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.
First, sorry this is becoming a hard know to J. Available subject matter includes J, the weather, and what I had for breakfast, so enjoy the J stories.
Now onto the good news -- J slept in the crib last night! No longer can we refer to his bedroom as "J's walk-in closet." He ate at 11:30, then Marc swaddled him up and he passed out until 3. After he ate again, he actually went BACK to the crib without much trouble and slept until 7. This is really amazing, since we were convinced that he would be sleeping in the Magic Nana Chair until his legs were long enough that he could rock himself to sleep. Turns out if you let him eat amply, he doesn't give a damn where he's sleeping.
Now, if he could just figure out how to keep the pacifier in his mouth, we'd be all set. (Except for the poop -- there would still be poop.)
1. The baby needs to be fed.
2. The baby needs to be changed.
3. The baby needs a bath.
4. Mommy needs to eat.
5. Mommy needs to pee.
6. Mommy needs a shower.
Prioritize the above. Hint: Changing the baby comes first. Then, assume that the baby pees while being changed, including into a puddle that unbeknownst to you soaks into his own hair. Reassess.
We've read some about babies' vision. A newborn baby's sight is basically optimized to see his mother's face as he is breastfeeding. Babies are most attracted to high contrast, graphical images. They love faces, and J will in fact stare at us for minutes at a time (that's the equivalent of several grown-up days in the life of a newborn).
We've been having a hard time getting J to settle down in his crib, and in fact he spends most of his sleeping time in what we've taken to calling the Magic Nana Chair, a gift from my grandmother that reclines the baby to just the right angle for knocking him out pretty consistently. It is also almost far enough back for pacifier-retention, too, but not quite (it's Magic, not Miraculous -- J's not so good at the pacifier yet).
Today, though, he managed about forty-five non-crying minutes in the crib, thanks to a stuffed green giraffe with a bell inside that J got from my mother. I first put it near J's face in the hope that it would block the pacifier from dropping out of his mouth. When I looked to see if he was sleeping after he'd been quiet for a few seconds, I found him staring, enraptured, into the giraffe's tiny black eyes. Every few seconds I would hear a little jingle as he reached out and smacked the giraffe's face with his little hand.
My son was giving his new best friend a beat-down.
Marc just answered a question that's been thrown around here for a few days now... What is J looking at? When he's in his car seat in the living room, he's frequently staring up toward the ceiling. Previous theories about what he was looking at included the pictures on the wall (dark frames providing interesting light/dark contrast), the sprinklers on the ceiling (for their resemblance to nipples), and the lamp (reenacting his most vivid memory and attempting to "come into the light").
Turns out he was looking at the handle of the car seat.
Guess who took a shower this morning -- me!
We are doing seriously well... we even had a little dancing session when we downloaded the last couple of tunes from The Area 52 Project. J might have just been trying to kick off his blanket, but as the mother of such a gifted child I assumed he was grooving and slapped on the wrist rattles so he could get his percussion career started.
Our only problem so far has been that when J is finished eating, I usually hand him to Marc who somehow manages to convince him that lunch is over. Without Marc here, there's no way to reset his expectations for more boob chow. So I put him on the floor. It's not the nicest way to end a meal -- "Done eating, kid? Good. Now lay on the floor!" -- but it seemed to do the trick with minimal crying. Hopefully this won't propagate into adulthood, with J on the floor at the end of a fancy dinner party, pacifier in one hand, cheesecake in the other.
Tomorrow's the day that we make the big switch, from zone defense to man-to-man. J doesn't seem to have any idea that his advantage doubles as of 7 tomorrow morning when his pop returns to work but I can't stop thinking about it. I'm not so much nervous as positive that this peaceful, sleep-loving, angelic little bundle of happiness is going to suddenly transform into a colicky raving lunatic baby around 7:03. Plus I'm already really, really tired.
Expect more photos soon, including J's first bath at home (he was surprisingly calm, especially while we washed his hair) and his first walk (which he totally slept through).
As you'll see in those photos, the pregnancy beard is gone. Marc left the hospital for a couple of hours on Friday and took care of business. I have to admit, while I had grown fond of the beard, I was really happy to see his cute face again, particularly those dimples. The beard had really taken on a life of its own in those last few weeks. While he's not thrilled about having to shave again, I think he's happy that my mother has stopped calling him a lumberjack.
In related news, we discovered this morning that J has a dimple on his right cheek, which means that cheek-wise, Marc and I are neck-and-neck, genetically speaking.
Marc has uploaded the rest of the photos from J's birth (oh, so flattering -- nothing too gory, though) and from his first night at home.
You can find the newest photos (as always, though it has been a while, we admit) at the top of the page at Punkly --> Us --> Photos.
I know the truth -- people usually read weblogs for the bad news... the dramatic, self-absorbed observations of the chronically understimulated masses. I have none of that. Happy anniversary to us!!
When the pediatrician told us that the only toes you really need are the big ones, my first thought probably shouldn't have been, great! That leaves eight for me to eat! Then I realized that baby toes are probably like those mint Girl Scout cookies, the cookies that come in a box, in two tubes, the cookies that you have to put in the freezer so you don't eat first the whole foot, er, tube, and then the other tube and then you're just staring at your adorable but toeless baby in an empty box of cookies.
You're probably looking for something a little bit more specific. Let me start here... childbirth hurts like a word I'd hate to leave here in posterity as something related to my perfect little child. It hurts more when you arrive at the hospital already dilated 7 cm, progress to 9 on the wheelchair ride to the delivery room, and after having been in the hospital for less than two hours and without any pain medication or really even a chance to make it to the third kind of LaMaze breathing, out pops a baby.
I say "pops" here as a courtesy to those of you who prefer to think of childbirth as a bloodless, endearing experience, softly lit and with the kind of music that you hear at a day spa.
That really is the whole story -- I was having pretty much painless contractions for more than a day and a half. I started feeling nauseous on Wednesday afternoon and took a nap from 5 to 7:30. Marc woke me up for grilled cheese and soup. After dinner I decided I should go to bed. I still wasn't sure if I was going to give birth or throw up. Marc came to bed at 11:15. Five minutes later my mother came upstairs. We told her that the contractions were getting worse. She stood in the doorway so she could see me breathe through the next one. She wanted to decide if she should go to bed or not. Two breaths into that contraction, my water broke. We packed up and headed out (I updated my weblog while Marc loaded the car) around 11:50. We never took the birthing ball out of the backseat of the car. I never did throw up.
As harrowing as the experience was, I would puke a thousand times a day for a hundred first trimesters, would carry a giant lump under my shirt for the rest of my life, would leak fluid and blood and any other torture appropriate for the situation; I would do all of that and I would do it over and over and over again if it meant that I got to be as completely overjoyed as I am right now.
J C Colello
was born at 1:41 AM
on 4-01-04
weighing 9 lbs. 14 oz.
and measuring 22 in. long.
... and will kick your baby's ass.
Age: 4 minutes
Recent Photographs
Recent Entries
thus is the life of a new parent.Search the know
