Shannon Phillips

Sol had a great check-up today! He weighs ten pounds and two ounces, which puts him back on a normal growth curve, and the pediatrician gave me a print out that says “General appearance: well nourished infant” right up at the top, so that I can take it out and look at it whenever I’m feeling blue. And he’s 23 and a half inches long, so almost two feet. The doctor also exclaimed over his enormous feet.

He’s starting to “talk” more, grunts and coos and other funny little sounds, so it’s possible to have amusing conversations with him now–at least if you’re the type that’s easily amused. He’s a remarkably chill little guy most of the time. He cries when he’s hungry or needs a change, but otherwise he’s pretty content to hang out and observe. I think that might be an adaptive trait in a household with two loud and energetic older brothers!

Sol is visibly plumping up. I am so, so relieved. It took him a few days to get used to the bottle, but it turns out our doctor was right: supplementing with formula has made this problem vanish.

I was struck by the fact that every mother who left me messages of support, to say they had been in the same position, also talked about how hard it had been to confront the stigma that surrounds formula, and the sense that anything less than exclusive breastfeeding makes you a Bad Mom. There is a whole industry out there that has a vested interest in pushing the “breast is best” philosophy to an irrational extreme: “the lactation-commercial-industrial complex,” as my BFF calls it. It’s like the crunchy-granola mirror of the formula companies—I mean, those are still more evil, but at this point they are less insidious.

Every mom in my demographic can reel off the studies: breastfeeding makes healthier babies, even smarter babies. (It doesn’t, actually, but never mind.) And of course we want the best for our babies, so women are quite literally torturing themselves in a struggle to live up to the breastfeeding ideal. I had one friend, whose baby was prone to a painful latch, describe to me how she would spend each nursing session weeping from the pain. Another, who spent a small fortune on lactation consultants and breast pumps, told me that her failure to exclusively breastfeed made her feel like she wasn’t a real mother to her baby.

This is crazy, and cruel. There’s no One Right Way to be a mom, and while nursing is lovely, formula is fine too. I’m still nursing Sol a lot, but I don’t feel the least bit ashamed of giving him a bottle as well. I’m just glad that he’s getting what he needs to grow.

At almost six weeks Sol’s weight is still really low. The problem seems to be his inefficient latch—he can nurse for an hour but not get that much milk. We give him a bottle right after every nursing session now. He mostly refused it at first but he seems to be getting used to it; he’s been drinking more formula in the past couple days. The doctor told us to keep doing what we’re doing and come back in a month. He seems confident that supplementing with formula will boost Sol’s growth. I hope it starts working really soon. This morning as I was nursing him I just sat there with tears rolling down my face, staring at his stick-thin arms and legs.

I’m still spending almost all my time feeding (or trying to feed) the baby, and Sam goes back to work next week. I have a lot of anxiety around that too.

One thing I can do while nursing is read, so this blog might be all book reviews for a while.

Sol had a pretty disastrous weigh in yesterday. He actually weighs a few ounces less than he did two weeks ago and still hasn’t regained his birth weight. This during a time when babies should be growing rapidly. I’ve been worried about his growth for a while and it sucks to know that my concerns are very real.

We’re making a concerted effort to make sure he nurses every two hours, and if he doesn’t start putting on weight immediately, we’ll switch to formula.

Update 4/26: Sol’s weight check was good today (up nearly half a pound) after two days of all but force feeding him. Seriously, I’ve basically been nursing him nonstop, leaving Sam to deal with the needs of the other kids. Thank God for paternity leave.

This baby curled into me is so little and warm, and he smells so nice. Every now and then he makes a tiny sound and my heart clenches.

Robin and Davy asked for, and were given, pickles and cold pizza for breakfast. They are now running around the house in their pajamas. The TV is on but is being ignored (limits on screen time have been placed in abeyance). This week is spring break for the boys, so no school; Sam is home on paternity leave for the next six weeks. It feels like the world is in suspension. Everything revolves around the rhythms of Sol. He is our tiny sun and center.

He’s here! Baby Sol was born on Sunday, March 24 at 5 pm, weighing a hefty eight pounds two ounces. The labor was straightforward (he came in literally two minutes of pushing) and he’s looking great—nursing well and showing every sign of thriving. We brought him home today to two very interested older brothers and one big puppy (also very interested, but so far not allowed to do anything more than give the baby a thorough sniff). Robin said, “I’ll teach the baby how to walk and talk! Sol, when you are hungry, say ‘Please make me a sandwich.’”

It’s a good start.

I am now responding to all inquiries about the baby with a dramatic impression of the little raincloud that hangs over Eeyore’s head.

My adjusted due date was yesterday—and that was already pushed back a week from the original due date—so I have this sense that I’ve been pregnant forever. And it will never end. There will never be a baby, only endless, endless bouts of Braxton Hicks contractions and backaches and an inability to pick things up off the ground or get comfortable at night or wear jeans or walk at anything approaching a reasonable pace. And everybody will be so disappointed in me.

So if you want to know if there is a baby yet, imagine the little black raincloud is giving you your answer.

My mom was married today, to her friend and partner of many years, Mark Esarey:

Welcome to the family, Mark! I’m glad you two wild and crazy kids have finally settled down. May you have long and abundant years of happiness together.

The newlyweds are planning a honeymoon in scenic, romantic Oakland, which is of course world-renowned as the “City of Love.” No, wait, it’s mostly renowned as the “City of Crime.” But maybe mom and Mark will start a new trend! Anyway, we are very much looking forward to celebrating with them and delivering our best wishes in person.

Well, it has just been the season of seven plagues around here. Thursday evening both Robin and Davy came down with sudden bouts of vomiting. We suspected food poisoning at first, because they seemed to improve with a day of rest on Friday, but on Saturday Robin developed sores on his tongue. That makes hand, foot, and mouth disease the leading culprit: it’s very common among kids, and despite the somewhat-alarming name it’s not a scary illness. It just takes about a week to run its course, and the only treatment is the standard rest-and-fluids.

The interesting thing about hand, foot, and mouth disease is that healthy adults almost never get it. I got it hard.

The immune system is suppressed during pregnancy, to prevent the mom’s body from attacking the baby as a foreign parasite, and I’m still feeling the lingering effects of our last round of viruses, so I’m very immunocompromised right now. Essentially I’m a sitting duck for any hostile organisms floating around. Last night I spent absolutely the worst ten hours I can remember in a long, long time, running for the bathroom every 10-15 minutes, unable to hold anything down despite what developed into a tormenting thirst. On top of all that the constant vomiting triggered another bout of contractions, which thankfully didn’t turn into actual labor because I don’t know how I could’ve possibly handled it. Meanwhile Sam slept in a sleeping bag on the floor of the boy’s room so that he could be right there to help them when they woke up sick in the night.

This morning is better. Sam went out for ginger ale and fresh ginger when the grocery stores opened, and by nibbling on a ginger slice whenever a wave of nausea presents, I’ve been able to guzzle the ginger ale and keep it down. Robin and Davy are holding down solid food at this point. I’m running a bit of a fever and I’ve spent most of the day in bed, while Sam, in all-out superhero mode, has fully taken over meeting the various needs of the household. He seems a little embarrassed every time I sniffle at him about how much it means to me that he’s taking such good care of us.

It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then something comes along that just completely outmatches and overwhelms me, and in those moments Sam always, always has my back. And while these displays of competence and compassion on his part aren’t truly gendered—I mean, if anything, an ability to step up and tend a household of invalids would seem a particularly feminine form of badassery—my response to him in these times is very gendered indeed. I feel exactly like a damsel in distress whose knight in shining armor has just come charging to the rescue. I’m overwhelmed not just with gratitude but with a doe-eyed admiration of Sam’s vast masculine strength. He’s washing the dishes as I type these words, pausing every now and then to fix toast for the boys or bring me more ginger ale, and I think it’s the manliest thing I’ve ever seen because I barely have the reserves to hit “post” and totter back to bed. These are the Big Damn Hero moments of real life.

Well, apparently it was just a prolonged bout of Braxton Hicks contractions. It’s a phenomenon often called “false labor,” but as a sop to us aggravated pregnant ladies, some practitioners like to call it “practice labor” or “pre-labor.”

I kind of like pre-labor, as it implies that some kind of progress is being made. Which is, when you think about it, almost necessarily true. We’re one day closer to Sol’s birthday, whenever that turns out to be.