A Very Itchy Christmas (Or: Atopic Dermatitis, a Primer)

Before Christmas, I felt like I was drowning.

Always close to tears; edging toward a breakdown.

No one seemed to understand, though of course I couldn’t fault them.

“Eczema? Yeah, my baby had that. This-or-that cream worked wonders. I just moisturized more often.”

Even the doctors: “This is a well baby with a rash. It’s mild eczema—you don’t even want to see severe eczema, believe me.”

“Oh, he’ll grow out of it in a year or three or five.”

I had nothing to compare, so I tried to believe it wasn’t such a big deal. Maybe I was overreacting. Just moisturize.

I, too, had eczema once. On my elbows. It was dry, sure, and it was itchy. It was annoying. I rubbed on some hydrocortisone and it cleared up in a couple days.

This is not that.

Remember your last mosquito bite? Remember that intensely itchy sensation, especially right before the welt appears, when all you want is to scratch?

Imagine that sensation engulfing your entire body.

And then, imagine someone restraining your hands, your feet, doing everything they can to prevent you from doing the one thing that seems relieving.

Sound like torture?

This is what my son felt, and feels. Daily.

Before Christmas, a trip to warm, humid Hawaii was the light at the end of my dry, ice-cold, skin-cracking tunnel. Late November and early December were dark for me.

More stressful than planning a wedding from the opposite coast.

More stressful than my Master’s program.

My entire day and night consisted of trying, unsuccessfully, to keep Luca from scratching himself, to keep him moisturized, to help him sleep. In photos from that time, I look ill.

I was scared: Sometimes Luca’s skin looked sunburned, sometimes mottled red, sometimes bumpy. Always itchy. I’d prayed for wisdom in raising my son since my pregnancy, but I felt lost.

His sixth month of life, Luca was rarely happy.

Some days he looked better, and I was hopeful. Then devastated when it got worse. Ups and downs wore my emotions threadbare.

Atopic Dermatitis (which I will call it, since the common name, eczema, sounds far less serious) has degrees, and Luca’s escalated its way, flare-up after flare-up, to severe.

I’ve watched with horror (and a touch of pride) the last three months as Luca’s problem-solving skills found increasingly creative ways to scratch his persistent itch.

Lying on the ground? Sweet, I’ll just wiggle and scratch my back! Sitting in a chair? I’ll rub my arms along the sides. Cuddled in the Ergo carrier, usually the great neutralizer? Ooh, these rough nylon straps are perfectly at elbow height.

Then there’s the vaguely disco car-seat dance. It would be adorable if it wasn’t so frustrating.

Rub, scratch, wiggle, and here comes a rash. There goes a patch of skin. Here comes ooze. Peeling. Pain.

Ever wonder what your skin would look like if you kept rubbing? Me either, but now I know.

Toward the end of December, some friends started to catch a glimpse. “What do you do with him all day at home when he’s like that?” a neighbor asked. I shrugged.

There was one reprieve, just in time: I joined a Bible study of a few women on base, women who prayed with me. Women who saw me teetering on the edge of what I could bear, and embraced me. One of them has a daughter with the same problem, about a year older than Luca.

She’d been there. She knew. She was a Godsend.

I would call her at Luca’s bedtime, fretting over some new outbreak. She would talk me back from the edge; give me tips on how to ease his suffering. She showed me which humidifier to buy, and where to order special Scratch Me Not sleeves with silk mittens to lessen skin damage and hair loss (the sleeves finally arrived late last week).

Of course, Christmas in Hawaii would fix all my problems. The warm, humid weather would be the perfect answer to Seoul’s bone-dry cold. I’d see my family and be happy. Joe wouldn’t be working at all. Luca’s skin would clear up.

Nope.

Not a chance.

Yes, it was wonderful to spend time with my family and to have Joe with me all the time—such a necessary break from the drudgery of fighting the scratch mostly alone.

And yes, we had fun swimming in the ocean and hiking to Queen’s Bath, a natural swimming hole formed of volcanic rock. We ate Kauai’s famous shave ice, enjoyed family meals, played with my niece and nephew, and visited my college roommate Bethany and met her cute little family.

But Luca was miserable.

I don’t think my family saw him smile until day three or four, and Luca barely played without whimpering. He was always scratching, scratching, scratching; angry when we pulled his hands away.

After an ER visit—“That is the worst case of dry skin I’ve ever seen,” the doctor said, before sending us on our way with instructions to moisturize—his skin peeled and looked miraculous. My hopes rose.

For a day.

I hate to be negative, but I won’t pretend our second week in Hawaii, in Honolulu, was fun. We watched Luca’s skin deteriorate into open, seeping sores, made worse in areas he could reach to rub with his sock-covered hands or feet.

We didn’t even go into the ocean. We went to Pearl Harbor but couldn’t make it out to the memorial.

If our vacation has a silver lining, it is that we ended up at Kapi’olani Medical Center, a hospital specializing in women and children—and they even staff pediatric specialists in the ER. Right place, right time; thank God.

Doctors took a look at our little one, oozing over probably 80 percent of his body, and admitted him until his skin was back under control. They drew blood, gave him an IV. We delayed our flight home.

Food allergies were the most likely culprit, the labs indicated. Allergy was also what was tearing up his intestines; he’d had diarrhea for almost a month by this point.

Luca was exclusively breastfed, so I cut out dairy, soy, egg, wheat, peanuts, sesame.

But it wasn’t enough.

We arrived home in Seoul on Thursday night, and by Monday, his skin was already relapsing. He rarely smiled. He wouldn’t even stand up—his absolute favorite thing to do.

We had a dermatologist appointment that day, and the doctor checked out our red, screaming infant with skin falling off his hands and feet, read his history, and recommended admission. Again.

Honestly, I was relieved. The way things were already going at home worried me. It was not sustainable.

The day after admission was so bad, anyway, I would have gone to the ER if I wasn’t already admitted. His hands and feet were cold and purple, he refused to nurse, and he would either stare into space, scream, or sleep. Nothing else.

I was scared.

Apparently dehydration and low blood sugar were to blame, since his condition improved after they hooked him up to IV fluids and he finally started eating. Our emergency put us behind in our care plan—we thought we’d only be there three days, but stayed a week.

How wonderful, though, that Samsung Medical Center has a care plan for patients like Luca. The sign in the photograph (right) points to “Atopic Disease Dedicated Ward,” a private room (with a view!) that aims to be allergen free: a hard-core air purifier, a humidifier, and a water purifier for the bath. No shoes or peanuts or ramen allowed. (Why ramen? I don’t know, but that’s what they said.)

View of Gangnam from hotel room, in southern Seoul

Doctors at Samsung research Atopic Dermatitis, using cutting-edge tools to track progress. Again: Right place, right time; thank God.

For example, in the Allergy Center, someone would stick a probe on Luca’s skin and measure its Ph level.

Another probe measured so-called “dryness index.” For perspective, normal dryness measures between 8 to 15, they told us. Luca’s neck—the worst part of the most recent flare-up—measured 150 when we arrived. It measured 50 when we finally went home, after days of multiple baths and wet dressings. After meds, tests and rest. And prayers—ours and those of family, friends and strangers (thank you!).

Luca tolerating a wet dressing

Oh, and diet change. The first thing doctors did was order me to stop breastfeeding. Luca needed to get well faster than the allergens could filter out of my body—and he could be allergic to anything.

He had never before taken a bottle.

We had to let him starve.

That transition marked probably the hardest two days of my life so far.

Harder than labor and delivery.

Harder than moving across the world.

I knew in my mind it was the right choice for Luca's health, but my heart felt otherwise. We both mourned the sudden, unexpected, unwanted end of breastfeeding. It felt wrong to refuse him, and he kept asking, devastated and confused.

I'd always imagined weaning slowly; breastfeeding at least a year. This wasn't what I wanted for my child.

And, practically speaking, the sudden stop was painful, an ache I saw as the physical manifestation of my grief.

He took the bottle, eventually. And then he started eating like a champ, sucking down hypoallergenic formula—which tastes like playdough, by the way.

Luca moving on helped me to start moving on. My physical pain subsided. My hormones and emotions steadied.

And now, back at home, Joe and I are still on edge. Every day, Luca’s skin looks worse. And then a little better, and then worse, then better, then worse.

Now, at least, we should see steady improvement. And now, at least, we’ve learned some techniques to tend to his skin. He’s been off breastmilk for a week and a half, and his intestines seem to be healing. We haven’t had a full-blown flare-up.

Luca is still itchy. And rashy. Food allergy aside, he still has Atopic Dermatitis, affected by humid air, dry air, non-cotton clothing and who knows what else—though there is definitely hope he’ll grow out of both. Eventually.

Some days I am discouraged.

The emotional up-and-down of the past few months makes it hard to rejoice with friends and family who exclaim over how good Luca’s skin looks.

Yeah, I think, It looks ok NOW, but you should see it tomorrow morning. Or, His face looks alright, but check out his back.

I do rejoice over his mood. He plays. He smiles. He laughs some. He gets excited to stand up. He sleeps! We've found new ways to cuddle and bond. And he’s growing—he gained at least two pounds in the hospital.

Honestly, I’m growing too.

A friend asked about all Luca had been through in Hawaii and at Samsung, and after hearing our saga, she said, “It must be really hard for you to be a mom right now.”

That took me aback.

No, that’s not it.

I thought a minute and replied, “Actually, it’s hard to remember I am anything other than a mom right now.”

Because somewhere over the past couple months, I truly became a mother in my own mind, not just a girl with an accessory baby to show off at playgroup.

My desperate prayers in moments of frustration have translated to character development: I see more love, more peace, patience, perseverance.

Deeper joy.

I don’t mean happiness; that’s been hard to muster lately.

I mean, when I felt myself hit my limit, I would think, What’s the alternative? Not having Luca at all?

And a protective sense of gratefulness would push me forward. My son is a gift, rash or not. Allergies or not.

My life is a gift, challenges or not. Happiness or not.

And maybe this is the beginning of wisdom.



* * *



Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. And perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. James 1:2-6

A Recipe: Coconut Milk Candy Cane Ice Cream

I knew being a stay-at-home mom of a baby would be challenging, but I didn’t realize it would be the most difficult (though rewarding, of course) job I can imagine. I never thought about the fact that there are limited breaks and no weekends. There is no “going home from work” at the end of each day. So, on the days when Luca is cranky or sick or only taking 30-minute naps, I need a creative outlet to let off some steam. These days, after Luca's bedtime, my creative energy is focused on the kitchen. Well, to be completely clear: on desserts. On coconut-milk-based desserts.

For Thanksgiving, I made coconut-milk-based pumpkin spice pie, and guests said my pie made the traditional (store bought) one pale in comparison, and I don’t think they were just being nice.

My pumpkin craving sprung on me with the sudden chill a few weeks prior, and after I discovered Korean Starbucks don’t carry pumpkin spice lattes, I turned to coconut-milk-based pumpkin ice cream—modified (a lot) from this recipe—and it was deliciously creamy and autumnal.

Now that Christmas is approaching, my cravings have made the seasonal progression from pumpkin to peppermint.

That’s right. Coconut-milk-based candy cane ice cream. Luca really wanted some (or, perhaps more likely, he wanted to eat the bowl).

Here’s the recipe:

COCONUT MILK CANDY CANE ICE CREAM
For electric ice cream makers

2 eggs
¾ cup sugar
1 can of (full fat) coconut milk
½ that amount of almond (or soy, rice, etc.) milk
1 TB vanilla (I use Mexican or Malagasy vanilla—the big jars. You may want to modify if you use the little jars of extract.)
1 tsp peppermint extract (or mint extract, if the ingredients say it contains peppermint oil)
4 (ish) Candy canes crushed to where about half the chunks are tiny (some will be powder), and half are the size you’d like to eat in your ice cream—I used an off-brand slap chop.
¾ cup chocolate chips (I didn’t measure) chopped to the size you’d like to see in your ice cream—I used the fake slap chop.
1 TB of brandy (though I’m sure another liquor would work)

Beat eggs until light and fluffy (I used an electric stand mixer). Add sugar slowly while beating; beat well. Add coconut milk. Fill coconut milk can halfway with almond milk; add that too. Add vanilla, peppermint, and the smaller chunks of candy cane (about half—these will essentially melt into the ice cream to add flavor and color). Put mixture in ice cream maker and freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions. When the ice cream has about 5 or 10 minutes left (getting thick, but not done yet), slowly add the rest of the candy cane chunks and the chocolate chips, letting them mix in. When the ice cream is basically done, add the brandy and let it spin about 2 minutes more. Enjoy right away or let it firm up a little more in the freezer.

I like to re-stir homemade ice creams before bed just to make sure sections don’t freeze solid. Texture is best if you eat it within a few days, but if/when it gets too hard, you can just set it out to soften before serving.

‘Have it Your Way’ Does Not Translate

American consumers are used to getting what they want, how they want it. “Exceptions welcome” is the heart of customer service in the United States.

Want your burger without onions? Sure! Want the chef to leave the nuts or cucumbers off your salad? No problem! Want to substitute veggies for French fries? Why not?

And for the lactose intolerants among us, want your pizza or burrito without cheese? Of course!

Restaurants and coffee shops are built for personalization: Think Chipotle or Chop’t. Or Starbucks.

Especially Starbucks! In the U.S., ask for a venti extra-foam nonfat 1-pump sugar-free vanilla half-caf latte, and the barista will only smile, nod and ring you up. No question.

Western culture is often emulated in Korea, and many western chains have crossed the great big pond, but the ‘have it your way’ mentality didn’t make the journey. It just doesn’t fit quite right here.

Don’t get me wrong, there is some excellent customer service here in Seoul—like the four-story dentist office I visited that looked more like a luxury health spa; I was escorted to each floor I visited by a polite, English-speaking woman in a skirt suit. Like the parking garages at malls; attendants bow to drivers as they direct traffic.

Patbingsu!

But try to order a bubble tea without milk, or try to substitute flavored syrup for heavy cream in patbingsu—my favorite shaved ice, mochi and red bean dessert—and oh, man. You are in for a hassle. Substitutions and exceptions are not built into the customer service mentality at most cafés and restaurants.

But, boy, do I try anyway.

Once at a bubble tea shop in the Coex Mall, I noticed the girl pouring ingredients in one by one. Flavoring, milk, ice, tapioca balls. It wasn’t pre-mixed. Excellent, I thought, just change milk for water, and I can drink it!

Wrong.

There’s no asking a manager; there’s no apology. Just: No. Can’t do it.

Sometimes I do get away with these substitutions, I think since I’m a foreigner speaking (a tiny bit of) Korean. Probably because they (accurately) assume I can’t say much more in Korean than I already said, they don’t want to argue with me.

And, are you ready for the real shocker? The hassle even happens at Starbucks in Korea.

Starbucks! The coffee shop known for interchangeable ingredients!

But I’m stubborn.

When I saw the sign for peppermint mochas, I was thrilled. There is nothing so comforting as a sweet, warm, soy-milky, caffeinated beverage on an ice-cold day.

The first time I asked for a grande single-shot soy peppermint white mocha, the barista had to repeat back to me: “Whah-ee-tuh?” Since this is the pronunciation when spelled in Korean.

“Ney, whah-ee-tuh,” I affirmed.

She looked doubtful. She thought. I re-explained my drink. She thought again, then nodded and took my payment. Not bad.

The second time I ordered my drink was on the military base, where the baristas speak English.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have that menu item,” she said.

“Oh, it’s the same as a peppermint mocha, but when you pump the chocolate in, you just pump white chocolate instead,” I explained.

“But we don’t have that menu item,” she repeated. “We can’t do it.”

I stood my ground, longing for that sweet warmth. “I order this all the time in the States, and I already ordered it at another Starbucks in Korea with no problem,” I explained, as respectfully as I could. “I know it’s possible; you just pump in white chocolate instead of chocolate.”

She stalled. She looked around the store—perhaps for the other barista who had stepped away—and back at me, bundled against the cold, pushing my stroller.

And she agreed.

If I’d tried that business at a Café Bene or Tom & Tom’s, I’m sure I would have walked out the door empty handed.

Now, I mean no disrespect. I understand that Korean culture is collective while American culture is individualist. Korea is homogonous while America is a salad bowl, or melting pot, or whatever. Critical thinking is not a priority here the way it is in the United States.

At Korean businesses—from what I hear—employees are expected to tow the line and follow the boss without question or creativity.

In the U.S., teachers complain about having to teach to standardized tests, but in Korea, education is—again, from what I hear—completely focused on preparing students to pass one, entire-life-deciding college entrance exam the November of their senior year. This test is such a big deal that companies tell workers to come in an hour late so students won’t face traffic; airplanes are not allowed to take off or land during the exam, for fear the noise will distract; the energy company puts extra crews on standby in case of power outages. A few years ago, according to the Wall Street Journal, a police officer even used his siren to rush to a student’s house to retrieve the test admission ticket she left behind and bring it to her at school.

The same WSJ article explains that Koreans believe the test is far more fair and objective than hiring admissions officers to look at essays and consider additional criteria, as American institutions looking for well-rounded students do.

It makes sense that this black-and-white attitude trickles down even to the bubble tea shop girl. She did as she was instructed by her boss, with no wiggle room. Why cause ripples? Why make a change? Why do something out of the ordinary to keep a customer?

I feel bad, sometimes, for asking employees to go against the norm since I understand it is a cultural difference.

…But not quite bad enough to stop. Starbucks run, anyone?


* * *

And, just for fun, here are some other things that didn't translate well...

(windows on a cell phone shop, and the checkout counter at a toy store selling Gunpla, a Japanese fighter toy.)

I miss you happy together ha!ha!ha! talk to her don't worry you are my sunshine

Apparently C.O.U.N.T.E.R stands for Come With Empty Hands, Gone With Full of Gunpla Bags

Mommy Care Postpartum: Maintaining Sanity

Pregnancy is full of wonder, nausea and excitement. And maybe swollen ankles. What will my baby look like? What will he be like?

I used to assign wise thoughts to my growing baby, who of course could understand my budding love for him in-utero. And when he came out all serene and sleepy, he still seemed wise. My baby, I decided, is an old soul.

Um.

Yeah, babies are babies, and they cry to communicate. They are learning everything from scratch. Everything.

Well, everything aside from making those oh-so-relieving, old-man-like stretch groans—apparently those are innate. And adorable.

New mommyhood is a challenge, but there are some things that, for me, helped (or would have helped) soften the blow of sudden and complete life change.

Remember that Everything is a Phase
Those first six weeks? Total blur.

At the time, I felt like I’d always remember every detail of Luca’s first weeks of life, those emotional, joyful, challenging weeks. But I don’t—and that’s a blessing, even though my son was a relatively easy newborn. (Not easy, mind you. Relatively easy.)

When it is difficult, when you cry, when you feel like you are screwing up new mommyhood, when whatever is happening seems too hard, just remember: This is just a phase. It will pass.

Clogged tear duct? Just a phase. Baby acne? Just a phase. Colicky crying? Just a phase (that I hear ends at 3 months). Cradle cap? Just a phase. (Right? Please? Because I feel like cradle cap is going to last forever.)

Oh, here’s an important one: Around week three, your baby will probably start cluster feeding for a while. I remember one day I fed Luca for the better part of two-plus hours, with barely a break in between. He just kept asking to be fed over and over and over and over. I cried, thinking my new life was completely unsustainable. But it didn’t last. And, later, I learned it was a growth spurt. Totally normal.

Just a phase. It gets better.

Don’t Google
Seriously. New moms are way too quick to jump to guilt and worry. Most of my new-mommy freakouts came after a session of Googling whatever was going on with Luca. So Google sparingly, and preferably not during a middle-of-the-night wakeup when your sanity is already just so-so.

Get Breastfeeding Support
Breastfeeding is hard at first, and for some, it continues to be a challenge. Some moms have to give up on it, and if that’s you—don’t feel guilty. A sane mom is more important to a baby than breastmilk. And don’t judge your friends if they have to give up, either.

Your birthing place likely has lactation consultants: Use them! If they aren’t awesome, find another one—or find a local support group of experienced breastfeeders like La Leche League. Or just reach out to other breastfeeding moms.

Hiring a doula meant I got in-home lactation consulting on top of the initial assistance with latch, and I was grateful to have someone watch me breastfeed, tell me if things seemed right, teach me different positions and suggest ways to make breastfeeding easier.

Here are some things I was glad to know in those early days, and some I learned along the way:

1. Milk takes a few days to come in. Don’t worry. Chances are, your baby is getting enough sustenance from the colostrum that comes out.
2. When your milk comes in a few days postpartum, your boobs will get gigantic, hard, and painful. That does not last forever, as I feared for an entire day (sorry, husbands).
3. You need leak pads. Definitely.
4. RELAX, since it helps with milk letdown (this is more of a challenge at the beginning when it hurts).
5. If you get sore, express a little extra milk and spread it around, letting it dry on your nipples. That lanolin cream works, too, but I found milk easier. And free.
6. When your baby is eating on one side, the other side will leak.
7. Massage your breast briefly before feeding (this can be 10 seconds).
8. Massage your breasts in a hot shower often (that is, when you have time to shower), or have someone close to you (one way your husband can help!) massage your breasts with a hot towel while you lie down, maybe a couple times a week at the beginning. All this massage feels good, yes, but it is mostly to avoid plugged ducts and mastitis.
9. If you think you have a plugged duct, massage and/or put a hot towel on the spot while the baby sucks. Breastfeed a lot.
10. Breastfeeding makes you very thirsty—have some water handy.
11. You will be hungry all the time, so prepare some quick and healthy snacks. (You thought that insatiable hunger would go away after pregnancy, didn’t you? Nope! You’re still growing a tiny human, just outside your body.)

Find Other New Mommies and GET OUT OF THE HOUSE
This one depends on personality, but everyone needs community. If you’re struggling with a fussy baby, or frustrated that breastfeeding and diaper changes fill your day, why not join others going through the same thing? Everyone understands, and nobody cares if they see your boob when you nurse. Commiserate. Share milestones. Let your babies have group tummy time. Eat snacks, since you are most likely all starving.

Or, go on outings to a park or a mall or a tourist attraction. If your newborn sleeps whenever you’re out, take advantage of that time and eat at restaurants or hang out in coffee shops. That will not last. I repeat: That will not last. I’m pretty sure we’ll be eating at the most casual of restaurants for the next 3-5 years. Or more.

Additionally, if you are a Facebooker, there are a lot of good mommy Facebook groups. Find one with like-minded women, and you can throw out a question, vent or celebrate your baby’s achievements to others around the country (or the world, in my case) who won’t judge you or think you’re annoying for bragging.

Adjust Expectations
Cooking? Cleaning? Reading? Blogging? Sending out birth announcements? Sleeping? Ha!

Keep your expectations loose for the day-to-day. Some days I get a lot done around the house, and I make dinner. Other days, Luca is fussy and needs to be held basically all day, so I get nothing done.

He only naps for 30-45 minutes at a time right now, about enough time to get some food, go to the bathroom, and clean up my dishes. Maybe I can sit down to catch up on the news or Facebook or email. If we’re having a rough day, all I want to do is veg out during those few precious minutes I have to myself.

Enlist Daddy’s Help
Your baby’s daddy can’t breastfeed, but he can take the baby for walks while you take a long bath, he can hold and play with the baby while you catch up on whatever you need to catch up on, or maybe he can rock him or her to sleep after nursing.

LET HIM HELP.

DON’T HOVER OR MICROMANAGE. (Believe me, the temptation is strong.)

Yes, perhaps you’ve spent the most time with the little one, and perhaps you know exactly what they need. But let them bond in their own way. Obviously, if you want to lovingly and humbly give a clue as to what the baby needs in that moment, do so. But don’t make the man feel useless.

Tucks Medicated Pads
This is an awkward one, but one I’m so grateful my sister recommended. (Thanks, Brandy!)

These are not pads as you normally think of them—though, while we’re on the subject, you basically need to wear diapers immediately after giving birth. Expect to lose a lot of blood, especially the first couple days.

Tucks are little wipes soaked in witch hazel, an herb, and they work wonders for soothing your healing—ahem—personal area, particularly if there was any tearing involved. (Also… all of that pushing might mean you’ll need Tucks for their main intended purpose as well. Just read the box.)

Don’t Judge or Feel Judged
Be prepared: There are all kinds of debates about parenting babies, particularly over sleep habits. To sleep train or not to sleep train? To let them cry it out or not let them cry it out? Research, learn and consider, but your choice is your choice. And another mom’s choice is her choice, even if it is different from yours.

100 Days of Luca

One hundred days of Itsy Bitsy Spiders and This Little Piggies.

One hundred days of baby play groups and mommy meet-ups.

One hundred days of feeding and burping and sleeping and rocking and crying.

One hundred days of exhaustion, and one hundred days of joy.

Traditionally in Korea, babies don’t leave home until they hit 100 days, a nod—I assume—to the days before Korea was a so-called “first-world” nation, when surviving 100 days was an accomplishment to be celebrated.

My little survivor is thriving, and more and more, I’m learning to be a mom.

I’ve learned to stop looking for patterns in his schedule and behavior; they change weekly. I’ve learned to take walks when we have a rough day; fresh air is healing (and walks usually equal naps). I’ve learned I don’t have to entertain my son every second he’s awake; he’s perfectly happy to chill in his bouncy chair and watch me finish household chores, as long as I talk or sing to him. I’ve learned that getting babies to fall asleep is (an understatement) challenging. I’ve learned that sometimes, when he just won’t fall asleep, it’s ok to rock him to sleep in the living room while I sniffle through an episode of Parenthood. I've learned babies have lots of personality only their primary caretaker(s) can see.

Looking back, the first six weeks were a blur, a crash course. The following eight were an exercise in trial and error, and trying again.

I rarely have a moment to myself, but my life is full.

I get frustrated enough to cry some days, but I am content.

Here's to tens of thousands more Luca Days to come.

Cheers.

Finding Empathy

With Tasha at the Kite Festival on the Mall, spring 2010

The summer I earned my Bachelor’s degree, someone dear to me said words that cut to the core. They hurt, and I cried. A lot.

I shared the story with my close friend Tasha that autumn, and tears fell again.

But not just my tears.

The beauty of my friend’s empathy comforted me. She left the comfort of her own skin to live in mine for a moment, to feel what I felt.

It was healing.

I’ve felt sick to my stomach for friends before or even cried for their pain on occasion; I’ve tasted empathy. But now, empathy is the staple of my emotional diet. My heart seems to have stopped worrying about me and instead centers on a new set of flesh and bones: my son’s.

Luca's second bath. He loves baths now!

Luca cries when he is hungry if I take too long to start feeding him. He cries when he’s tired or uncomfortable, and he cries when he has gas. He cries when he wants to be held but I’ve tried to set him down. He cries sometimes when he’s just cranky, though usually that means he’s tired and can’t fall asleep.

These cries—the ones I can help fix—were tough to hear at first. For a while, my new-mama heart broke when they rose above a fuss. Now that our family of three has found something of a rhythm, those cries don’t bother me as much. Let’s face it: That little face contortion and high-pitched "WAAAA! WAAA!" are heartbreakingly adorable.

(Disclaimer: Luca is not a colicky baby; he soothes relatively easily for the most part. I’m not sure how mothers emotionally survive with infants who cry hours on end, and I’m sure they don’t think cries are cute.)

The other day I bounced a sleepy Luca in my arms and let him fuss while Joe and I cleared up a previous miscommunication. Luca fell asleep amidst our conversation.

But.

When the cries are real, I shatter.

Like the time I got stuck in traffic driving our stick shift and Luca woke up hungry. He was (and still is) too young to understand why I wouldn’t respond to his hunger, so his cries grew frantic. I felt helpless, and I felt with my son.

His cries triggered something primal in me: I must respond. I must protect.

Finally, I pulled into one of the restaurant-lined alleyways of Myeongdong—Seoul’s central shopping district—parked illegally at the first open curb, and got in the back to feed and soothe Luca.

And like yesterday after he got his two-month vaccinations.

It’s better than getting the actual diseases, I kept reminding myself.

Feeling him tense in pain at the needle and listening to his cries as I comforted him afterward were bad enough, but the real pain came later. About four hours later.

He was in a good mood that evening and had napped well when he suddenly started screaming. I’d never heard cries so awful and terrifying and sad.

Joe and I did what we could—changed his diaper, gave him Infant Tylenol—but there was no other way we could help, so I just held Luca close and comforted him the best I could as he screamed and cried. His red, sore little legs shook and shuddered. I took deep, relaxing breaths to try and help him calm down.

And I felt pain.

My tears joined his.

Joe later took him from me to help, and Luca eventually fell asleep on his shoulder.

Luca at 2 months old

I know in the scheme of things that shots aren’t a big deal and he has probably already forgotten (though his legs clearly still hurt, which is why I'm typing this with one hand while Luca naps on me). But I don’t have words to describe how I felt watching this beautiful creature’s pain, feeling his pain.

I realize I’ve never loved anyone in quite this way before.

I love my family and friends, and I feel so strongly about Joe—one of my classmates at Georgetown once told me I came up in conversation and the other person said, “That Mallie really loves her husband.”—but with Luca, it’s different.

I don’t mean I’ll cry or spoil Luca whenever he skins a knee or doesn’t get the toy he wants. I mean when there’s pain he doesn’t understand, something he or Joe or I can’t make right, I imagine I’ll just hold him and feel it right along with him.

Perhaps my heart will grow little calluses to steel itself from this depth of empathy, but this is not a pain in myself I will seek to fix.

Because I think this is what it means to be a mother.

* * *
"When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. ... Jesus wept." John 11:33, 35

Navigating Motherhood's First 6 Weeks: Things I Found Useful

Wandering the aisles of Buy Buy Baby and Babies R Us last winter felt like drowning. What do I need? What do I want? What will my baby like? How do I choose goods for someone I’ve never met?

My conclusion: The baby products world is a racket, hitting parents-to-be at their most vulnerable points.

Did you know there is a “status teether,” the Sophie Giraffe?

Sophie is gorgeous, she is made out of natural rubber and food paint, she is French, and she is in the mouths of celebrities’ babies. This is how they tug at moms’ heartstrings—we all want to best knick-knacks for our babies, right?

But.

It is a TEETHER, for goodness’ sake. For $23.

A $23 splurge is tiny in the scheme of things—less than a Friday night dinner, for many—but for an infant’s simple teething toy? Come on.

But…

…OK, I admit, when I saw Sophie, I wanted one. For no practical reason at all. Sound silly? It does to me, too. This is why I will not buy one, though no judgment on those who do. It’s just that my mother taught me to be a little bit too practical—I used to believe $20 was the right price for a good pair of jeans. (Now I like my jeans to also look good, something I haven’t found for $20 in ages.)

Since Buy Buy Baby and Babies R Us—or even Amazon.com—can be intense for the uninitiated parent (they were for me—particularly the stroller section), I’ll share what I found most valuable in the first six weeks of parenthood.

(DISCLAIMER: At seven-and-a-half-weeks old, Luca is starting to like and need new things, so I’ll have to update my list later in the year—though some of these are timeless, like:)

Good, Supportive Husband
I have a newfound respect for single mothers out there—I honestly could not do this alone.

Joe is thoughtful, helpful, and all around the exact teammate I would want for a challenge as steep as learning to care for a newborn. Not to brag, but here’s just a taste: He often takes initiative and does the cloth diaper laundry (more on cloth diapers in another post), and he wakes up at 6am to see if Luca is awake or being noisy in his sleep. If so, he takes Luca out of our bedroom so I can sleep until Joe has to get ready for work.

And get this: He’s brought me breakfast in bed several mornings to make sure I got to eat. There’s nothing like an egg sandwich and OJ to make the morning go smoothly.

I chose the right husband.

Extra Support the First Few Weeks
For us, the first couple days of Luca’s life were a dreamy babymoon: It was Joe, me, and a baby who only slept and ate and peed and pooped. No crying, really. Perfection. Then we realized we have a baby, and babies get fussy—sometimes for no apparent reason. It’s not always easy to sooth them or discover how to care for their needs… while still tending to your own.

Since Joe and I were hoping to eat and sleep (and shower) now and then, extra support around the house was vital. My parents to the rescue! They were companions, sounding boards, short order cooks, kitchen cleaners, laundry doers, and more. It didn’t hurt that my mom, a nurse, knows a lot about babies from her days as a labor and delivery nurse (she also did a pretty bang-up job raising three of her own). She pulled me back from the ledge a few times when I thought I’d done something to screw this whole newborn-care thing up—like when Luca’s umbilical cord caught on my clothes and popped off during a middle-of-the-night diaper change, she was right there to tell me it looked just fine and must have been ready to come off anyhow. Whew.

Thanks, Mom & Dad!

Breastfeeding
For me, breastfeeding has been a godsend—especially in those early days. Yes, it was difficult, and it hurt and I got sore (and it still is sometimes difficult, hurts and makes me sore).

But once he was latched on, I would gaze at my tiny new son in awe as I became his lifeline to nourishment, and as I rode the gauzy waves of mommy hormones. It felt like floating on a peacefully warm river after a glass of wine. Or like love.

Of course, nursing these days has become a practical matter done basically anywhere, anytime, but this dreamy Mallie-and-Luca-bonding still happens, particularly during night feedings. I think those hormones must be God’s way of softening the blow of sleeplessness, and the blow of dramatic life change.

Puddle pads
I knew I was in trouble when I started to describe pee as “sneaky.” Or when something getting peed on didn’t automatically make it a candidate for immediate washing (we can just turn the Pack and Play sheet around, right?). Maybe it’s a baby boy thing, but my son can pee. I can’t count the number of diapers he’s peed through—disposables and cloth (and yes, we know to point his manly business down…). These puddle pads serve as a mattress liner for our co-sleeper, as something to set Luca on when I pull him up to our bed to feed him at night, and as a backup when the Pack and Play mattress liners are in the wash, among other uses.

Arm’s Reach Co-Sleeper
I got this only because it was a good deal second hand, but I am so grateful for it! I don’t judge people who co-sleep (as in, the baby sleeps in the parents’ bed), but I don’t feel safe doing so myself. To me, the Co-Sleeper is the best of both worlds: The safety of a crib with no blankets, pillows, parents who might roll, etc., as well as the closeness of co-sleeping. One side of this mini-crib pulls down to let it cozy up to our bed. Pictured right is the view from my pillow—sweet huh? I can just glance over to see whether that grunt is a sleep noise, or whether that little squeak-breath was choking or just another one of my little guy’s sounds (it’s always been the latter—thank God). But the best part is that I can just pull him up onto our bed to feed him while I doze.

Aden + Anais Swaddle Blankets
Love. Love. Love.

Looking for a good shower gift but want to skip the registry? Look no further. These blankets are the closest things to a “status swaddle,” but with good reason. They are adorable, cozy, breathable muslin that is big enough to bundle a baby into a proper burrito without pulling too tight. Plus, they are great for helping me maintain modesty while feeding Luca around others (when I don’t feel like using my nursing cover). I’d never heard of these before I received them as a gift, and we use them as often as possible when they are clean, at home or out and about. Thank you, Meg!  

SwaddleMe
These little Velcro straight-jackets were another surprise blessing. I’d received the two I registered for, but I also got a bunch as hand-me-downs from a relative here in Korea. I was going through three a night for a while (see “puddle pad” section, above), and it is so much simpler to just Velcro Luca into the swaddle rather than bundling him up in a blanket or zipping him in footsie PJs.

He’s still a little Houdini—he can get his arms out!—and sometimes we just put one on with his arms out anyway, but if he’s having trouble falling asleep, his arms are usually the culprit, waving all around and distracting him. Easy solution: strap ‘em down (gently, of course).

The downside? The Velcro scratches my skin when I burp him, and he grew out of them really quickly; we’ve moved on the sleep sacks and sleep gowns.

Baby-wearing looks good on Joe

Hey, a man's gotta eat.

Baby Carrier/Wrap/Sling
I'm a convert to baby wearing, but not because I'm anti-stroller (we love our Britax carseat/stroller combo). I first went with it because we live in a city that is not terribly stroller friendly, and where the subway rules since parking is slim. But I fell in love since it is so much easier to be in tune with what Luca needs when he's so close to me. The Hana Wrap (pictured left) is my favorite while Luca is small, but I plan to switch to my Ergo Baby as soon as he's big enough for it. We also have a hand-me-down Infantino (pictured right) that works now that Luca is a bit bigger. It's easier to pop him in and out, though it puts more pressure on my back.

Bouncy chair (and/or swing) AKA The Reason I can Eat Lunch or Put On Make-Up
We got our bouncy chair cheap and second hand from a departing embassy family, and this was another accidental pot of gold. On days I want to actually eat or make myself look presentable while Luca is awake, I can lug the little guy around in his bouncy chair to the bathroom, the mirror, the kitchen, anywhere. He gets to hang out with Mommy and I get things done—with just a little bounce now and then to keep him comfortable. I also get to keep looking at his cherubic face, which makes me happy.

Also, I’d heard baby swings were magic for soothing, and sometimes ours does work like a charm (more so now that he is older), but when Luca is fussy and unhappy in any position I hold him, the bouncy chair is my secret weapon, and I feel safer letting him sleep there rather than in the swing.

Exercise Ball
I spent many an hour on the ball when I was pregnant to help with my sore hips, but the ball is truly the miracle soother for Luca. Hold him close and bounce away, and he’s happy as a clam. Often this will even get him to sleep.

Laundry Machine in the House
Enough said. Especially since cloth diapering calls for a load every other day.

Nursing Pillow
Particularly while establishing breastfeeding, the Boppy pillow was my best friend. It helped me position the little guy in a way that was comfortable for both of us. I don’t always need it anymore for breastfeeding (I can sit him on my lap now), though it is still the best thing when Luca is having a fussy feeding. Also, it works well for tummy time play!

Did I miss anything, moms? What was a must for your first few weeks?