Holy Hormones, Batman. Physically, I am feeling loads better since my c-section. Still a few pains here and there, but overall, I no longer feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck. I had my post-op appointment with the OB on Tuesday and got two thumbs up. The biggest challenge now for my postpartum recovery is getting through the hormonal rollercoaster. Who knew that the majority of the crying around our house would be mine? My concerned DH will sometimes ask me if my sniffles are happy or sad. What? I'm crying again? Crap. The doc said that the hormones should peak within a week. In the meantime, I'm hoping that I can shed some of that baby weight in tears. Wishful thinking, I know.
A Hard Day's Night. Not surprisingly, we haven't been getting much sleep around my house. Just like when he was in utero, my little man likes to party like a rock star when the sun sets. Unfortunately, we have yet to upgrade our cable service to include DVR, so I'm stuck watching some really horrible television. At 3 am, you'll find me in the glider-rocker contemplating deep life questions like "Who exactly thought it was necessary to give Craig Ferguson his own late night talk show?" and "Wow, can that vacuum really pick up a bowling ball?"
Big Sister. So far, Evey has been good with the baby. Once she got over her initial fear of his baby noises (his toots make me nervous too, pooch), she has been curious and gentle with him. And she's been generous enough to share the baby blankets and toys with him without a fuss. The problem, if there will be one, will come when my parents leave town. There's always enough grandparent love to go around, so Evey still gets plenty of attention and walks and treats. But when it's the three of us home alone all day, I have a feeling the dog poop is going to hit the fan, so to speak.
The Breastaurant. Remember when I said I was about 25% sure of my ability to breastfeed? That estimate actually proved a bit over confident. I guess I needed a few more hours of the booby video in the breastfeeding class. Bean and I have been working overtime to get back on track after a rough start in the hospital. I have rented a hospital-grade pump and I'm taking tons of these fenugreek pills, which make me smell like maple syrup. Now the poor kid will think of me every time he passes an IHOP for the rest of his life, and he'll have no idea why. On the bright side, maybe he'll remember to call his mother.
And I'll leave you with yet another funny quote from one of DH's coworkers. We printed a few Bean pics and DH took them to work. One coworker saw the pic of Bean in the onion-chopping glasses from the previous post (yep, that's what those are) and said with all sincerity: "Awww... poor thing, he's nearsighted!" Yep, he can only see 8-12 inches in front of his face. Like every other newborn on the planet. LOL