Fun fact about me everyone! I don't even own a scale. I refuse to let one in my home. I think they are basically the root of all evil. I have an addictive personality, so I know if I had one, I would become obsessed with weighing myself and seeing the fluctuations and become severely depressed when I gained 0.5 lbs. I just know myself too well. Even during this pregnancy I stopped weighing myself around 25 weeks. I couldn't tell you how heavy I was in my full preggie glory. All I know is it went away, thank goodness, and I am basically unchanged except for the BURN MARK left on my stomach from that nurse with the eyes too close together who used alcohol as a conducting agent on my skin. Yeah, it scarred. I shall sue.
Anyhow, I just find it ironic that I have this unnatural hatred of scales, and yet my life for the past two weeks has revolved completely around them.
You see, Andrew has to work on eating. The way they do this is weigh him before a feeding, and then weigh him after to see how much he took in. It's all done in grams or millilitres, which means nothing to me except for the numbers. When we first started doing the test weights, it was just for fun. Then they started imposing minimums on me. As in, "If he eats 20 for a whole day, we can nurse him three times a day." And then "If he eats 25 for three days straight, he can go to four a day." Well, now he's done well enough over the past MONTH that we are beginning to test how he would do at home. Its called a REQUEST (oh how I've hoped and dreamed for this day), and its terrifying. Basically, they give him a minimum that he needs to eat each feeding. If he does well for 12 hours, they then try it for 24 hours. After 24 hours, we get to try a demand feeding, where he eats whenever he wants. Currently we've started the 24 hour request. He did well during the 12 hour one. His minimum is 41, and because of this, I live and die by the numbers on the scale. I put him on there and pray, PRAY for 41. When he gets 39, I pop him back on there and work him until he gets two more. We are exhausted.
So, I am to stay at the hospital for the next two nights... because I clearly haven't spent enough time here. But at this point, I will do anything to get this kid home, and that includes using my archenemy, the scale, eight times a day while holding my breath.
On the bright side, Andrew's adorable nurse practitioner Jenny thinks that as long as we're sailing smoothly, he should go home on Wednesday. We even have our carseat here and our discharge plan outline. THATS A BIG DEAL. Hopefully we'll be done and this whole saga will be behind us.
...Of course, except for the bills. Soon we'll be the proud owner of a baby who cost more than our house.
4 comments:
oh my gosh, I remember the weighing. It took Davy 6 weeks to learn to nurse. We even had to take a scale home. once he weighed LESS after a feeding and I cried. sigh... good luck. enjoy the sleep rooms. aren't they cold? I always thought they were cold.
Oof. That sounds like torture. I hope he gets to go home on Wednesday!!!
This post brings back so many memories! We went through a lot of the same things with our first child. Pretty soon it will all be a distant memory. I'm sure it will all go well and you'll be home with your baby before you know it!
LOL! You're already the owner of the baby. Hahaha. I'm glad he's doing so well! I can't wait to see more pics of the cut little guy.
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