Letter to Lucia: 8 Weeks
Little Lucy,
You’re eight weeks old today—two months! And wow, have you been giving your mama a run for her money. Last week was probably the most difficult I’ve had since you were born. I really felt like I couldn’t keep it together, and all the difficulty we’ve been having with feeding you made me feel distraught. This week has been better. You’re still screaming before feedings, but I’m handling it with more grace, and I’ve found some tricks for calming you down and getting you to eat peacefully. We have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, which may or may not be helpful. I suspect he may just tell us this is a phase we need to get through. I’m not about to stop breastfeeding, so you and I are going to have to work it out together.
In the past few weeks you’ve started smiling, which is adorable. Sometimes you give us tentative little smiles, but sometimes your whole face lights up, eyes crinkling, as though you’re laughing at a private baby joke. You’ve been cooing, too, and sometimes we’re absolutely convinced you’re trying to say “Hi!”
Two nights ago, you rolled over—from tummy to back. You’ve been trying to do this for a couple of weeks. You have all the movements right, but you don’t yet have that extra oomph that would get you from one side to the other. Finally, you did it. It may have been a fluke—you haven’t done it again—but it was a step in the right direction.
Next week, we’re going to take you on a plane for the first time—and, for the first time, back home to the East Coast. I’m nervous about the flight, since feeding you tends to be such a production, but I am counting down the seconds to the trip anyway. It’s going to be so much fun to introduce you to new family members—Grandpa Bob! Aunt Katherine! Nana! Uncle Ian! Myriad Orlandos and Connellsville friends!—and spend our first Christmas with you. Of course you won’t know what’s happening. (Daddy and I didn’t even get you any gifts—will you hold it against us someday?) But you’ll make this holiday unforgettable for us.
Right now you’re sleeping in your sling, right against my chest. I can feel you breathing, and can see each little movement of your fingers. Sometimes when you’re screaming and your daddy and I are trying desperately to make you happy I forget how little you really are—and you are little. Tiny little hands, tiny feet, eensy-weensy little toes. Before bedtime, when we do skin-to-skin nursing and you fall asleep in bed beside me, curled up tight under the warm covers, you are your smallest, baby-est self, fully unaware of the way we gaze at you, whispering to each other that we have the best baby in the world.
You’re eight weeks old today—two months! And wow, have you been giving your mama a run for her money. Last week was probably the most difficult I’ve had since you were born. I really felt like I couldn’t keep it together, and all the difficulty we’ve been having with feeding you made me feel distraught. This week has been better. You’re still screaming before feedings, but I’m handling it with more grace, and I’ve found some tricks for calming you down and getting you to eat peacefully. We have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, which may or may not be helpful. I suspect he may just tell us this is a phase we need to get through. I’m not about to stop breastfeeding, so you and I are going to have to work it out together.
In the past few weeks you’ve started smiling, which is adorable. Sometimes you give us tentative little smiles, but sometimes your whole face lights up, eyes crinkling, as though you’re laughing at a private baby joke. You’ve been cooing, too, and sometimes we’re absolutely convinced you’re trying to say “Hi!”
Two nights ago, you rolled over—from tummy to back. You’ve been trying to do this for a couple of weeks. You have all the movements right, but you don’t yet have that extra oomph that would get you from one side to the other. Finally, you did it. It may have been a fluke—you haven’t done it again—but it was a step in the right direction.
Next week, we’re going to take you on a plane for the first time—and, for the first time, back home to the East Coast. I’m nervous about the flight, since feeding you tends to be such a production, but I am counting down the seconds to the trip anyway. It’s going to be so much fun to introduce you to new family members—Grandpa Bob! Aunt Katherine! Nana! Uncle Ian! Myriad Orlandos and Connellsville friends!—and spend our first Christmas with you. Of course you won’t know what’s happening. (Daddy and I didn’t even get you any gifts—will you hold it against us someday?) But you’ll make this holiday unforgettable for us.
Right now you’re sleeping in your sling, right against my chest. I can feel you breathing, and can see each little movement of your fingers. Sometimes when you’re screaming and your daddy and I are trying desperately to make you happy I forget how little you really are—and you are little. Tiny little hands, tiny feet, eensy-weensy little toes. Before bedtime, when we do skin-to-skin nursing and you fall asleep in bed beside me, curled up tight under the warm covers, you are your smallest, baby-est self, fully unaware of the way we gaze at you, whispering to each other that we have the best baby in the world.
Comments
And the yelling before nursing could be a couple of things. 1 - she is growing and she needs to be fed more to hold her over. 2 - she needs to be fed a tiny bit earlier. :) I hope she settles for you - I know how unsettling it can be to not know what is going on.