Four-day-old baby. Born 7 lbs. 3 oz. Dropped to 6 lbs. 4 oz. Back up to 6 lbs. 7. oz.
How does this happen?
Mom and Dad feed the little River every two hours (timed from the start of each feed). Each feed takes roughly an hour, with diaper change, wake up, calm down, etc. Which means that only an hour remains between each feed. Which brings the proverbial lack of sleep.
I’m already a pro at changing diapers and swaddling. And so far, Elle and I make a great team at this. We’re ready to work hard and harder as long as we know were putting our energy into good things. And River is the best thing.
Doing the math is important with a newborn. We already had a ridiculous afternoon with an expensive pediatrician visit (basically a pricey weighing), then an awful lab visit with the worst/rudest receptionist ever….she made Elie cry in the waiting room, and then we got a parking ticket on top of that.
Today is day five and River’s weight is back up a bit. He’s feeding strong and has figured out a great trick: as soon as I change his diaper he instantly poops in the new one. And he’s already teaching me lessons, like don’t change him where I sleep unless I want him to pee all over me and my side of the bed. Oh well. A little piss never hurt anyone.
We’re so fortunate to have Elie’s mom out here and my family close by, and extra special thanks to Pete and Jane who have been bringing us good eats.
Annie & Aaron sent us a beautiful quilt and all of our friends and family have been sending love.
We have another several days of long nights with zombie-like despair. But it will pass—and probably too quickly.
I’m trying to remember this tiny idea that turned and turned in my wife’s belly. This idea that swam like a fish and became a little boy reeling in our arms.
We’re blessed, and just awake enough to say so.
Here’s a poem by William Stafford that a friend pointed us to, from Even in Quiet Places, his Methow River Poems series.
You can’t see it but,
Under the earth a great river has found
its own life. A torrent of stone
surfaces and congeals. We share that aftermath
in its stony garden. Stilled, Earth’s history
poses for study, levels of shale. Roots
delve for messages to turn into flowers,
messages the dirt hides all winter.
Past those earth signals we are led blundering,
beyond fainter signals too fine for our
sight. Our hearts race only for oxygen;
meanwhile the story of Heaven plays itself
inside rooms we cannot see.