Due Time.

I got only one uninterrupted hour of sleep last night. One hour is enough time for many things—making piecrust, getting a haircut—but a night’s restful slumber is not one of them. I am realizing, belatedly, that sleep deprivation is cumulative, meaning that what seemed manageable a week ago now results in me whisper-snapping “What is the matter? WHAT??” at my poor crying baby at three a.m. Mother of the Year!
Said baby has become exponentially fussier, either due to her reflux or the fact that she has decided to really commit to the role of newborn now that her adjusted age is out of the negative numbers. Tragically, the gypsy swaddle seems to have stopped working, and Simone has now decided she must nurse to sleep after her night bottles, which would be fine—not great, you understand, but acceptable—except that she will then only sleep until I attempt to move her.
When she is not actively crying at night she is grunting angrily and whining “Meeeh. Eh. Ehh. Ahihh. Meheh. Ehhhhhh!” But the moment someone gives up on sleep, disconnects the apnea monitor, and takes her into the living room to hold, she is down for the count. Not that either Scott or I can remember how to count, at this point.

Simone had her first appointment with the pediatrician yesterday, and holy hell, but I hate car seats. I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to force Simone’s legs through what turned out to be the arm straps, and am already experiencing anticipatory anxiety about repeating the whole rigmarole tomorrow for her eye appointment.
The pediatrician, in what was undoubtedly a move calculated to soothe anxious mothers, shook my hand at the end of the appointment and said “You’re doing a great job.” Calculated or not, it was appreciated, especially after being told that Simone needs to gain more weight. Full-term babies are expected to gain half an ounce a day, but preemies are held to a higher standard, which hardly seems fair. I have taken the doctor’s pronouncement to mean that I must introduce more bacon and heavy cream into my diet. To fortify my milk, you see. For the baby.
But while Simone’s growth concerns me, it is in a “Huh, I guess I’ll step up the feeding schedule” way, rather than one characterized by diaper-weighing and Google-induced hysteria. This has been the biggest surprise since our homecoming, just how calm and almost…lackadaisical I am as a mother. It is easily the best thing to come from Simone’s varied and several brushes with death, this feeling that as long as she’s breathing, the rest is gravy. I always expected that I would be the sort of parent who keeps spreadsheets detailing her kid’s every feeding and bowel movement, but instead I make sure she eats every three-ish hours, and gets her medicines every 12-ish hours, and otherwise merely go about my business with my baby in the sling all day, licking the occasional dropped crumb from her head.
Sling
Simone has started spitting up more, and your recommendation that I stock up on cloth diapers was the best baby advice I received. In fact, if you are pregnant right now, let me tell you that no matter how silly you feel filling your cart with what seems like an excessive quantity of Gerber prefolds, trust me when I say that YOU DO NOT HAVE ENOUGH. Take the number of packages you think would be reasonable, double it, and then add two or three more.
The spitting up doesn’t seem to faze Simone one bit, and in fact only renews her appetite. She is like a tiny Roman.
She also appears to be under the misguided impression that milk courses under my skin like a river, and will attempt to latch on to whatever part of me happens to be closest—thigh, shoulder, collarbone—and become furious when no sustenance is forthcoming. If she is hungry enough, even eating will upset her, something I find baffling. Say you’re a baby. You want food, the food source is in your mouth, but instead of eating you prefer to wail and fling your giant bobbling head from side to side? What’s your motivation? Simone would be a star on this website.

This last Saturday was my due date. Go ahead and roll that around in your mind for awhile. Though I would be hard-pressed to categorize the pregnancy as “successful,” I am ever, ever mindful of how much worse things could have been, and how lucky I am to be here, with my sweet, wiggling, living daughter.
YawnMonday