My baby decided not only to be conceived despite preventative measures, but also decided to be born a month early—a week before the conference I spend all year planning for that serves as the main role of my career. This Gingerguppy is going to be trouble.
I’m happy to say that along with his mother, Gingermermaid, little Gingerguppy is also a ginger. After he got stuck, in an uncomfortable position for both he and I, one of the only things the doctors could tell was that he was, indeed, a redhead. So three hours after the discovery, he entered the world with a most bruised face and a fine set of lungs.
Through his nine weeks, this little guy has been quite a feat. He was underweight, blue from bruising, yellow from jaundice, and just a difficult monster. After a week in the hospital, numerous pediatric visits (I saw my pediatrician more than my husband, at one point), we finally seem (cross fingers) to have him sorted out. And how do I track his progress? Why, the poop!
I have never been so excited about poop, pee, and farts, or all other possible bodily functions. If my husband changes Gingerguppy’s diaper, I ask for a report on the remnants:
“Did he pee or poop? How much? Compare it to a handful of change. What color was it? How heavy was the diaper?”
“Did he spit up? How much? Compare it to a handful of change. What color was it? Was it projectile?”
We were given a chart of images of what to expect in his diaper, and I studied and compared. Prior to motherhood I was squeamish about such items, but the overprotective, anxiety-ridden lady I am has reared it’s head and I find that I have a hawk-eyed focus for the disgusting.
Now that I’m focused on what’s important, I hope I can get this little guy focused on a normal awake/asleep schedule. This isn’t as fun or easy to manage as poop.