Nuggets of Gold!

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

When we found out we were going to be parents, we made a general pledge to ourselves and our child-to-be that we would be the very best parents we could be and love her unconditionally, but we didn't make a whole lot of firm promises beyond that. Because there's nothing firm about parenting, we sensed then and know now, so why make rules you're just going to have to bend or break?

Of course, we do want to emphasize certain things in Nora's life above others. Quality above quantity. Happiness above money. Coke above Pepsi. And many, many things above watching TV. We knew we weren't going to be those parents, admirable though they may be, who promise they'll never, ever let their kid watch TV. I mean, sure, that'd be best. But those TV virgins inevitably go to college and spend their first two years of freedom ... watching TV. So balance seems best. We sometimes watch TV while Nora is in the room, but we try to keep the volume low and keep her turned away from it. Which we thought was working. She was just ignoring the TV altogether. Until recently, when she noticed ... IT GLOWS! 

So now our little daughter is a total TV booger. We catch her sneaking peeks in that direction when we're feeding her in the next room, and she swivels her head to watch it when we're pacing around the living room. But we've found it can be a useful tool. On the advice of her physical therapist, we use its mesmerizing light to bribe her to lift her head up during tummy time. And, siiiiiigh, it works. So now we'll have to be more careful about what we're watching. And by "careful" I mean "Geoffrey is no longer allowed to watch crappy, gory sci-fi movies when our daughter is in the room." But my viewings of "Project Runway" are totally fine. 

The physical therapist who visits -- mainly to tell us Nora is developing right on schedule and is generally all-around awesome -- is full of good ideas. She said we could shell out $30 for a Bumbo seat to help train Nora to sit up ... or we could stick her in a cardboard box. Guess which we picked?

I realize she looks a little indifferent in this shot, but trust me, the kid LOVES her box. And we love telling her "Hey, get in your box, you."  Isn't that, as they say, one of the great joys of parenting? 

FAT BABIES HAVE NO PRIDE*

Our kid is little, which should surprise no one who has ever laid eyes on her mom and dad. We're, you know ... little, too. (But full of moxie! Who you callin' small???) 

At today's weight check, Nora came in at 10 lbs, 11 oz. We know some babies who were that size at birth (and boy, do we feel sorry for their moms). At 13ish weeks -- a tad over three months, for those of you who don't speak baby-age and who don't want to do the math -- that puts her in the 10th percentile for weight. Which means 90 percent of human girl babies her age are bigger than her. Which means ... she's a shrimp. And there go our dreams of putting her on the sumo wrestling circuit.

None of this is really a problem, medically speaking. Despite her recent feeding problems, the doc says her weight is fine for her frame, and her rate of gain is back on track. But fashion-wise, oh dear. Here in Amurica, baby clothes are made for big, bruiser babies with several inches of blubber all around. We have a few onesies for Miss Thang that she'll never fit into, because -- and I'm not making this up -- they are too wide. Not that we need her clothes to be form fitting, but some are so wide she's just swimming inside them. Even narrower clothes can present a problem. She has tons of cute dresses that come with little panty-like things that go over the diaper so you can't be accused of being THOSE people who let their baby run around in just a diaper. But, while she's plenty big and long enough for the dress part, she has NO butt, so the pants just fall right off. I'm thinking we're going to need some suspenders or something. Or butt implants.

* About the title: It's a Lyle Lovett song, people, not a judgment. Though you kind of have to admit it's true.

THREE MONTHS

Dear Nora,

We've all survived another month, and I'm not going to lie. It was rocky. Your feeding problems worsened into full-blown crisis, with each feeding -- every two and a half hours or so -- ending in you and mama both in tears. We took you to the pediatrician, who was stumped, but had the good sense to recommend we see an infant feeding specialist (who knew there was such a thing?). And that woman might have saved our lives. The good news is she gave us some tips that have really turned things around, and now feeding time is fun again. The bad news is the root of your problems was, well, us. We somehow managed to do just about everything wrong. Wrong kind of nipple, wrong technique and more wrong technique. It's not like we didn't research this, but somehow we blew it. I'm going to have to place at least some blame here on the current trend of breastfeeding nazi-ism -- there's tons of info out there on how to overcome breastfeeding problems, but precious little about what to do if you're having to feed breastmilk from -- gasp! -- a bottle. Because who would use a bottle on their newborn? Crappy parents, that's who. (Sigh.) So we're enormously relieved that you're eating again, and giving us grins instead of screams. But we feel really guilty about our mistakes. We really thought we would get to wait until you were at least a tween before we started damaging your psyche. 

Speaking of grins, though: HOLY MOLEY, have you turned on the grin machine:

 

We get grins when you first wake up from a nap, and grins when we change your diaper. Grins whenever we look at you, and HUGE grins when we talk to you. They must be the real deal, because if they were just gas you would have exploded by now. Fact.

Even more recently, you've started talking. A lot. You speak fluent baby, which mom and dad are still learning, so we don't understand much, but you don't seem to care. Today you blabbed at mom all during lunch. And in the car you dished with your little snuggle blanket. You smile big and your eyes light up when you're talking, and it's so wonderful to see you interact with your world on yet another level. Pretty soon, you'll be ruling it.

Despite your best efforts to starve yourself and put the brakes on your weight gain during the Recent Feeding Unpleasantness, you've been growing. There are already some newborn-sized onesies that are getting too small for you, and you can't straighten your legs all the way in any of your PJs anymore. I get all weepy when I put those tiny clothes aside to send to your girl cousin-to-be. I guess it's the start of that whole "my little baby's all growed up" phenomenon that happens to parents. I've already resigned myself to the end of your surprised face, so I guess this is just one more thing. But if I get too nostalgic, I'll remember this month of endless anguished, unproductive feedings, and then I might actually look forward to your teen years.

Love,
Mommy and Daddy*

* Yes, I realize I've signed each of these monthly dispatches differently. We can't seem to make a firm decision on what to have you call us. So we'll just let you figure it out, because it's not like our preferences matter anymore anyhow. We all know who's in charge around here.

BATTLEGROUND

OK, Internets. It's about to get real. 

I've been trying to keep this blog -- at least in its post-Nora incarnation -- positive and upbeat and relatively free of cussing. But it doesn't feel honest, frankly. And I need to be honest. So let me disclaim, before going further, that I love my daughter boundlessly. I am grateful every second of every day that she is happy and healthy and that she fought her way through her rocky start. I feel guilty making the slightest complaint about my life with her, considering how close we once thought we were to living life without her. But I'm human, therefore I complain. Please try not to judge me too harshly -- believe me when I say I'm already judging myself and not always liking the measure.

And as long as I'm disclaiming, please be advised, before going further, that this post contains some discussion of my boobs.

ANYWAY.

There is nothing I hate more than feeding my daughter. Nothing. It's supposed to be happy bonding time, but it's not. It's a battle. It's a war. And I always lose. First, she decided that she wasn't keen on breastfeeding -- this after several weeks of blissful, easy breastfeeding. Out of nowhere, she started screaming if my nipple got anywhere near her. After a teary, freaked out couple weeks (talking about me here, mostly) and talking to some new-mom friends and lactation consultants, I figured out my milk supply had gotten low. It just took a few days to get back on track. But Nora wasn't impressed, so despite my efforts, most feedings were still met with purple-faced, prolonged screaming (talking about her now, though sometimes I thought about joining in).

So, OK, fine. I went to pumping milk and feeding it to her in a bottle. And the doc put Nora on an antacid, after suspecting that some reflux might be involved as well. For a blissful week or so, things went well, with the added advantage of allowing dad to take over some of the feedings. But pretty soon, that went all wrecky, too. First there was one or two rough feedings a day -- she'd duck and dodge the bottle at best, and scream vigorously for an hour at worst, with both scenarios not resulting in a lot of food getting in there. Then more of the feedings went wrecky, until we get to, well, now. When ALL feedings are a battle, and all the battles are lost. Eventually I get some food into her (usually), but sometimes it takes hours, and all times it saps every bit of patience I have. If I'm lucky, I end up exhausted. More often, I end up crumpled in a ball on the bathroom floor crying in frustration. It's not pretty.

All of this may sound like a bit of an overreaction -- "The baby won't starve to death!," "This too shall pass," goes some of the advice I've received. But at the last doctor's visit, Nora's previously strong weight gain was starting to wane. No weight was lost, so it's not too bad yet. But she's not gaining like she should anymore, which is worrisome for someone who hasn't yet cracked 10 pounds. The simple solution, of course, is to get more food in her. Yeah, I know. I'd like to see you try. Hence my frustration.

We have a pediatrician appointment next week to address all this, so please know I'm trying to fix this. Meanwhile, it's time to feed her again. I guess. The last feeding took two hours of trying before I could get half the necessary dose of milk into her, so I don't know what that does to any semblance of a feeding schedule. But I do know that I'm almost to the point of getting the shakes as I prepare to go into her room, so much do I dread this process and knowing I'll have to not only endure some inconvenience, but also a heavy dose of fear and worry -- and despair that the simple act of feeding a baby is apparently not going to be simple for me, which makes me wonder if anything will ever be simple again.