as that always rubs you the wrong way and provokes a scream. We did everything possible to make you uncomfortable. I was dousing you with wet wipes, in your hair, face, everywhere. That really got you going. The scare was over. We’re putting it down to something heat related.
Liza couldn’t get you to sleep that night. I think you could sense her worry and became very irritable and easily irascible. She was crying when I took you off her hands. I told her she was exhausted and needed to rest. I fed you the bottle she’d prepared and changed your diaper. Your bum rash had almost completely gone from applying basic vaseline I didn’t know I had under the bathroom sink. You were still pissed off (from the slaps most likely) and I had to carry you on my bare chest laying down to get you to sleep. I didn’t even notice you weren’t in your crib the following morning. Liza was still sleeping next to me as well, which made your whereabouts a mystery for a few seconds.
