The Sweaty, Messy, Magical Reality of the Kangaroo Baby Phase

It was 3:14 in the morning, and the hospital room smelled strongly of bleach, stale hazelnut coffee, and my own big postpartum terror. I was wearing mesh underwear and a hospital gown that was entirely unsnapped in the front because, honestly, modesty goes right out the window the second you give birth. Dave, my husband, was passed out on what the hospital generously called a "sleeper chair," snoring loud enough to wake the dead. I was holding Leo, my firstborn, who was roughly the size of a soggy burrito and looked just as fragile.

Suddenly, Nurse Brenda barged in. Brenda was a terrifyingly competent woman who looked like she hadn't slept since 1998 but still knew everything about everything. She flipped on the overhead fluorescent lights—which, by the way, are a hate crime against exhausted women—and cheerfully announced it was time to turn my child into a kangaroo baby. I just stared at her blankly.

I mean, I'd read the pamphlets. I knew skin-to-skin was a thing. But nothing prepares you for the sweaty, slippery reality of stripping your tiny, squawking infant down to just a diaper and slapping them onto your bare, leaky chest. I felt like I was going to break him. He was so incredibly small, and my boobs were, like, suddenly the size of cantaloupes and actively revolting against me. Anyway, the point is, I was terrified.

The hospital room sweat lodge

Brenda helped me recline the bed, and she practically glued Leo to my chest. He was squirming and making these tiny, pathetic little grunting noises, and then she draped a warmed hospital blanket over his back. And then she left me there. For an hour.

Within ten minutes, I was sweating profusely. Nobody tells you this part. Your body is going through this massive hormone dump, and you're holding a tiny human heater against your skin. I literally felt droplets of sweat rolling down my ribs. But then, the craziest thing happened. Leo just... stopped crying. His little erratic newborn breathing slowed right down to match mine. He fell into this incredibly deep sleep, his tiny ear pressed right against my collarbone. It was magic. Sticky, gross, incredibly uncomfortable magic.

My pediatrician, Dr. Miller, who always looks like he desperately needs a vacation, explained the science to me a few days later when I asked why my kid only slept when taped to my chest. I probably have the details wrong because sleep deprivation makes your brain feel like wet cardboard, but he basically said my body is a human thermostat. If Leo got too cold, my chest would automatically heat up to warm him. If he got too hot, my chest would cool down. Which, what the hell? That sounds like absolute sci-fi nonsense. How does my sternum know what temperature a baby is? I can't even figure out the thermostat in my own hallway.

My extremely unscientific understanding of the medical stuff

I guess there's actually a ton of research behind the whole kangaroo care thing. It started back in the 70s in Colombia because they didn't have enough incubators, which is wild and makes me feel incredibly guilty for complaining about my hospital's lukewarm coffee. But Dr. Miller said it isn't just for preemies. It's supposed to do all sorts of crazy things for full-term babies too. Here's what I remember from his lecture while I was trying not to fall asleep sitting up:

• The hormone dump: Holding them like that supposedly triggers this massive release of oxytocin in your brain. That's the bonding hormone. It's supposed to lower your stress and help prevent postpartum depression. I mean, I still cried in the shower every other day for a month, so it isn't a miracle cure, but it definitely made me feel intensely, fiercely protective of this little potato-human.
• Germ sharing: Apparently, my normal skin bacteria was transferring to Leo to build his microbiome. Gross, but also cool? I'll take it.
• Pain relief: This one is actually completely true. When they came in to do Leo's heel prick—which is the saddest thing in the world to watch—Brenda made me do it skin-to-skin. He barely even squeaked. The nurse said it's clinically proven to act as a painkiller.

So, yeah, you really just have to ignore the mountain of dishes, strip off your shirt, and trap yourself under your infant because honestly, that laundry isn't going anywhere anyway.

When you finally have to put clothes on them

The hardest part of the kangaroo phase is the fact that eventually, you've to put them down. You have to pee. You have to eat something that isn't a granola bar. And you've to put actual clothes on your baby because you can't just carry a naked infant through the grocery store without getting some very weird looks.

When Leo was first born, his skin was a disaster. Peeling, weird red splotches, little bumps everywhere. Taking him off my chest and putting him in clothes always made him angry, and most synthetic fabrics just made his skin worse. I ended up throwing out half the stuff I bought and switching to the Organic Cotton Baby Bodysuit Sleeveless from Kianao. This thing was my absolute favorite. Period. End of sentence.

It's made of organic cotton, which felt almost as soft as my own skin—okay, maybe softer since I hadn't moisturized since the third trimester. Because it's sleeveless, it was perfect for that weird transitional period where we were constantly going back and forth between skin-to-skin snuggles and actually having to exist in the world. I didn't have to wrestle his tiny, fragile little arms through tight sleeves while he was screaming. It just slipped over his head, snapped at the bottom, and we were done. Plus, it survived a blowout at a Target Starbucks that was so horrific I genuinely considered just leaving the stroller behind and starting a new life. It washed totally clean.

If you're building a registry and drowning in a sea of confusing organic baby products, definitely check out their organic clothes collection. The fabric is just better. I don't know how else to say it.

Dave tries his hand at being a mattress

About two weeks in, I hit a wall. I was so touched-out I felt like my skin was vibrating. I handed Leo to Dave, who looked terrified. "Take off your shirt," I told him. He thought I was joking. I wasn't.

Watching your husband do kangaroo care is hilarious. They have these broad, flat, hairy chests, and the baby just looks so tiny perched up there. But guys, it works for dads too. Dave sat on the couch, put Leo on his chest, and pulled his zip-up hoodie over the baby's back. Within five minutes, they were both dead asleep. WHICH IS A HUGE RULE VIOLATION. You absolutely can't fall asleep while doing this on a couch because it's a massive suffocation risk. I had to wake Dave up by throwing a throw pillow at his head. He was so mad, but I wasn't about to let my kid roll off his chest into the couch cushions.

We developed a system after that. If you're going to be nap-trapped for an hour (because Dr. Miller said they need at least an hour to get through a full sleep cycle), you've to prepare your station. It's basically a tactical military operation.

1. Go to the bathroom first. I can't stress this enough. If you hear water running, you'll regret your life choices.
2. Acquire beverages. Have your partner bring you a massive iced coffee. Not hot. Hot coffee plus a squirming newborn equals a trip to the burn ward.
3. Secure the remote. If the TV remote is on the coffee table out of reach, you'll be forced to watch three hours of whatever garbage HGTV show happens to be on.
4. Ditch the phone. This was the hardest rule for me. I wanted to scroll Instagram so bad. But leaning over the baby's head to look at your screen is terrible for your neck, and honestly, you need to be watching their airway to make sure their chin doesn't slump down to their chest.

The stuff you buy to reclaim your arms

Eventually, usually around month three or four, the constant need for skin-to-skin starts to wane. They start honestly seeing things and getting distracted. With my second kid, Maya, this happened right around the time I desperately needed to be able to make a sandwich with two hands.

We got the Wooden Rainbow Play Gym to help transition her off my chest. Let's be totally honest here. It's beautiful. It's made of sustainable wood, the little hanging elephant is adorable, and it looked infinitely better in my living room than those loud, flashing plastic monstrosities that look like a carnival threw up. But... it's just okay.

Maya would lay under it and stare at the wooden shapes for maybe, I don't know, six minutes before she'd start fussing to be picked up again. She wasn't exactly doing complex math equations under there. But you know what? Those six minutes let me brush my teeth without holding a baby like a football under my arm. And since the paint is non-toxic, I didn't panic when she eventually figured out how to grab the hanging rings and immediately shoved them into her mouth. So, it did its job.

The phase where everything goes in the mouth

Speaking of shoving things in the mouth, that's what happens right after the kangaroo phase ends. They realize they've hands, and they realize they've gums that suddenly hurt all the time. Maya's teething phase was a nightmare. She drooled so much she looked like a St. Bernard.

Because I was still scarred from the hospital days of wanting everything touching her to be totally safe, I got really weird about what she was chewing on. The Bubble Tea Teether was a lifesaver. It's made of food-grade silicone, no BPA or weird chemicals, and it's shaped like a little boba cup. The texture of the "pearls" on the bottom was exactly what she wanted to gnaw on. I'd throw it in the fridge for twenty minutes while she was screaming, and then hand it to her cold. Instant silence. It was glorious.

It's weird how fast it all goes. One minute you're sweating through a hospital gown, terrified you're going to break your newborn, your heart racing every time they make a weird squeak against your chest. And then suddenly, they're sitting up, aggressively chewing on a silicone boba cup, totally independent. You miss the snuggles, but you definitely don't miss the sweat.

If you're in the thick of it right now, buried under a baby, terrified to move, just know it gets easier. And seriously, treat yourself to some organic baby stuff that really works—you can shop the Kianao accessories collection right here before you dive into the FAQ below.

Questions I frantically googled at 2 AM

How long am I supposed to be a human incubator?

Dr. Miller told me to aim for at least an hour at a time. Basically, babies have sleep cycles just like we do, and it takes them about an hour to get into that deep, restorative sleep. If you rip them off your chest after twenty minutes because your arm is falling asleep, they'll just wake up cranky. I usually tried to stick it out for an hour and a half, or until my bladder physically couldn't take it anymore.

Can Dave do it too or is it just a mom thing?

Dads can absolutely do it! And they should! Dave was terrified at first, but it's incredibly good for their bonding. Plus, guys naturally run a bit hotter than we do, so Dave was like a giant, hairy radiator for Maya when she was tiny. It also gives you a desperately needed break to take a shower where nobody is touching you.

What if I accidentally fall asleep?

This is the scary one. Don't do it on a couch or a recliner. Ever. It's so tempting because you're exhausted, but if you fall asleep, the baby can slip down into the cushions, and it's a huge suffocation hazard. If I felt myself nodding off, I'd wake Dave up to watch me, or I'd move to the middle of our firm mattress with absolutely no pillows around us. Safety first, even when you're dead tired.

Why is my baby freaking out during skin-to-skin?

Sometimes Leo would just scream when I put him on my chest. It usually meant one of three things: he was hungry, he needed a diaper change, or I smelled weird. Seriously. Babies are super sensitive to smells. If I'd put on scented lotion or—god forbid—perfume, he hated it. They want to smell your natural, probably unwashed, maternal scent. So skip the Bath & Body Works until they're a bit older.

Should I wake them up to feed them if they're sleeping on me?

In the very beginning, yes, my pediatrician made me wake Leo every two to three hours to eat because he was so tiny. Which felt like a crime against humanity when he was finally sleeping peacefully on my chest. But once they hit their birth weight and the doctor gives you the green light, let them sleep! Enjoy the quiet. Just remember to grab the remote first.