I went two places today, and I'm bragging because that's not easy to do with a new baby.

Place one, pediatrician's office. Jake needed his monthly check up and to get the second installment of his Hepatitis B vaccination. He cried at the needle, even though I explained to him that the pain he feels from the inoculation is minor compared to the pain of the disease. He didn't seem to care what I said. Maybe I should schedule him an appointment with Pamela Anderson, who knows everything there is to know about the shame, stigma, and anguish of Hepatitis. And she is really well endowed, so Jake will pay attention.

He is now 21.5 inches long and 6 pounds 13 ounces. He has gained a pound and an ounce in two weeks (more appropriately for my St. Paddy's baby, that translates to a well poured Guinness and a shot of Jameson), but the doctor isn't happy that he isn't over seven pounds by now. So, I have been ordered to feed him every two hours for two weeks. After going through two growth spurts, I know I can't handle breastfeeding that often for so long. Not mentally, and certainly not physically. I think I am the only girl who needed to gain some weight after giving birth, dropping to minus five pounds pre-pregnancy weight four days after having Jake.

Breastfeeding is a lot more physically demanding than pregnancy, and it is hard to find enough time in the day to cram at least 3000 calories in your body. Unless you are eating junk, but then you are just feeding your baby junk. And that is just mean. So, I am alternating breastmilk and formula during the day and giving him only breastmilk at night. This way I can still get out of the house and enjoy the weather and run some errands and meet my scrawny baby's feeding needs- bottle feeding is always more preferred at the grocery store than breast feeding. And more convenient. Juggling a shopping basket and stroller while dodging baby-pokers is hard enough when you have your shirt ON.

I have recently found that there is nothing that depresses and frustrates me more than to sit in my house, unable to do as many chores as I want to, and look outside at a sunny, 70+ degree day and ignore the phone calls from my non-day-working friends who want us to go out and play while my young suckles endlessly. Hopefully Jake will gain an appropriate number of ounces and after the next weight check appointment I can get him on a more manageable schedule. I was a long skinny baby so I'm not too concerned with this whole situation, but I will listen to the doctor, despite my reluctance to use and more importantly, pay for, formula.

And in I-am-still-my-own-person news, Dave scored us some free rich-man seats at the ball park today, and we got to sit 18 rows behind first base and eat Dollar Dogs until we were sick. It was a perfect night for taking in a game, and I only had to relieve engorgement once. Nothing says Sports Fan like bending over a toilet with your shirt pulled up around your neck, squeezing breast milk into the bowl. As much as I enjoy watching the games with Jake while he eats, it was nice to drop the baby off at the in-laws and do something normal for the first time in a month. And it was especially lovely not to have to answer any questions about how I was feeling and how the baby was doing. I was surrounded by exactly 27,912 fans who could not have cared less, and it was beautiful.

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