Every idea I had about how I’d raise you as a newborn went right out the window that first afternoon we brought you home.
Nothing in the world prepared me for the level of anxiety and fear that gripped my heart and twisted it maliciously every time you sneezed or coughed. Your fragility alone was gut wrenchingly heartbreaking.
There was no way in hell you were sleeping by your self in a bassinet, even if it was right by the bed. I needed you in the bed with me. I couldn’t be apart from you that long. It physically hurt me. My body didn’t recognize you as separate from me, not yet. So we put you on a co-sleeper on the bed where I could smoosh my face up against and stare at you if I needed to. And I needed to. I still do.
All my ideas about attachment parenting and how co-dependent granola eating dirtfooted it was have been tested and turned. I can’t help myself. I am madly in love with you. I keep trying to wear you, which I swore I’d never do. But every time I put you in a sling you projectile vomit, and you’ll only allow me 10 minutes maximum in the kozy carrier- the Asian wrap that lets you sit facing me. But I keep trying.
You have made an attachment parent out of me. Even if you don’t like it.
I sense an independent streak in you. You hate to be swaddled, unless absolutely necessary, and it has been absolutely necessary a few times. Your Dad is the swaddle master. He’s got the 5 s’s down to a science. Although you rarely need them.
I cried the first time we took you out in the car. To my credit it was after we’d had way too many visitors in a row and I was losing my mind. Too much, too fast, way too soon. Other people were holding you and I wanted to tell them that they were holding my heart in their hands but I couldn’t speak. I was in shock still from the birth and you were across the room, way too far away from me.
I’ve cried every time we’ve left the house. I feel the unpredictability of the world crashing and smashing in around me and it feels so out of control. Home alone with you and Dad is where I feel safest. I love our little family of 3.
I must admit, I am not immune to the hormonal meltdown. It’s happened a few times, heck, it could happen again right now as I write this. It’s late right now- 9:45pm. You have finally gone to sleep, without a hitch so far. Dad and I are working in the living room trying to take advantage of this respite. See, you’ve entered into your ‘fussy’ stage and have a distinct witching hour around 5-10pm. It is what the lactation consultant at the Pump Station called Intensive Parenting time. Intense is the correct adjective. I’m pretty proud of your Papa and I though. I think we are a good team. I take the night and day shifts, he takes morning and early evening. He’s the better burper. I’m the better breastfeeder. Which reminds me, THANK YOU, for being such an amazing baby at the boob. You have gained 2 pounds almost in two weeks. Your weight never went down. You’ve grown almost 2 inches! And my boobs barely missed a beat. You latch like a champ and I must have nipples of steel with cream for milk.
We couldn’t be happier about this. Some women really struggle. I’m extremely grateful we do not.
We’ve seen two pediatricians so far in our quest for the perfect one for you. The first one was too…how do I say this? Uncolored in for us. He was obviously obsessed with Disney characters, as he had them all over his office and as pins on his lab coat, but he himself seemed like an unfinished idea left on the cutting room floor. He had an outline but no color and no character. Bland as could be.
Then we met another pediatrician just the other day. This guy was certainly a finished fully flushed out character, except a character that needed to be retired. He must of been 90 years old, he looked like a scarecrow and lectured us about the benefits of breastfeeding while we were breastfeeding. He repeated himself several times and even went so far as to touch my boob with a gnarled finger tracing the veins in his demonstration of how a boob works. A big fan of attachment parenting, he also happens to be Heidi Fleiss’s father. Now- I’m not going to go into the whole debacle of who she is, suffice to say, this man should probably not be handing out parenting advice. We were very disappointed.
So onward and upward. I’ll keep you posted.
It’s late right now and there is so much more to write, but I just heard you squeak in there and I must go see if you are okay, if you are still breathing, and to smell you one more time.
Crazy in love mama