Seven Weeks

7 Weeks
He experienced his 6-week growth spurt last week and his voracious appetite had me tethered to the glider for days. He has wonderfully lucid periods in the early morning when I first get him up (correction: when HE first gets ME up). Lots of smiles and coos. I cook with him in the evening. I discovered that by propping him up on the counter in his chair I can share with him all the herbs I chop, the garlic, even the fish & meats. ("This is tarragon. TAR-RA-GON. It's green. And it smells like licorice. LIC-OR-ICE - which is black.") They say an infant's sense of smell is the strongest of the senses. That the rest do not develop fully until much later. I aim to take advantage of this. Our kid's going to have one hell of a palate when I get through with him.

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Nursing is starting to go a little better. The pain is subsiding. But only in time for me to develop hyperlactation, or over-active letdown. The growth spurt that had him feeding every 45 min to an hour resulted in my body answering the call like a herd of dairy cows rushing to the drainers. Zach's back to his usual routine. The udders, however, are still catching up. Last night he cried, spit & sputtered to the point of hysteria. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!," I cried to S as I ran around the house with my nursing pillow attached to my waist. Thank Bob for S. He took Zach from me to get us to both calm down. I scaled back to low-flow, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Truth is, I hate nursing. Not a bit of this experience so far has been pleasant, and I've been wondering why I do it. Last night, S asked the same thing. Why not just become a pumping mom? He can still get the boob juice without the pain (SEVERE pain) & suffering of direct hook-up.I don't know. Maybe I'm stubborn, committed to the idea that we can have this idyllic mother-child nursing relationship that I've read all about in the bible. (Isn't that where I read it? Or was it on an episode of Love Boat? I don't know, I'm too sleep deprived to remember.) On a separate note, when people tell us how cute/perfect/beautiful he is it seems odd to say: "Thank you." We didn't have much of a hand in how he looks, and frankly, my heathen sensibilities aren't inclined to attribute that to a higher power, either. So sue me for being proud of something so superficial.