First, thank you all for your comments and congratulations. Back when I started blogging about this infertility crap, I didn’t really think other people would genuinely care. (Color me jaded, I know.) I am honestly touched by how much support and encouragement you all show me.
Second, these past few weeks have mostly sucked which is why I haven’t been sharing too much. It isn’t for a lack of desire as I just love to share. It has been for a lack of time and mental capacity. Between trips to the NICU, weird tests (which all turned out fiiiiine), and pumping every 2 mother-fucking hours, I had little time to blog.
But the good news is… CHICK IS HOME! As you may recall, Chick’s only need for release from Neonatal prison was to learn to eat on his own. Just as I was about to freak out about this (okay, I did actually freak out all over one of the nurses. She was kindness incarnate)… Chick started chowing down in earnest. Three days later, Chick is officially home.
We are not even 24 hours in and he has already successfully puke, peed, and pooped on me. I think this says more about my own skills than his. What can I say, we’re both learning.
There are some other conditions on him going home. He has to be on an extra calorie diet, so I have to add this Enfamil crap to his bottles. This also means I have to keep pumping if I want him to be getting any of the benefits of my breast milk– lo, my boobs to not come with an Enfamil on/off switch. It also doesn’t help that my milk supply is spotty at best. (Which could be associated with my IF woes? Hormonal imbalance? Any thoughts?)
I had a moment in the car yesterday when it occurred to me that taking him home wouldn’t mean my days as a dairy cow were over. It was sorta like being smacked in the face with a mackerel.
So I write this post as my son sleeps in his crib, and I am hooked up to a breast pump. I go to his first pediatrician appointment on Wednesday and hope to speak to a lactation consultant who can help me sort this out.
I feel like there are more details I’m not sharing– like that time a doctor told me my child likely did not have a flesh eating baby disease– but I’m still in a post-baby/post-NICU haze. More postcards from the edge to come…