One of the stranger parts of parenthood is the dramatic shift in what you consider an accomplishment. Getting a shower or leaving the baby in bed awake for five minutes without a major infant meltdown are suddenly events worth celebrating. The two things that have us cheering this week are even more basic: passing gas and bowel movements.
With Anya’s frenulum pruned down to proper size, we began breastfeeding in earnest this last week. She’s down to one bottle of formula a day and nursing the rest of the time. Though I love convenience of breastfeeding (no heating bottles, no washing up, no packing around formula), there are some rather unexpected side effects.
It turns out breastfed babies don’t poop very much, especially once they reach about two months old. Breast milk is perfectly formulated to fit a baby’s nutritional needs and so there isn’t much in the way of waste left over. Coupled with the fact that Anya’s digestive system is becoming more efficient and you don’t get many dirty diapers.
If you’re used to your baby pooping a few times a day, it’s alarming to suddenly get nothing for days at a time. I trolled mommy message boards and chat sites to see if this sort of thing was normal. (Most people agreed it was, though there were some very colorful suggestions about how to make a baby go number two. Karo syrup and Q-tips figured heavily in the advice.) Meanwhile, Ruyman and I kept vigil at the changing table, praying for a diaper full of the gooey horribleness we so dreaded only days before, cheering loudly when it appeared. I never thought I could be excited to see something that looks like rancid peanut butter and smells like death, but I am. Life is made up of small victories.
Besides the lack of poop, breastfeeding has caused another complication to life: an increase of gas. As previously mentioned, there’s absolutely no problem with my milk supply. Far from it, in fact. Surprisingly, this overabundance can sometimes be a problem. When Anya starts to suckle, the milk comes out faster than she can deal with. It’s a little like drinking out of a nipple-ended fire hose. She gulps down air and milk in an effort to keep up. Though she tries, eventually, she chokes and breaks the latch. You would think this would stop the flow, but it doesn’t. Instead, I keep squirting away, spraying Anya and anything in a two-foot radius with breast milk. When the torrent subsides, we go back to business as usual but by the end of a feeding, both of us are usually soaked.
And that’s when Anya gets fussy. Though I burp her, she’s swallowed more air than mere belching can get rid of. She turns into a wriggling, screaming nightmare as she tries to alleviate the growing pressure in her belly. A majority of my waking hours are spent poking her tummy, moving her legs, and raising her feet in the air, trying to provoke the sound and fury of her farts. When she cracks one off in my face, I smile and coo, “ Oh, good job! That was a big one!” Doubtless all this positive reinforcement will endow her with the manners and comportment of a Neanderthal, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay in exchange for keeping my hearing and sanity.
As I said, it’s the little things.
Reminds me of Grandma Jackie's response to Jeremy's lack of bowel movements when he was a baby. She thought he needed an enema because he was "all bound up." This was when he was less than a month old. She didn't understand breastfeeding since her own babies were bottle-fed.
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