Phoebe is really very close to being 2.5 months, but we just had her 2 month check up today. Her shots convinced her to hibernate, which means I got a considerable amount of writing done today, though probably not as much as I needed to. I have the weekend, though, when I feel like I can have my big kids (and Andrew) to hold the baby a bit more.
Besides, we can't do laundry because our washing machine malfunctioned so that gives us permission to put off that chore, right?
Phoebe is 11 lbs. 10 ounces, which seems rather big to me considering 10 weeks ago she was only 6 lbs.
But Miriam was 13.5 lbs at 2 months and 2 weeks, so I guess Phoebe isn't so large after all. Alexander, on the other hand, was only 10 lbs. 11 ounces at 2 months, so I guess Phoebe isn't so small after all.
(Zoë was 12 lbs. 4 ounces; Benjamin was—haha—like 6 lbs. or something; I can't find a weight for Rachel either at that age (she was probably around 12 lbs.))
Over all Phoebe is doing wonderfully. She's growing really well. Eating is her only hobby, so her growth makes sense. I keep telling her find a new hobby. She hasn't picked anything up yet.
Like, literally—she hasn't picked anything up. Someday she'll figure out what hands are for, but until then I'm sure she'll keep randomly grabbing fistfuls of hair or skin or shirt. She's not keen on picking things up but she sure loves to hold on.
I don't think I've ever had a baby hold on this young before, but when you hold her upright, she'll wrap her arm around your arm to help keep her steady. She loves snuggling, almost to a fault (but if snuggling babies is wrong, I don't want to be right). She's starting to smile a lot more and is getting a little conversational. I'm sure we'll have a lot of fun with her.
As much as Phoebe seems to enjoy eating, she's got a terrible latch. It's not ineffective (obviously), but it's somewhat terrible. She smacks a lot when she eats, unlatching and re-latching dozens of times. It doesn't seem to bother her too much (aside from...I think she might be swallowing too much air) and it doesn't bother me, either (except that I have to keep helping her adjust and readjust her latch). It doesn't hurt though, which is nice.
Benjamin had a poor latch as well, but he caused all sorts of blistering—just little milk blebs—and we eventually discovered that he was tongue tied (well, my mom noticed it first) and once we got his tongue clipped his latch improved and my blisters disappeared.
Phoebe is not tongue-tied, though. I checked. The doctor checked.
But then the doctor stuck her finger inside Phoebe's mouth and tried to get Phoebe to suck on it. Phoebe took it in, gagged, and spat it out. The doctor got a quick feel, though, and decided Phoebe's palate is "unusual." I can't remember what word she used—too shallow, too thick?
Anyway, it's not really a problem. It just is causing Phoebe to have a hard time establishing a latch, but the doctor theorized (judging from the way Phoebe sucked her finger in and then choked on it), that bottles would likely be an issue as well and we'd have to hunt around to find a nipple that would work for her without causing her to suck it in too far, and choke.
So as long as she keeps growing, we'll just live with her slurpy, smack-y nursing techniques and be grateful we rarely venture out into public.
I'm doing...okay...I think. Usually.
Phoebe's doctor's office has me fill out a questionnaire about my mental health every time I go in as well, which is nice because the pediatrician's office we went to when Alexander was tiny (when I probably needed a questionnaire like this) only ever gave me one and considered it done.
My anxiety with him was so bad. I couldn't sleep for imagining all the grizzly ways a baby could die. Not that I wanted to hurt him. I didn't. I just couldn't stop imaging terrible accidents. And so I couldn't sleep. And it was really a pretty terrible time.
It's not like that this time around. I think my mind is so occupied with other things that I don't have time to imagine terrible things. Still, I guess my answers caused the doctor some alarm because she asked me if I was really doing okay and I have never been more grateful to have a mask hide my trembling lips as I said that partial-lie—I'm doing fine—though I could do nothing about my eyes welling up with tears, I'm sure.
Because I am doing fine. I think?
But how dare she ask?!
How dare she invite me to really take stock of things in that very moment?
And if you can't answer the question of "How are you really holding up?" without starting to cry, are you really doing okay? I don't know.
I think I would have answered that question easier if the appointment hadn't been on a Friday morning.
Thursdays are just so exhausting.
And I think I would have answered easier if this wasn't a pandemic baby.
Pandemics are just so exhausting.
But Phoebe is beautiful. I really do have a lot of wonderful help at home. And we're all doing fine here.
We just need to figure out our washing machine—thank goodness I washed the burp cloths on Thursday night, hours after I'd put the children to bed, while I was up with a wailing baby and my husband was still at work (because Thursdays are so long).
And I still need to figure out my hospital bill. You guys! It will never be resolved!
I got a very threatening letter in the mail today (and threatening letters are just so exhausting) explaining that "overpayments...will not be considered as an advance" on future bills. Therefore, even though the hospital has an "overpayment" for my false labour account, such overpayments have no bearing on my lack of payment for my for-realsies labour account. So if I don't pay them their money by, oh, Tuesday (or something) then...I dunno.
I don't really know what their next steps will be, but since I don't really want this bill to be sent to collections or anything I went ahead and begrudgingly paid it today, on this day that our washing machine broke.
So I hope you're happy, Northside Hospital of Atlanta.
And don't worry about paying me back any time soon. You're totally welcome to hold onto my money for as long as you want. We weren't really using it, anyway. So just, like, whenever you get around to it, that would be great.
(Oh, that I had the recourse to send threatening letters to the hospital— "Dear Hospital, This is a reminder that you are holding my entire deductible hostage. For your convenience, you can just give it back to me, like yesterday, as agreed.")