Extranjera's guide to first steps of motherhood, or how not to kill your baby while still riding the insanity wave

I'm sure the biggest issue on every new parent's mind on the day their child is born is: "Now, how do I keep this little life from being extinguished?" This thought is bound to rise to the surface as they yank the baby out and amidst a lot of crying emanating from several different people in the room hand the little bundle to you, or, as happened in my case, yank the baby out, rush her away, briefly rush her back in swaddled, stick her right up to my face while I'm still 'attached' to the operating table and unable to move (I kid you not, I think they thought I was one of those patients who would bolt up in the middle of it all to check out exactly how much of the wildly growing bush also known as my pubic hair they'd had to shave off, or, you know, just to see what exactly was going on with all that blood and stuff), let me briefly to try to focus on a palish blur with what could have been eyes right by my left nostril that's not saying a thing (the baby, not the nostril), and then whisk her straight into the NICU.

Still. There was that thought: "She's out. Now what?"

Well. I was lucky. In my case the NICU kept my little one alive for the first four days of her life, which I thought was only fitting since my womb (really the zombie-placenta) hadn't really been up to par until then. They let me see her, but, to be completely honest, I didn't change a single diaper until they sent her home. I was gloriously responsible for such important things as having warm hands to cuddle her with twice a day and getting enough sleep to better take care of her once she came home.

And then, to our utter bewilderment, she came home. After four days in intensive and intermediate therapy in the NICU.

They just let us take her. In a carseat much too big and with me having to hold her tiny flopping head on the ride home. She came home with us.

None of the complex and scary doctors' predictions of her being unable to control her body temperature or lacking or only having a weak sucking reflex because of the Down Syndrome, of her not being able to breathe on her own because of being so tiny and premature, or of her having some or other health issue, came true.

She was heavier and longer anyone had expected. And also possibly louder.

She was and is mostly fine. Maybe a little floppy once in a formula-induced coma. A little constipated (hopefully because of the formula and not because of something wrong with her bowels, but we'll see). Fairly disinterested in mom's boobies and really enamored by the bottle with the quick-flow nipple (the polar opposite of both of mom's nipples, which seem to be supporters of the slow food movement). Checking out the world with dark, dark blue eyes, much like her mother's. With reddish, and thus utterly Viking-reminiscent hairs on her tiny head. Generally smelling good and sweet. With long fingers and feet two sizes too big for her scrawny frame, but with 5 of the appropriate appendages on each hand and foot. All covered in beautiful, clear skin.

And she's ours.

Which probably explains why we panic and let our own special kind of insanity rule. All the time. About everything.

:: So far I've told the on call pediatrician at 1am on a Sunday in very questionable Spanish that my daughter "won't eat, but that I myself have been pooping all day long" and that I'm afraid "she will run out of water." He was very gracious about my supposed bowel movements and only coughed the tiniest bit.

:: I have practically tackled a security guard at my building because she dared to cross that boundary, also known as 'Don't you frikken even breathe in my precious babe's direction', I had mentally created to keep her safe from general harm, dragons, and traffic. In my defense (Or not, what does this have to do with anything? Who the fuck knows? Mommybrain. Ya.) she had gold teeth.

:: I have scared the poor, innocent (And new. Yes, again.) maid so that she now considers two car lengths away a safe distance to gaze at the baby. And then she hesitantly waves from over there.

:: I have become the queen of antibacterial soap to such an extent that every time I put my hands in my pockets my knuckles bleed.

:: I have tweeted and Facebooked shamelessly about my difficulties in breast-feeding, particularly the area of my sad, sad production. It seems my boobies are no longer just mine, but more like an appliance. A broken one at that. And I think the blogosphere deserves to know too. So there. Boobies - broken.

:: I have slept around four hours in total since returning from the hospital. She won't stop breathing if I keep staring at her, right?

:: I have taken more than a thousand photos and videos already, and I'm completely and utterly unable to delete any of them. Not even the shortish video I accidentally made of my own knee while waiting to get access to the NICU.

:: I have fallen irrevocably in love. With my daughter and with my family. And now know for sure that this is truly what I will ever do with my life. I'll be an off-kilter, broken-boobied, Viking-outnumbered mom to the sweetest thimble-sized human being on earth (Yes. Because she's mine.), and wife to the bestest dad ever (Regardless of his sub-par diaper-changing abilities, which, time and again, lead to pee puddles all over the place). 

Wouldn't you have?

The babe and the boob.

When he said shots, this is not what I had in mind.

If you found out that you had to have a couple of shots of steroids to mature your unborn baby's lungs on account of her being at least 3, if not 12, weeks early (Or possibly to win that championship title in the 80s. I don't know your life.), what would you expect of the whole deal?

Would you be like the naive, Scandinavian-rules-and-regulations-coddled me, and expect to show up at a doctor's office, have a qualified and appropriately dressed nurse (Also not wearing make up that in any way suggests a side job as a cabaret artist named Toots, which seems to be a popular night job for a multitude of Mexican nurses. At least based on the war paint.) perform some quick medical magic, and walk out of the place feeling a little sore in the buttock area, but without ever actually having to witness the actual needle or even the swab of disinfectant as anything else than a little prick on the skin and some unpleasant odor?

Or would you be thoroughly Mexican and receive a vague 'prescription' for some steroid solution while the doctor amiably chats away about his upcoming trip to Orlando's Disney World, show up at a drugstore, have a confused as well as confusing discussion with the guy behind the counter regarding how many ampuls it is you actually need, walk out with a feeling of discomfort and a mental note to email the doctor to make sure you're not doubling up on the 'roids by accident, get home and finally actually take a look at what's inside the packages you've just purchased, completely freak out (okay, so this is apparently where I stopped being the laid-back Mexican) by the length of the needle that you'd envisioned to be something more like the epinephrine-pen you were once, many years ago, shown how to use in case of a peanut/bee sting emergency at a children's summer camp (while you made a mental note to always be accompanied by someone who actually paid attention during the demonstration), or like the insulin-pen you once saw your high school friend use in the bathroom (There was no visible needle in either case, mind you!), to be followed by one mother of a breakdown, prior to regaining faith in the (at that moment absent) Viking and his nursing abilities, especially those involving giving other people shots, only to learn that he vehemently declines even touching the syringes, let alone giving anyone any shots of any kind? Unless they're of the Jaegermeister-persuasion in tiny glasses.

Would thoughts such as "Can you actually stick the needle straight into your hip bone? And if so, will the drug still get to the baby?" come to your mind?

What would you do?

Woman up, and stick yourself in the ass with the mother of all needles, hope that you don't hit anything that would kill, paralyze, or forever mentally traumatize you, or if you do end up doing just that, that at least the death is swift and painless or that your insurance covers years and years of therapy?

Or scroll through your list of local friends for doctors, nurses, vets, seriously sick folks who might be familiar with giving shots, and failing all else, intravenous drug users, and then make some calls?

Because that's what I'm doing.

Anyone medically qualified out there, within a 100-mile radius of Mexico City? I'll buy you Starbucks...

I bet there's someone in there who could give me my shots... Too bad this place's in Venice Beach, California.

Down

You know that discussion where a pregnant woman is asked whether she's hoping for a boy or a girl, and the woman, although probably thinking "I'm so going to throw a megatantrum unless I get some decent wear out of those little princess baby-tutus I've been buying online" or "I've already painted the nursery blue, so whaddya think?!?!" answers "Oh, we don't care whether the baby's a boy or a girl as long as he or she is healthy"? (Brad paisley even wrote a song about it.)

I know you do. You've had that discussion. I've had that discussion. I've been the one asking, since previously the only baby-related chit-chatty blurb of baby-shower blab I have been able to come up with has been either that piece of shining brilliance and originality, or my all time favorite: "So, you craving anything weird... like dirt? I read some women want to eat dirt?" which has always proven very successful in that I've never had to elaborate, or better yet, host any baby-related shindig.

But now I'm supposed to be on the answering end.

Only, I already know that we're having a little girl, and that our little girl will never be classified as completely healthy, since she'll have Down Syndrome.

Now, I've already read enough to know that she won't be suffering from Down Syndrome, and neither will she be inflicted with it, she'll just have it, like the reddish hair she might inherit from the Viking or the narrow face and a pair of dark blue eyes set just a teeny tiny bit too close to each other to really be attractive, she might inherit from me. Although, let's hope she inherits my blondish locks and the Viking's strong chin and nose instead, shall we...

But what do I tell people who look at me with pity in their eyes?

Our daughter, she'll be special alright, but only because she'll be ours. We'll care for her and raise her, and hopefully enable her to face this world without too much alcohol and caffeine (something her mother has been known to occasionally struggle with, although not whilst pregnant I assure you, I might be off the charts in many ways but I mean no harm) and with an attitude that will allow for her to be ambitious while still enjoying the stuff that really, once you get down to it, makes all of this living worth it somehow. Like avocados and 90s pop.

And let's face it: She will be inflicted with a mother who I'm sure will still feel, at 40, 50 or even 60, that she can pull off a blue mohawk. No doubt about it!

Try that on for teen drama.

A little memento from the land of our little daughter's conception. 

Come to think of it, she might also be inflicted with a mother who is willing to include time and location of the actual conception in the birth story. 

Sick, right?