One day, Clara, you’ll read back and think, “I was really like that?” I’m sure these stories will turn into well-weathered tales you’ll roll your eyes at later. Maybe one day you’ll even carry them with you while thinking about starting your own family, or whispering as your newborn sleeps as your dad and I have done.
The Great Nap Chase
This morning I paced the hall, the nursery, and the stairs trying to get you back to sleep. It would be more manageable if I were drinking caffeine. We tried the rocking chair, singing, white noise, and your wrap. You’re still in your wrap now—quietly groaning, reluctantly giving into sleep. For some reason, you’ve recently decided you don’t like your wrap. Or your carrier. Or your bassinet. You prefer being in the unstructured arms of a parent while they’re moving. As you can imagine this is exhausting for us—especially since it feels like you’ve grown half a pound a day, but it’s also lovely holding you so close. Sometimes I focus on your breathing and coregulate mine as much as possible.
I’m trying to cherish these moments, even when they’re hard. I even filmed your small details while you slept: your rosy cheeks, your furrowed brow, the way your hair swirls into a cowlick, the contrast of darker “womb hair” against the newer blond fuzz, your tiny hand with its knuckles, and the soft sighs of your breathing. I don’t ever want to forget those little details. What you were like 7 weeks ago is already a fading blur.
Cracking the Sleep Code
I’ve been studying your sleep cycles. Babies don’t sleep like adults—you cycle through drowsy, light sleep, deep sleep, then REM. Right now you do it in under an hour. I think you hit deep sleep at around 20–25 minutes, when I can pick up your hand and let it drop with no tension… though my own tension spikes, waiting for your eyes to pop open like a doll’s.
When naps get cut short, your adrenaline and cortisol build up, making the next nap even harder. By the end of the day, you usually crash into one long nap, if we’re lucky. I’ve learned to never give up until about 10 minutes after you first stir—sometimes you surprise me and fall back asleep.
We’ve also reprioritized everything to protect your “must-have” contact naps. Although of course the doorbell rings or Mable shakes at the worst times. Nursing still resets you best, which means you nap longest with me, though you did give Aunt Pam a nice long nap this week. Progress!
You sleep best with my hand on your chest, arm gently holding yours to stop the startles. Your sleep soundtrack: lullaby versions of “You Are My Sunshine,” “Blackbird,” “Moon River,” three hours of white noise, and in extreme cases… two different “people shushing” tracks.
Growing Pains (and Gas)
You’re growing so fast that sleep and feeding feel extra critical. Your wake windows are short—about 40 minutes before winding down, asleep by an hour. It sounds like plenty, but by the time we squeeze in stretching, diaper changes, nursing, and potty breaks, there’s barely 10 minutes of play. Visitors want more, but longer wake times usually backfire and lead to overtired meltdowns. Domino effect engaged.
The silver lining? Cutting out eggs and soy seems to help your reflux. You’re spitting up less and looking more comfortable. Still, from 4:30–7 a.m. you wrestle with gas. Totally normal for your age, but tough. Gas drops help, but not instantly, and sometimes you’re fully awake (and overtired) by the time they kick in.
The Bottle Battle
On that note, missy—you’re still refusing a bottle. I learned my milk starts to taste soapy after a day in the fridge, thanks to high lipase. So we’re trying same-day milk and maybe some formula so you’ll be flexible. Necessary for when I go back to work, but also for my sanity. If you only nap 20 minutes with Papá, that barely gives me time to shower.
Part of the issue is the taste, part is the temperature, and part is your dislike of plasticky “not-mom” nipples. Papá is taking the lead this week as we experiment with bottles, brands, and formula. Fingers crossed.
Little Personality, Big Smiles
You’re smiling more, even chuckling. I blew raspberries at you and you thought it was equal parts terrifying, interesting, and hilarious. You stared at your hand in fascination this week, too. High-contrast things delight you—dark shelves on a white wall, black-and-white photos on the stairs, the fish tank. The world is opening up.
You’re trying out all your facial expressions – learning to stick out your tongue in discomfort and disgust. You joyfully move all your limbs while on your back, and concentrate intensely while pooping. You move your eyebrows expressively and purse your lips to the side like your mom. You still look like a mini-Pablo, but you resemble me more and more, especially in your personality. Particularly like me, you’re highly sensitive. You pay attention to everything, distracted and overwhelmed at times by your senses: sounds, lights, tactical sensations (as well as feelings emotionally). One slight move or light or sound can wake you. The good news is, you’ll likely grow into a highly empathic person.
Weeklies
- Growth: No official weigh-in, but I’d guess close to 12 lbs. You seem to gain daily.
- Changes/new things: More consistent smiles and chuckles, plus all the sleep experiments above.
- Favorites: The stars on your travel bassinet, dream feeds, morning diaper-and-sleepsack release.
- Happenings: Aunt Janet visited Wednesday to help and go for a walk together
- Struggles: Bottle feeding, gas, sleep.
- Nicknames: No new ones this week—your current roster is sticking.
Mom Check-In
It’s still a rollercoaster for me. I’m soaking you in, but also irritable, sensitive, and overtired. My back hurts (though I did sneak in three minutes of yoga yesterday—progress!). Anxiety runs high as I track your cues and routines, and I feel guilty when I miss them. Some days I feel sad, tangled in guilt and shame over my thoughts as I transition into being “your mom.” Sometimes I feel sad about having little time for myself, about the future, how far away we are from family, or even about how quickly time passes and you grow. I’m also crying at commercials still, so I think my hormones continue to stabilize. I’m trying to be more positive this week. The mindfulness moments and therapy help.
I picked up Good Moms Have Scary Thoughts. I wish I’d read it during pregnancy, but even now it’s helping. Naming what’s hard makes it easier, and knowing that other moms experience it too.
Right now, I’m pacing the living room with you in your wrap. I lost track of what cycle you’re in, so I’m hoping you’re in deep sleep. My fingers are crossed that I won’t wake you.
With love (and tired feet),
Mom
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