We had our first visit to the pediatrician yesterday and it was certainly blogworthy. I took my camera, which I’m sure many proud new moms do. The difference is they’re probably documenting the momentous occasion so it can be recorded in the kid’s voluminous baby book; I took mine hoping Andrew would do something funny I could post on the blog.
I was not disappointed. He began the departure from his usual M.O. by starting to wail about two minutes away from the office. He’d had a pretty short feeding during his previous meal, so I figured he might need to have the tank topped off. Of course we had to fill out thirty million forms before we could get back to an exam room and whip out the lunchbox, so that was a little stressful. As someone who rarely seeks attention in public, I’m having a hard time adjusting to the reality that I can’t control everything he does. Eeek.
So we get the room, and get him some dessert. The nurse comes in to start the initial questioning with Mr. Aggie and myself, and I continue feeding. Suddenly from under the blanket the loudest, juiciest, and most fragrant poop explosion interrupted the discussion. She had just asked about how many poop diapers he’d had that day, so she cheerily scratched out our response and increased it by one .[Sidenote the iPhone has apps for nursing and diapers that make our life so easy. Who knew Mr. Aggie’s obsession would prove to actually be useful?] Come to find out, breastfed babies have been known to poop very often–some after every feeding! Chunks here eats every 2 hours or so, meaning now’s a good time to buy stock in Pampers.
Okay, back to the explosion. Luckily it was all contained in the diaper (“Go Pampers/ it’s your birthday…”) so the nurse told us just to clean him up and lay him naked on this puppy pee pad thing so he could be weighed. One of the few things we know about this newly formed human is that he hates, hates, HATES having his clothes and diapers changed and that he will not tolerate nudity (for himself, not sure about his position for others). So even after sitting in his own poo while we finished the initial interview–all the while trying not to asphyxiate in the tiny room where the air had turned green–he wasn’t too keen to have all his parts exposed.
He immediately began to wail, which triggered another First! moment, though I couldn’t find the page in the baby book: First Time I Got So Angry That I Spit Up, Which Soon Pooled In My Ear Where My Mom Should Have Cleaned It Up Immediately But She Didn’t Because She was Laughing Too Hard.
Oh, and he was continuing to poop on the pad at the same time. Finally we got him all pretty again, clothed only in his dwindling dignity, and were ready to continue with the pediatric party.
Background: Andrew had gotten very jaundiced and had lost 9% of his initial birthweight by Sunday. We were instructed to place him in sunlight and feed him as much as possible between that appointment on Sunday and this appointment Monday. My boy and my boobs rose the challenge, apparently, because when he was weighed he had gained back half a pound in twenty four hours (Go boobies, it’s your birthday…”). His billirubin levels had dropped significantly during the same time, so he’s been liberated from the South Beach sunfest. Which is a shame, because he really loved it as you can see here:
The only other unpleasant part of the exam–taking his temperature rectally–was done quickly by the expert nurse and received just a peep of protest by Chunks. You can be sure whenever I have to do it, the procedure will not be so smooth. I’m already dreading it.
Our darling boy was pronounced healthy and I was pronounced a modern miracle for having him “the old fashioned way”, praise I will cling to as long as it takes for me not to dread pooping more than almost anything on Earth.
So there you have it, internets. Andrew is healthy if not slightly traumatized, and we are not scheduled to leave the house again until our two week checkup. The pedi recommends not taking Andrew out in public because strangers feel the need to touch a baby, which is dangerous during the best of times and especially unadvisable during cold and flu season. As much as I’d love to rejoin the human race, I prefer to keep both Andrew and any well-meaning but potentially infectious strangers safe.
If you know us and live nearby, please let us know if you’d like to come meet the rockstar in person. I feel bad hiding this glorious babe under a bushel and I’d love to have the company. Please bring a cassarole or some other food-related bribe if you want to touch him. I’ll pretend we didn’t need it and feign surprise at your thouthfulness, then you can touch him without fear of physical reprisal UNLESS YOU FORGET TO WASH YOUR HANDS IN WHICH CASE IT WILL BE ON LIKE DONKEY KONG YOU GERM-INFESTED NITWIT. That means you, too, Grandma.
**This exceedingly long post brought to you by the geniuses of Fisher Price yet again. Man I love that bouncer.**