Ugh. Don't worry, Liz, you can keep reading the blog. As soon as I put into print Scotty's phenomenal sleep habits, it was crash and burn last night.
Actually, it wasn't the flaming pile of poo we've seen in recent weeks. (I'm proud to say...no 'user error' here.) No, it was just he is getting bigger (like, giganto-baby) and stronger and I, in turn, am getting weaker. He's going through some kind of growth spurt (because as we all know, when you don't know what's going on, call it a growth spurt) and has turned into super alert, 'I want to stay up so I don't miss anything!' baby. Great....
Last night, smug after typing my blog entry, I headed to bed with dreams of four hour blocks of sleep in my future. He had done it the night before - this was turning into a pattern, right? Nope. He was up at 2am. And the food we had ready for him - all three ounces - was warmed and ready. And he gulped it down. And then wanted more.
This is where the wheels come off of the proverbial bus. See, I am a creature of habit. I like it when things have a schedule, a routine, and a sense of order. Hell, I was a therapist in a former life and you better believe I was out of that session within 50 minutes, or the hair on my arms would start to stand up.
So when he looked at me with wide, hungry eyes at 2:30am last night, making his little 'neh-neh' sound, I knew a trip to the kitchen was in our future. Dammit, kid, you are ruining the plan! I wearily dragged him downstairs, heated up more water, put the breast milk in it...blah, blah. Fed him, he dozed off, and I was back to bed by 3:15am.
And then he was hungry again at 4:45am. Same drill, but this time, he was full after three ounces. Except it was 5:30am and time to pump. So I pumped until 6:15am. And he was up at 6:30. Heaven help me.
The day did improve, but he decided to take a relatively short nap in the afternoon. I went over to see Courtney (aka Betty) for a quick walk, and little Pork Chop screamed the entire car ride home. He had just eaten at 3:30, but inexplicably, he was starving again by 5:30. Huh?
I do want to point out for the record, there has been virtually no spit-up so it's not like we're overfeeding the little chow hound. No, he is banking this food in his thighs, his forearms, and his chins (yes, plural). It's only 8pm here and he has already eaten 27oz of breastmilk. For those that aren't newborn savvy, kids his age are supposed to eat between 24-30oz per day. At this rate, he'll digest around 33-34oz before the day is over. And this is the fourth day in a row he's done this.
And so how have I handled my stress about Pork Chop's sudden appetite? Oh, I took it out on Brian. I really need to chill out for a little while - this whole 'keep the schedule' is making me a little Nazi-like. I almost blew a fuse yesterday when Brian got home (just in time for the game, natch) and I handed the baby over with strict instructions to 'put him down.' It was 5:30, and Scotty should have been asleep by 6pm.
Just imagine my horror when I come downstairs from pumping to find Brian, eyes riveted on the game, holding the baby on one knee, facing the TV and jostling him up and down. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed when I saw him. "Putting him down," was Brian's reply. Um, Dr. Weissbluth recommends a quiet, dark room with a gentle rocking motion, not high-def football in a brightly lit room on your father's knee.
Oh, well.
Actually, it wasn't the flaming pile of poo we've seen in recent weeks. (I'm proud to say...no 'user error' here.) No, it was just he is getting bigger (like, giganto-baby) and stronger and I, in turn, am getting weaker. He's going through some kind of growth spurt (because as we all know, when you don't know what's going on, call it a growth spurt) and has turned into super alert, 'I want to stay up so I don't miss anything!' baby. Great....
Last night, smug after typing my blog entry, I headed to bed with dreams of four hour blocks of sleep in my future. He had done it the night before - this was turning into a pattern, right? Nope. He was up at 2am. And the food we had ready for him - all three ounces - was warmed and ready. And he gulped it down. And then wanted more.
This is where the wheels come off of the proverbial bus. See, I am a creature of habit. I like it when things have a schedule, a routine, and a sense of order. Hell, I was a therapist in a former life and you better believe I was out of that session within 50 minutes, or the hair on my arms would start to stand up.
So when he looked at me with wide, hungry eyes at 2:30am last night, making his little 'neh-neh' sound, I knew a trip to the kitchen was in our future. Dammit, kid, you are ruining the plan! I wearily dragged him downstairs, heated up more water, put the breast milk in it...blah, blah. Fed him, he dozed off, and I was back to bed by 3:15am.
And then he was hungry again at 4:45am. Same drill, but this time, he was full after three ounces. Except it was 5:30am and time to pump. So I pumped until 6:15am. And he was up at 6:30. Heaven help me.
The day did improve, but he decided to take a relatively short nap in the afternoon. I went over to see Courtney (aka Betty) for a quick walk, and little Pork Chop screamed the entire car ride home. He had just eaten at 3:30, but inexplicably, he was starving again by 5:30. Huh?
I do want to point out for the record, there has been virtually no spit-up so it's not like we're overfeeding the little chow hound. No, he is banking this food in his thighs, his forearms, and his chins (yes, plural). It's only 8pm here and he has already eaten 27oz of breastmilk. For those that aren't newborn savvy, kids his age are supposed to eat between 24-30oz per day. At this rate, he'll digest around 33-34oz before the day is over. And this is the fourth day in a row he's done this.
And so how have I handled my stress about Pork Chop's sudden appetite? Oh, I took it out on Brian. I really need to chill out for a little while - this whole 'keep the schedule' is making me a little Nazi-like. I almost blew a fuse yesterday when Brian got home (just in time for the game, natch) and I handed the baby over with strict instructions to 'put him down.' It was 5:30, and Scotty should have been asleep by 6pm.
Just imagine my horror when I come downstairs from pumping to find Brian, eyes riveted on the game, holding the baby on one knee, facing the TV and jostling him up and down. "What are you doing?" I exclaimed when I saw him. "Putting him down," was Brian's reply. Um, Dr. Weissbluth recommends a quiet, dark room with a gentle rocking motion, not high-def football in a brightly lit room on your father's knee.
Oh, well.
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