guess who pumped 10oz last night?
Woot! Toot. :-)
I don't want to toot my own horn around here, but...
guess who pumped 10oz last night? Woot! Toot. :-)
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Another working title for this post was "The Dairy Queens."
Anyways, thanks to everyone for all of their suggestions regarding milk production. Jen, Jenn, Liz, Amie, Courtney, Sarah O...THANK YOU! I am drinking my hoppy beer right now (it's insanely hoppy)...I'm (attempting to get) more rest, eat better, drink more fluids, drink my breast tea (on order), and eat my oatmeal every morning. So far we are up to 4 oz per pump (total, not per side) but our little chow puppy is guzzling up to 4 oz per feed. What 22-day baby is eating 4 oz at a feeding? He's topping the charts at 9lbs, 1oz, and has already outgrown one outfit AND the newborn-sized diapers. Next thing we know he'll be bringing girls home. I love it, though (the fat, not the anticipation of girl friends). I love every little fat roll, cheek width, and all three of his chins. So adorable. Grandma Karen has already devised an exercise program for Scotty that we like to call "Baby Calistethics." It's about the cutest thing you've ever seen. As soon as I figure out how to post videos online, I'll post it. She even finishes the set with some baby cheerleading moves. Rah-rah, si-boom-bah. I kid you not. I've been trying to write a blog entry in my head for the last several days about the joys (and trials) of motherhood, but havent' had the time for a long post. All I can say is that while I ADORE my child, I feel like a very large, whiny dairy cow. It's strange when your whole existence is reduced to feeding (literally) another human being's existence. And, for good measure, every time I have called either Jen or Amie, the conversation always starts the same way: Amie/Jen: "Hello?" Kim: "Hi! It's me. What are you doing?" Amie/Jen: "Feeding Teo/Rowan. What are you doing?" Kim: "Waiting for Scotty to wake up." ::three minutes later, Scotty wakes up, conversation ends. Feeding begins. Again.:: So, at least we can all be dairy cows together. Very busy dairy cows. And I do need to give a shout out to Sherri, who has taken this opportunity to use pithy and witty ways of discussing my lactating situation, with my favorite being an email she signed off, "Breast friends forever...Sherri." That had me rolling. Well, I'd love to write more, but that time has come...must...go...pump. Never, ever, ever say to your lactating, sleep-deprived wife:
"Well, you know what when you wake up in the middle of the night to get the baby, it also wakes me up. So I'm not getting a full night of sleep, either." :: head desk :: So, we have these sterilizing bags that are used to clean baby bottles and the plastic parts from the breast pump. It's really the easiest process in the world; you rinse out said bottle, put the bottle in the sterilizing bag, and microwave it for about three minutes. After it's done, you dump it out on the counter on some paper towels and allow the parts to air dry. Viola. Sterilized bottle and parts, very little work.
You, however, know you are in the throes of sleep deprivation when you wake up at 3am to pump, walk downstairs with your freshly pumped milk and begin to assemble the parts for sterilization only to realize not all of the parts fit in the bag, necessitating two rounds of bag-microwaving. I would have to stay downstairs for an additional three minutes to get through Round Two of bottle sterilization. I was almost brought to tears last night at the idea of an extra three minutes preventing me from getting to bed sooner. Three minutes. That is how important sleep is when it feels like you are getting none. Argh. Sadly, I have no books to review lately. My attention span for a book that doesn't involve infant massage or breast feeding is practically nil. (we'll get to more about breast feeding in just a minute). It's starting to hit me that we are having a baby and this baby is coming SOON!
Currently simmering on the stove is a lovely bolognese sauce I made earlier today. My bichamel sauce turned out fairly well, and we're just waiting on the lasagna noodles to finish cooking. This follows the banana bread I baked last week, and tomorrow is Chili Day. I was able to schedule a lawn service to come out and tidy up the property (ironic we need a lawn service when we don't even have a lawn, no?), and the maids are scheduled for the next two months, with a deep cleaning happening tomorrow morning. All of the baby clothes have been washed and folded (and then re-folded) and every mechanical baby-related item has a working battery in it. My hospital bag is packed, the birth plan (a touching piece that I hope is both humorous and insightful) is written and printed, and the camcorder is charged. Are we ready? I have no freaking clue. All I know is that there is part of my brain that says, "We're good; w'e're ready, just sit tight." And then there that other, louder part of my brain that is like, "Holy crap, we're having a baby! Who that THIS was a good idea?" I mean, I've been known to forget to feed the cat on occasion. Brian once left a glass in his car for like, three years. And we've both been known to eat only celery and cream cheese for dinner, since it was the only food in the house. We're not exact models of responsibility. In terms of stress, I would have to say short of figuring out how this child is coming into the world, my next greatest concern is breast feeding. For something that seems so natural, organic, and wholesome, the actual practice seems to border on rocket science combined with AP chemistry. I've been quizzing friends and professionals for the last few regarding what to do and what not to do, and the more info I get, the more confused I become. There is an array of breast feeding accessories (I'm proud to say three weeks ago I didn't know what a nipple shield is; now, I do) and products out there that just serves to complicate matters. One friend said she loved being her baby's link to sustenance and life, another friend said she is so tired of being someone else's grocery store. Considering I didn't even get a cell phone until 2003 since I hated the idea of being constantly connected to everyone, I think I might side more with the latter. Not mention, every single person has described the pain in graphic detail. I'm not a fan of pain. I'll be honest - I've had a love-hate relationship with this aspect of my body for the past 20 years. I've (literally) supported them and hope they don't let me down in my time of need. |
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Think of this as the epilogue to Bridget Jones' story. Well, mostly. Bridget marries the handsome lawyer, starts a blog while on bedrest, and decides marathon running sounds like fun. Bridget goes through a divorce but keeps running. Hilarity ensues. Archives
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