So, we got a good baby with a (mostly) sweet personality, an affinity for good sleeping, and the prettiest face you've ever seen in your life. I think that was just too much goodness in one kid, so they introduced a defect. My child is the spit-up queen. She went through four onesies yesterday, and one already today, by 7:00 in the morning. I've given up on even keeping myself clean. As long as it's not too wet or cold, I just leave the bespitted shirt on because it's only going to happen again in half an hour. The pediatrician and everyone else assures me that she's totally fine. This is normal! Don't worry!
Well, I'm not worried, but my knees are getting sore from all the time I spend on the floor, scraping up my dignity.
Oh, who am I kidding? I couldn't care less. Except for when it gets smelly. Remember what I said about neck folds.
I did care a little bit yesterday when I was at church. I looked down and saw that my pants (the only pair of fit-for-the-public pants I can wear without irritating my incision) had faint little spots here and there, all across the front. I put them on yesterday morning, thinking they were perfectly clean. That's what I get for dressing in the dark.
Church Friend's Friend stopped by yesterday with her husband and three seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I've never been much into TV, with the exception of my few favorite shows, but breastfeeding makes it a necessity. What did nursing mothers do before there was TV?
(I spend a lot of time talking to Grace and cooing at her when she's eating, but I can only do that for so long. Nursing, for me at least, is not this blissful bonding experience in which the rest of the world disappears, and it's just me and my baby. It's sweet for three minutes, and then I become totally bored. And so does Grace. She really likes to fall asleep at the wheel. And by "wheel" I mean "boob". Anyway, TV is saving my life. If I had a book stand or something, I suppose I could read books, but nursing an octopus requires both hands. She gets so excited about eating that she squirms and flails and loses her latch if I don't keep a vice-like grip on her. Just like her mother (uh, with the excitement over eating, not the nursing). Gluttony: it's genetic!)
So. Buffy. Love it. And I'm in fresh TV episodes for a long time now. So thanks, CFF!
Also, the two of them spent a long time oohing and aahing over the baby, and holding her, so James and I got a break, and our egos got stroked, and everyone was happy.
And why is it that when people think my baby is cute, I take it as a personal compliment? This makes no sense. Especially since she looks nothing like me. (Yet. Except for the nose. She totally has my nose.) It makes me even happier than when people compliment my own appearance. If someone can explain this to me, I would appreciate it.
The child ate last night at 11:30. I put her to bed at 12:30. No crying or anything, so she either went to sleep right away, or she amused herself somehow until she did fall asleep. She woke up at 6:30 this morning. Six. Thirty. Oh my gosh. This is why I don't mind the spit-up so much. I have a four-week-old that sleeps six hours at a time.
(And I'm not freaking out about that anymore. I've been reassured that this is totally okay, too, as long as she's exhibiting healthy growth and behavior. And boy is she.)
I highly recommend having an enormous baby if you can.