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Let’s Talk Poop, Placentas, and Precious People (Week 2)

Let's Talk Poop, Placentas, and Precious People (Week 2)


This week is getting lumped together, Little Man, because I can’t even discern a day from another. Don’t get me wrong, unlike in sleep-deprived college days, the AMs and PMs blurring together has never been such a perfect thing.

Mommy and Daddy have parked out on the couch that we bought a few months back. After five years of marriage and over a decade together, probably it was time we got our first piece of furniture somewhere other than Craigslist or your grandparents’ shed. Expensive sofa got covered with waterproof pads, quilts, and more blankets because, what do you know, babies spit up. And mommy levels ice cream to face and completely misses. Hole in chin what?

My cell phone has never had so many calls reach it that I actually pick up. Family wants to know all about you, even those who made it to the hospital and have been away from you for no more than 2.64 hours. How is Little Man eating? Sleeping? Pooping?

Every time you eat, it’s as if you’re starved. Seriously cute. You practically growl and move your head from side to side before attacking Mommy’s boobage. Less because you care to hear this and more because maybe some new moms might benefit, I feed you on one tit until it’s emptied. That way you’re getting abundant fore- and hindmilk. Breastfeeding does in fact feel instinctual—something of which I’d been nervous about—but it’s not as easy as I’d imagined. There’s a learning curve for both you and me. Trite but true, practice does make perfect. Or at least less scabby nips.

As far as sleeping, the alarms I set for every two hours are futile. I wake to your every little sound, partly because you sleep against me, sure, but it’s amazing how attuned I am to you. I used to be able to sleep through tornadoes so close they stole our underground pool (true story—ask Gma), but now it’s as though my ears are waiting for your sounds so I can jolt upright and ask, “Want a boob?”

And, in case you’re curious, the answer to that is yes. You always want some boob.

(I hope I’m not saying that when you’re 16. With a vengeance that may or may not involve heavy objects and obscenities I will chase any girls, with or without boobs, from our little paradise in the woods. With a daddy like Daddy, though, I don’t see how you won’t be charming, yes, but a true gentleman with morals. On the other hand that has worry written all over it, he did marry me.)

On the note of your poop—because I doubt it’ll ever be embarrassing to hear about the color and consistency of your fecal matter—you’re an expert. Babies are born passing this stuff that’s a hybrid of toxic waste and Velcro, according to actor Robin Williams, which is such an excellent metaphor I’ve got to reuse it. Your meconium was replaced with quality runny, yellowish poo in no time. It’s been greenish a couple times, like there are parsley flecks in it or something, which had me worried. Midwife said that simply means it went through your system epically fast, though there are other reasons baby poop is green. Not something to fret about if it’s rather infrequent. Props to your excellent elimination, system, buddy. You and Daddy can bond over that one.

Great Grandma asked how I am doing. After all, post-preggo moms might experience some . . . or a lot . . . of blueness. Because of that, I’d considered doing as mammals besides humans (unless you’re January Jones) do and eat the placenta. Gosh, gross. There is totally merit in placenta encapsulation (or perhaps the eating-it-raw, making-an-afterbirth-smoothie, or stir-fry-placenta-soup thing . . . my mouth is watering [as it does before vomiting ), but, after the accommodating hospital handed me the Tupperware containing my once-organ, I opened the lid, threw up in my mouth, and discarded the bloody goop that had some measuring tape around it for whatever reason. In measuring my gag reflex? We’re good. Great. Outstanding. Thanks.

Truth? When the sun went down with all its rays of spring does exist and vitamin D, leaving only snow beneath a frigid sky, I felt kind of blue. Kind of. Like, I would just stare at you and start crying because (1) you’re so beautiful, so pretty, and so a boy so I hope you don’t mind me calling you beautiful and pretty, and (2) I didn’t know how I’d ever be motivated to do anything ever again except stare at my beautiful, pretty baby. I used to be goal-oriented. I also used to shower. Power to the moms that maintain their former selves. Mine might come back, or so I’m told. For now? I just want to marvel at the Little Man that I made. And cry a little.

You’re pretty stinking perfect.


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calm baby

newborn baby

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