tidings of comfort and joy
My son and I, it seems, have much in common.
When I'm hungry, I turn into my own version of the werewolf. I grow fangs and claws. I become nervous and restless, and cranky and angry. I spurn entertainments offered me which are not food, because I need FOOOOOOD bastards. I have even been known to display aggressive behaviour towards the one obstructing my asap access to food - my husband usually- and have been known to throw some mighty wobblers on this subject.
And then when food is administered - voila! A miraculous transformation occurs. Suddenly my wolf like self recedes. I turn into a peaceful human again, innocent and good humoured and chirpy. Or in the mood for love, if I have been fed right.
My poor poor boy. While being sustained on a wholesome diet of my pure breastmilk and baby rice and organic fruit and vegetable purees he has been suffering. He was often cranky and wild-eyed and full of restless energy (especially in the evenings) and it was not uncommon for him to wake up at least once during the night and had to be rocked and coaxed back to sleep.
I knew he was losing weight, but it was frightening to see how much. In the last two months, he has lost nearly a pound in weight. (To put that in perspective, he has plummetted from the 80th centile on the growth charts to the 7th - meaning that 93% of babies his age are heavier than him). He is not only officially failing to thrive, he has practically become an endangered spieces.
So Z and I have initiated Project Gingerbread House, and I think no fairytale witch has ever been as committed to fattening up a child as he and I. And nothing has transformed all our lives for the better, or brought us closer to this goal than the bottle of formula we've taken to supplementing his diet with in the evenings.
I want to weep with joy and gratitude and bow down to the makers of formula, because my child? No longer nervous and angry and resentful! Instead of a howling wolf-like waif who cannot be put down in the evenings and needs intense parental involvement for hours is now a content, purry kitten of a baby.
When he sees the bottle coming he practically starts to shake with excitement and needs to be firmly held to be prevented from attempting to do a flying leap towards it, gravity and skull fractures be damned. And when he is finished downing his seven ounces he sits there looking so full that he can barely breathe. Also happy. He is so happy. Now his father and I marvel at all the things we can do in the same room with Matei. Like surf the internet. Or have dinner. Or watch a movie. Because my son doesn't care whether you are holding him in your lap or have set him down gleefully in his baby chair. Because he is too busy digesting, and cooing, and being content.
He also now sleeps like a log which is a positve development, since from my perspective 6 hours of sleep in a row feel like being fed ripe cherries by a host of angels while I laze in a bathtub of warm water and bubbles and we all sing Glory Halleluiah.
When I'm hungry, I turn into my own version of the werewolf. I grow fangs and claws. I become nervous and restless, and cranky and angry. I spurn entertainments offered me which are not food, because I need FOOOOOOD bastards. I have even been known to display aggressive behaviour towards the one obstructing my asap access to food - my husband usually- and have been known to throw some mighty wobblers on this subject.
And then when food is administered - voila! A miraculous transformation occurs. Suddenly my wolf like self recedes. I turn into a peaceful human again, innocent and good humoured and chirpy. Or in the mood for love, if I have been fed right.
My poor poor boy. While being sustained on a wholesome diet of my pure breastmilk and baby rice and organic fruit and vegetable purees he has been suffering. He was often cranky and wild-eyed and full of restless energy (especially in the evenings) and it was not uncommon for him to wake up at least once during the night and had to be rocked and coaxed back to sleep.
I knew he was losing weight, but it was frightening to see how much. In the last two months, he has lost nearly a pound in weight. (To put that in perspective, he has plummetted from the 80th centile on the growth charts to the 7th - meaning that 93% of babies his age are heavier than him). He is not only officially failing to thrive, he has practically become an endangered spieces.
So Z and I have initiated Project Gingerbread House, and I think no fairytale witch has ever been as committed to fattening up a child as he and I. And nothing has transformed all our lives for the better, or brought us closer to this goal than the bottle of formula we've taken to supplementing his diet with in the evenings.
I want to weep with joy and gratitude and bow down to the makers of formula, because my child? No longer nervous and angry and resentful! Instead of a howling wolf-like waif who cannot be put down in the evenings and needs intense parental involvement for hours is now a content, purry kitten of a baby.
When he sees the bottle coming he practically starts to shake with excitement and needs to be firmly held to be prevented from attempting to do a flying leap towards it, gravity and skull fractures be damned. And when he is finished downing his seven ounces he sits there looking so full that he can barely breathe. Also happy. He is so happy. Now his father and I marvel at all the things we can do in the same room with Matei. Like surf the internet. Or have dinner. Or watch a movie. Because my son doesn't care whether you are holding him in your lap or have set him down gleefully in his baby chair. Because he is too busy digesting, and cooing, and being content.
He also now sleeps like a log which is a positve development, since from my perspective 6 hours of sleep in a row feel like being fed ripe cherries by a host of angels while I laze in a bathtub of warm water and bubbles and we all sing Glory Halleluiah.