Oh Leo, I love that pretty much your whole world is built on the tall and warm one with the reassuring voice, the little noisy one who always has a new toy to show you and me, the one who's heartbeat you know best, the one who smells like milk.
I love that during our unexpected stay in hospital, you nursed so determinedly that I could feel my proper supply kicking in by the end of your second day - take that standard advice of three to five days.
I love that you nursed so well you only lost 95 of the 400 grammes the midwife would have let you away with. I love the reassurance that all that eating has given me and your dad and your grandparents after the news that you have an extra challenge to face over the next couple of weeks.
I love that after just one day with you in his domain your big brother proudly points out to everyone that Baby Leo is drinking the booby milk and that when you cry he tells me to give you more milk even at the expense of cutting his much loved story time short.
I love Sam for the nine months training he gave me in breastfeeding. Our crash course means that I have the confidence to casually get the equipment out mid conversation and make sure you're latched right. I love that he gave me the confidence to admit, this is hard.
This is hard. I'm sore and hormonal. I'm tired and thirsty. If I'm not totally on the ball your enthusiasm can be excruciating. Feeding you in these early days means that your daddy and I are still a team but we're playing very separate roles. It means watching him take the lion's share of Sam maintenance and keeping the house ticking over and being endlessly thoughtful of my needs and worrying (for no rational purpose, he's a saint) that he'll resent me for the work.
But we'll find our rhythm. My supply will regulate and you'll no longer be wrestling with almost choking on my letdown but being enraged by any attempt to unlatch you from it. Your brother will stop being torn between thinking you're the best thing that ever happened and the worst. He may even stop saying "no way" any time we suggest eating non cake based food.
Your dad and I will find each other again because amidst our tiredness and my moodswings, I still know he is the other half of me as much as you and your brother are what makes me whole.
In amongst the soreness and the tiredness and the learning about each other, I'll savour the stolen moments of it still being just you and me. After all, we're the firecrackers who just got through a pregnancy that would make non firecrackers wave the white flag.
So to anyone out there on this learning curve, take it one joyously awful, abysmally wonderful day at a time. And remember to drink lots of water!
I love that during our unexpected stay in hospital, you nursed so determinedly that I could feel my proper supply kicking in by the end of your second day - take that standard advice of three to five days.
I love that you nursed so well you only lost 95 of the 400 grammes the midwife would have let you away with. I love the reassurance that all that eating has given me and your dad and your grandparents after the news that you have an extra challenge to face over the next couple of weeks.
I love that after just one day with you in his domain your big brother proudly points out to everyone that Baby Leo is drinking the booby milk and that when you cry he tells me to give you more milk even at the expense of cutting his much loved story time short.
I love Sam for the nine months training he gave me in breastfeeding. Our crash course means that I have the confidence to casually get the equipment out mid conversation and make sure you're latched right. I love that he gave me the confidence to admit, this is hard.
This is hard. I'm sore and hormonal. I'm tired and thirsty. If I'm not totally on the ball your enthusiasm can be excruciating. Feeding you in these early days means that your daddy and I are still a team but we're playing very separate roles. It means watching him take the lion's share of Sam maintenance and keeping the house ticking over and being endlessly thoughtful of my needs and worrying (for no rational purpose, he's a saint) that he'll resent me for the work.
But we'll find our rhythm. My supply will regulate and you'll no longer be wrestling with almost choking on my letdown but being enraged by any attempt to unlatch you from it. Your brother will stop being torn between thinking you're the best thing that ever happened and the worst. He may even stop saying "no way" any time we suggest eating non cake based food.
Your dad and I will find each other again because amidst our tiredness and my moodswings, I still know he is the other half of me as much as you and your brother are what makes me whole.
In amongst the soreness and the tiredness and the learning about each other, I'll savour the stolen moments of it still being just you and me. After all, we're the firecrackers who just got through a pregnancy that would make non firecrackers wave the white flag.
So to anyone out there on this learning curve, take it one joyously awful, abysmally wonderful day at a time. And remember to drink lots of water!
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