I went to the pediatrician yesterday feeling triumphant. It’s been two weeks since our trip to the ER, and nothing dangerous or bloody has happened to our baby, and we’ve had no reason to call our doctor in the middle of the night.
The very first thing you do at the pediatrician, the whole reason new parents get excited for these visits, is the weigh-in. Ezra had already gained back his birth weight, and I was eager to see how much more he’d gained in the two weeks since our last appointment. At that visit, he’d been 9 lb 9 oz. I was expecting about a pound gain: average is about an ounce a day. The nurse had me place him on the scale and we both said “wow” at the same time. Ezra is now 11 lb 6 oz, in the 95th percentile. The doctor came in and took a look at the chart, turned to me and said, “He wins!” Best gainer in the practice, our boy is.
Want to know how to identify a sleep-deprived new mom? She’s the one who comes to the appointment with a list of concerns jotted on a ripped half of a receipt, and the list reads:
The doctor assuaged all my concerns. His goopy eye is a harmless and common tear duct blockage. The gross toe blister is an ingrown toenail, not flesh-eating bacteria. My bad right boob can be fixed by a call to the lactation consultant. And Ezra’s new every-other-day pooping plan is nothing to worry about.
In fact, my compulsive googling had told me that many babies switch to a non-daily poop schedule around six weeks. Of course, he’s only three and a half weeks, but he’s gigantic, so I think he gets some kind of bye into the next age category. As we were leaving, Amy, the midwife who delivered him, was in the hall. He picked his head off my shoulder to look at her, causing her to exclaim, “Oh! Just like a two month old!”
Advanced in every way. That’s our boy.