From a kids’ joke book:

What do you call the parents of an infant prodigy?

Highly imaginative people.

During this photo shoot, Mary giggled two or three times. I know that it wasn’t deliberate I-think-this-is-funny giggling, but it certainly made us all laugh.

First the reaching-for-objects milestone from the other day, and now giggling. She’s so advanced! For the record we have NO Baby Einstein products.

A rare shot of mother and child. My kids are now old enough to be trusted with a camera under direct adult supervision.

Baby Mary is now more than six weeks old. I really enjoy the newborn stage where their little bodies are still curled up from living in small spaces, and they blink back the light, and everyone needs to talk softly to give the baby time to adjust to the new world. But she’s now entering the next stage where she wants to start experiencing her environment, safely from The Momma’s arms, of course. And I love this stage too.

When my oldest began spending time awake, I remember asking myself, “What do I do with him?” He didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to sleep, didn’t need a bath or a diaper change, he couldn’t play with anything. He just wanted to stare at me and practice cooing. But parenting children over the age of 18 months teaches you the fine art of talking to yourself. I’ve had plenty of practice in that, and can now sit and stare back at my baby and babble away.

Last night I wanted to go to sleep, but Mary didn’t. We lay on the bed, and I listened to her try to vocalize. I watched her kick her legs, not in a fussy way, but in a deliberate let-me-see-what-I-can-do sort of way. I watched her move her arms in the direction of my face, and I leaned in really close so she could reach me. And I watched the expression on her face change to one of obvious pleasure at her success. I had thought she was randomly moving her arms, but her happiness indicates that touching me was her goal.

This behavior – to reach out for an object – is one of those milestones that doctors use to gauge child development. I’m pretty sure she’s “advanced” in this. But not only am I not going to start googling infant tennis camps for my daughter with superior hand-eye coordination, I’m not even going to bother to look up the average age where they do this. It’s not that I don’t care that she’s progressing, it’s that I don’t need to compare.

With every child, I seem to be more relaxed and more appreciative of who they are as individuals. My husband’s grandmother used to say that after three kids you got good, and it would be a pity to waste all that experience. She was right.

I realize that my blogging since the baby’s birth has been…minimal. Even when I do post, it is a bit lacking in substance. Now that the relatives are gone, I’m back to my usual life: feed baby at breast, feed baby with a bottle, pump, change baby’s diaper, repeat. Sometimes for variety I read out of a history book or do a math lesson.

If I’m not doing that, I’m off to the clinic or the LC’s (lactation consultant) office. Mary is now 5 weeks old, and not yet back to her birth weight. I’m bottle-feeding her way more than I want to, but I realize it is important that she put on weight. Apparently, besides being too stressed out to produce enough milk, I am also too old and too tired and worn out. Naturally, I reject all those theories, but it sure makes life hard when, once again, an appointment with the LC fails to demonstrate that the baby is getting enough at the breast.

Whenever I read about the heroic deaths of the saints, whether a martyrdom or a slow, painful suffering from something like tuberculosis, I wonder if I could bear that cross with dignity and without complaint. I think the answer is no. Too often I hear myself saying, “I quit! It’s too hard.” The fact is, I have little patience for this whole process. I want a quick fix: more milk, better sucking, no effort – POOF!

I will admit to a certain level of enjoyment at the convenience of handing my husband the baby and a bottle and running out to the grocery store alone. But then I feel I have to sneak down the baby aisle and hide the container of formula under the other groceries. It’s ridiculous, I know. But the whole breastfeeding/bottle feeding thing is very emotional for me.

I’ll get through this. Deep down, I’m not ready to quit yet. But I pray for fortitude and patience. This isn’t a noble or glorious suffering, like having the stigmata. But the pumping, the watching the clock, the recording of every wet diaper, and the trips to weigh the baby definitely qualify as a cross. I just need to offer it up.

“She is the lightest sleeper we’ve ever had,” said Bill after I relocated a seemingly comatose baby from my bed to the bassinet wistfully thinking I could stretch out without regard for a tiny life form next to me. Within seconds she started kicking, and then her eyes opened.

She’s not our lightest sleeper. She’s just like all the others.

We have video footage of infant Fritz fast asleep in his father’s arms. Bill raised his little arm high, and then let it drop like a dead weight. This kid was out cold. And yet, as soon as he touched the crib, he would wake up. We tried everything: placing him on a warmed blanket, hovering over him for back-breaking minutes, using background noises to distract him from the transition. Eventually he outgrew it and would sleep through fireworks, but, oh, those early months were exhausting.

And they’re mainly exhausting for me. Sure, Bill makes sure he gets in that video or the photos to prove that he does in fact physically care for our children. Cleverly, though, he has relegating the creation of family archives to me; therefore, he plays the role of sensitive, caring father in a disproportionate number of snapshots. I can’t very well take a picture of myself.

But honestly there’s not much he can do anyway. He’ll be the first to tell you that all our kids seem to divide the people of the world into two categories: The Momma and Not The Momma. They have a decided preference for The Momma, and he is most definitely Not The Momma.

When Fritz was about 6 weeks old, my parents came into town for his baptism and met him for the first time. My mom, naturally, really wanted to hold her new grandbaby. But she was Not The Momma. Every time I handed him over, he would wail. Finally, he fell asleep, and she was able to indulge in that sweet foretaste of heaven.

I truly love holding babies. I wouldn’t mind doing it all day, really. But somebody has to do the laundry, and somebody has to cook dinner, and toddlers (and older kids) need lap time too. As much as I love holding babies, I think I hate the idea of my house falling apart more, and I really, really like to take a shower a few times a week at least. So, I try to pawn my little baby off on others, even if it’s for ten or fifteen minutes.

But if Bill is Not The Momma, brothers and sisters who jiggle a little too roughly are even more so Not The Momma.

The bassinet is definitely Not The Momma.

The swing and the car seat are Not The Momma.

The bed is Not The Momma, but sometimes, if all the planets are in the proper alignment and The Momma is right there next to her, the baby might be content. But if The Momma ever so gently, and slowly, and quietly leaves the bed to go take a shower, the bed instantly reverts to full Not The Momma status and sleep for baby and anybody within the house is rendered impossible.

I marvel at babies who happily go into the arms of any friendly person. That’s completely foreign to my own experience.

I’m trying hard to cherish these fleeting days of exaltation. Being The Momma is as close to being a goddess as I suppose I’ll ever get. In a few weeks, my little one will accept the warm arms of a loving substitute – at least while she’s sleeping. Then, week by week, she’ll be a bit more content to swing or to let an older sibling entertain her. And even though all my kids still seem to fight over me and want to sit as close to me as is physically possible, there are times for them when The Momma is definitely not their favorite person and they are convinced that other relatives would make better (more sympathetic) caretakers.

So, I’ll accept my demi-deity role, knowing that with such glory comes much work, and as the work load wanes, so, too, will the glory.

On Friday, the pediatrician told me that she was looking for one ounce per day of weight gain in the baby. Between her appointments on Wednesday, Thursday and that afternoon, she had far surpassed this expectation. So we put off another weight check until Wednesday – yesterday.

Yesterday, she had gained another 5 ounces in 5 days. Checking at home with the midwife’s scale, I was not surprised at her weigh-in, but I did hope that she would gain faster. Fortunately for my sanity, the doctor reminded me that this is a decent weight gain. Otherwise, I was running the risk of going off the deep end with supplementing. Right now, she gets about 6 ounces of formula a day spread out in two or three feedings. She has a ways to go to regain her birth weight, and until she does so, I won’t reduce that amount. The danger of giving her more is that she would nurse less, and that would be counterproductive to the ultimate goal of no supplementation.

Fortunately, she’s latching on well and she is mostly over the confusion between me and the bottle. Also, fortunately, I was finally able to view the videos at this site by Dr. Jack Newman on breast compression. This technique helps the weak nurser get more breast milk. I wish I had known about this years ago. I think even with my stronger nursers it might have helped them get more food in their tummy faster, and possibly given me a bit of a break in those early, arm-wearied weeks of a newborn’s life. Many thanks to Deborah, who sent me to this site (where the files are easier to read) and which linked to the site with the video.

Continued prayers for her weight gain are appreciated. Those offered up so far have been truly felt. My husband will attest that I’m not nearly as frustrated or weepy. Although I will say that weighing the baby at the end of the day when I am most tired is not good. I’ve resolved to weigh her no later than 4 pm, lest a minuscule increase in her weight combined with typical new baby exhaustion create an unpleasant flood of tears.