this is totally working.

Last night at 9 PM I called the pediatrician because, as much as I didn't want to be that mother, I was having a pretty hard time of it. J had been screaming during feedings for the past few days, really acting like I was inflicting some kind of harm. Marc was finally around and awake to fully witness this spectacle, and kindly informed me that not only would I not be that mother, but that he would happily call the pediatrician himself if necessary.

Today we went to the doctor (did I mention that we have the best pediatrician ever? Our appointment was for 4 PM on a Sunday) and my son, my 24 day old son, weighed in at 12 pounds, 7 ounces, up nearly three pounds or, more acurately, 26% of his original body weight. Breastfeeding works, and it turns out I'm a force-feeder. Luckily this should well prepare my child for life as a half-Italian oldest grandson in a family of zealous cooks.

Like good parents of a first born grandson, we've made sure that the journey of the 26% has been well documented, and J now has his own little corner of punkly to keep track of the action: punkly.com/J. Enjoy.