From Scratch
(Reader Advisory: This post contains mentions of poop. Both cute baby poop and not-so-cute adult poop. This shouldn't be seen as an indication of this blog's typical content moving forward, but we're talking about new parenthood/postpartum life today. Be warned, and feel free to skip this post if bodily function content isn't your thing.)
It's strange to pop back up into this space after 10 months and realize that my last post had so much to do with grief, specifically grief over a miscarriage. I didn't know as I wrote that post that I was newly pregnant with another child. This one did live to be born into the world on September 9, 2021. A boy named Owen. Needless to say, that pregnancy was filled with conflicting emotions as I continued to process grief but also tried to anticipate and celebrate a new life. Maybe I'll write more about that in time.
My firstborn, a son named Owen, is six weeks old. It is the hour before dawn and I write this from the couch on which I have taken up nearly-permanent residence, one foot rocking the baby in his bouncer while I steal a few minutes of hands-free time to type out a few thoughts before they evaporate from my ~nEw mOm BrAiN~.
Owen has been smiling more lately, and 40% of the time I am 70% confident that the smiles are intentionally directed at me rather than the by-product of a really satisfying toot. But I don't begrudge him the toots, honestly; one of the things I've found most amusing about parenthood is how very much you come to care about your child's bodily functions. You keep track of how many diapers you change per day and whether they are wet, dirty, or both. You intently study the color and consistency of the "dirty" like a fortune-teller studying tea leaves, searching for signs of anything off-kilter about his digestion. You lavish praise on your baby every time he fills his diaper with a robust deposit. (Conversely, after six weeks and counting of postpartum constipation and hemorrhoids you wish someone, anyone, would cheer for you whenever you survive a bowel movement that is nearly as painful as delivery itself. I exaggerate. Slightly.)
I am the second of eight children and was a booked-and-busy neighborhood babysitter as a teenager, so you would think I came into parenthood knowing all I needed to know. I grew up changing diapers, mixing and feeding bottles of formula, mastering "the bounce" to soothe a crying baby, pushing strollers, etc. But there was always a parent either supervising or leaving me with specific instructions and guidelines based on their intimate knowledge of their child's patterns and needs. This is different. Now I don't have a higher authority, an Owen expert, to turn to. I'm the parent and I have to discover his patterns and needs. From scratch.
Some observations from the first six weeks:
- Breastfeeding does NOT actually come easily to every mother or every baby. I hereby pledge my allegiance to "Fed is Best" until I die.
- Diapers should come in half-sizes. Your baby might be too big for the newborn size but too small for size 1, meaning that either way you're in for a lot of leaks.
- There is one sound that is objectively the very cutest sound in the world, and it is the sound of baby hiccups.
- You can accomplish a surprising number and variety of tasks with just one hand (or foot, honestly) and in a fleeting 20-minute window of happy-baby-time.
- Unlike everyone else in Northern Virginia, newborns do not adhere to a schedule. Consequently, you won't really adhere to a schedule for a little while, either. Learn to accept that that's ok.
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