The first week
Camille Leigh Giella was born in Fort Worth, Texas, on Monday, February 13, 2023, at 12:17 p.m. She weighed 7 pounds, 7 ounces, was 19.25 inches long, and is a beautiful, healthy baby girl, just like her mom.
Camille Leigh Giella, 23 hours old
We arrived at the hospital around 3:30 a.m. After a few hours of triage and getting settled, we read chapters of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire between contractions. Harry has just completed the first task of the Triwizard Tournament—stealing a golden egg from a fire-breathing dragon.
Christine was and is a true champion. When God made her a woman, therefore placing her name in Life’s Goblet of Fire, he added an extra dollop of strength and courage. I, on the other hand, nearly fainted twice for unknown reasons, once in the L&D ER and once while watching the anesthesiologist prepare several needles for the epidural.
A few hours later, after perhaps an hour and a half of active labor, a child was born. She was radiant, a miracle. She was also purple, looking rather mushed and wrinkly, like a block of plum-colored brie recently removed from its plastic wrap. I cried when the nurses gave Camille her first shot. I heard her scream of pain felt as though I should rescue her from trained medical professionals. My back also hurt. Women are stronger than men.
During the first week of her life, I have learned that newborns are nocturnal. Camille sleeps during the day, which is nice because I can clean out the garage or organize the filing cabinet. But that means she doesn’t sleep at night, which is the time that I would really like to sleep. I may have a talk with her.
Christine and I have found a rhythm that works reasonably well: Christine will feed Camille and I will sleep. When she’s done, I’ll change her diaper—Camille’s, not Christine’s—and rock her to sleep. The point of the rocking is not, as I previously thought, to calm the baby down because they like rocking per se, though that’s invariably true. The point is to move pockets of gas through the baby’s intestines and out of both the attic and the basement. The basement is preferable because there’s less spit-up. It’s also funnier because toots are always funny, no matter how old you are.
As an aside, I sneezed and tooted at the same time last night. My friend Kyle said my body took a screenshot. Christine’s mom Janice, a dignified gentlewoman and physician who always dresses as though she’s on her way to attend a banquet, said, “Hm, powerful.” This is life in your thirties.
Anyway, helping the gas move along through the basement has the added benefit of clearing out the pipes. This is a skill Camille has picked up rather quickly. She’s a natural. I, however, am not a natural at changing a diaper. It’s quite like stealing a golden egg from a fire-breathing dragon.
First, abide by a cardinal rule of fine French cooking: mise en place. Prepare the changing station with all the wipes, diapers, swaddles, burp cloths, and other accoutrements you’ll need to be successful.
Then, slide a fresh diaper under the old diaper to collect spillage and to prepare for the Changing of the Guard. It’s essential to change the baby on an easy-to-clean surface, like a Keekaroo Peanut Changer, rather than on a Pottery Barn bedspread. Washing duvet covers at 2:00 a.m. is inconvenient.
Next—and this is where the dragon bit comes in—quickly clean the basement and cover the area with a fresh diaper. The keyword is quickly. Otherwise you may find yourself with leaky pipes spilling new sludge and kidney byproduct onto your clean diaper, your fingers, and the small of the baby’s back.
Finally, having disposed of the molten-asphalt-like substance and washed under your fingernails, swaddle the baby like a tiny enchilada and place her in the bassinet. After thirty-seven seconds, remove her from the bassinet as she begins to whine for her mother. The father’s usefulness has ended.
We’re learning as we go. If you haven’t yet had kids, verily I say unto you, do not be afraid. The first week is a very steep learning curve, but if you’re fortunate enough to have helpful nurses (what’s up, Tori) and family (powerful Janice), you’ll be just fine.
We are so thankful for all the love poured out from family and friends. We much more clearly understand the phrase that “it takes a village.” People come by to bring us food and show us grace amid our disheveled hair and home. It’s made us a lot more empathetic toward others’ moments, life-changing and not, and we hope to return the favor.
