Thing 1: He has enormous feet. I had assumed that people kept buying the Peanut little wee newborn baby socks, and that this was why they were all too small for his paws, until I took the matter of clothing the young man's lower extremities into my own hands. Turns out baby socks come in two sizes: 0-12 months and 12-24 months. I purchased the latter, and they fit (Peter, not me) perfectly, thank you.
Thing 2: He loves wood. We live in an old Arts and Crafts house in the West end, which comes with plenty of old gnarled oak trim, with which the Peanut has an (unhealthy?) obsession. He often demands to be carried over to a newel post or door frame, so that he can pat it, stroke it, and, if it's his lucky day, gnaw on it a bit (this would be an instance of Peter loving wood but not respecting wood).
Thing 3: He did. You may recall from a recent post that Peter has added the consonant "D" to his vocabulary. His current favourite permutation of "Ds" and vowels is something that sounds conspicuously like "I did." So all day long Peter compulsively announces his unspecified accomplishments, often in tones of increasing urgency: I did. I did. I did. I DID. No one's saying you didn't, son.
Thing 4: He's concerned about your health. It seems that now Master Peter has reached the hefty weight of 15 lbs., he's moved on to worrying about others' constitutions. Clear your throat or cough in his presence, and the Peanut will look at you with something approaching alarm. Reassure him that you're feeling fine, thanks, and he'll smile obligingly.
Thing 5: It took him almost three weeks to poop. A friend's beautiful newborn son is in the hospital right now, and my thoughts naturally wander to the time my beautiful newborn son spent similarly situated. Even in those early weeks, Master Peter's breathing was not too shabby, considering, but his digestion was another story. For days upon days, nurses tried to up his tube feeding from 1 cc every two hours - for those who are neither doctors nor followers of House, that's a mL - to a whopping 2 cc's. And for days upon days, we watched feebly as he sent bilious aspirates - NICU-speak for really scary shit - back up that tube. Twice they ordered abdominal x-rays. Google told us this meant they suspected necrotizing enterocolitis (NEC). In case the name didn't give it away, NEC is the black plague of the NICU, and we were scared. But the x-rays didn't reveal any plague; instead, it seemed our little man was backed up something fierce. The situation persisted, until one day, sometime in his third week of life, as I was getting ready to be discharged myself for the second time around, he pooped. And that was that. In case you'd forgotten, here's us then:
And here we are, now (thanks, Pascy!).
Have courage, little M.
That was lovely, Amanda. Made me feel quite weepy, but lovely nonetheless. Hugs sweet friend.
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