What We’ve Learned: Week 5
In every book you can read, in every advice you hear from other parents, and from every doctor you talk to, they all mention different milestones your child is going to go through. And, for the most part, these have all come true. At week 1, we saw certain changes in Henry; at week 2 there were more; week 3, etc. While they’re not always right on schedule, they usually are within a few days of when we expected them.
This is a good thing. A comforting thing. Knowing that what we’re going through is likely the same thing that most every other set of parents go through makes it a bit easier when Henry decides that he must be held all the time or cries for what seems like 8 straight hours (when, in actuality, it’s only about 12 minutes). The next milestone? Well, it’s one near and dear to my heart.
Henry is a pooper. He poops a lot. He is a poop machine. When the doctor asked us at his one-week appointment how many bowel movements Henry was having every day, he was pleased to hear “about 10″. I suppose if he wasn’t gaining weight everyone (including the doctor) would be concerned. But as well as winning a gold medal in the latest BM Olympics, he’s also quite the chubber. So no worry.
At one month, or thereabouts, babies are supposed to slow down on the number of times they poop in a day. Some babies this age, it seems, don’t do it for several days in a row. This idea is so foreign to our family, I wouldn’t know what to do if Henry suddenly reduced his … um … output.
But we’re waiting, if only so that we have to change his diapers 8 times a day instead of 20. Pampers ain’t cheap.
And after five weeks of Henry, what else have we learned.
We learned that Henry has discovered that his tongue, at first just something he used to push a pacifier out of his mouth, can now be extended out of his mouth to approximately 8 inches. Seeing him realizing that his body can do all these different things is really fun. His arms and hands, which before just reached out randomly to whatever was near, now are grabbing at things that mean something (often times my body hair which he not only grasps with great vigor but also will twist for that added effect).
We learned that he can sleep for 6 hours in a row, although when he wakes up he’s often ready to play (it being 4 in the morning notwithstanding).
We learned that he can fight a nap like nobody’s business. As much as having a sleeping baby on your chest or in your lap is a wonderful, amazing thing, it’s not really ideal for Henry. He doesn’t sleep as well or as deeply or as long as he should, so Kristen has tried to ensure that nap time happens in his crib (or co-sleeper). While he will fall asleep pretty easily when in the arms of one of his parents (or one of his parents’ friends), he will battle sleep when in his crib. Every time his eyelids close — BOOM — they are open again. Every time his breathing gets deep and even — BOOM — his legs start kicking. He will be exhausted, his eyes raccoon-like, but he will not sleep until he is so tired he’s unable to move. I predict that in 10 years he will also fall asleep at the dinner table instead of finishing his Brussels sprouts.
We learned that Georgia, starved for attention, will try and sit on Kristen’s lap while she’s breastfeeding Henry. This is as strange as it sounds.
And we learned that sometimes when Henry is unhappy — fussy, crying, making the most ridiculous faces known to man — you just have to laugh. I remember on several occasions when I was young that I did something stupid or embarrassing or downright catastrophic (in my mind, at least) and my mother would laugh. That made me even more embarrassed and made my mother laugh even harder. I’ve seen other parents do this, too, and I vowed never, ever to do that to my child. But he’s barely one month old, and I’ve started. Sometimes, it seems, the love you have for your child comes out in laughter even when all they want is a hug. To that, I say, toughen up, kid. (And not to worry, because I’ll hug you as soon as I wipe away the tears.)
