I am not sure where the past two months have gone. My crumpled newborn has turned into an actual baby, and it sounds clichéd, but there are mornings where I wake up and look at her and think that she looks like a wholly different baby than I fell asleep with the night before. Her face has changed so much. It’s rounded out; her chin is now less pointy and more oval, and her cheeks have filled out even more. I’ve taken the newborn diapers and clothes out of rotation, and if tomorrow’s doctor’s appointment doesn’t show her to be well over nine pounds I’ll… well, I don’t know what I’ll do, because she’s longer and heavier and has more flesh on her twiglike bones. The CLSC finally gave up on us last check-in, saying that if the doctor was fine with the slow weight gain then we could stop going in every week so the CLSC could track us. I’m so relieved. It was stressful, going in every week and answering all the same questions, and undergoing all sorts of grilling and analysis over and over. She’s just a small baby. She’s thriving in every other way. [5 Oct: Nine pounds six ounces, thank you very much, or 21 g per day, and the pediatrician is very pleased with her exam. Take that, CLSC!] The doctor was particularly impressed with Owlet’s ability to prop herself up on her elbows and look around while on her tummy, holding the position for a really long time.
Things are settling down more and more. The shrieking for an hour to an hour and a half before passing gas or a bowel movement has vanished, thank gods. Napping still evades us, however. She spends a lot of naptime dozing in my arms, waking up and yowling if I put her down in her basket. I will also be pleased when she starts going more than sixty to ninety minutes between feedings, which each last between half an hour and forty-five minutes.
Her smiles are even more frequent now. Cooing and the baby version of conversation have also made an appearance, which is always good for hilarity. She likes pulling herself up on her feet and balancing on someone’s lap, clinging to their fingers, looking around then lowering herself back down. She adores the owl mobile the boy and I made for her; she lies on the changing table and coos at it with huge smiles, and will do so for a good twenty minutes so long as you poke it to make it move every time it comes to a halt. Last week she watched her brother eat an apple with the sort of intensity that suggests to me that we’ll be starting solids sooner rather than later; she also lifts her hand while staring at people eating with forks, unconsciously making the same sort of lifting motion, and stares intently at them while they chew.
Last week’s drama involved a letter from the civil registry telling me that her registration was on hold until I supplied information missing from my application, like immigration papers, both sides of my citizenship papers, my certificate of birth, and my certificate of marriage. This completely mystified me, since I was born in this country. I don’t mind admitting it freaked me out a bit, too, as I envisioned kilometers of red tape holding up health insurance card, social insurance number, and much-needed family allowance increases. I called the next morning and left a detailed message with the person in charge of my case, who was out of her office for the day. She called me back the next day and explained that my birthdate on the paper I’d filled in didn’t match the birthdate the doctor had entered on the hospitals’ sheet. (This wasn’t an issue last time; the form has changed, and whereas last time I filled in all the info like my social insurance number and Medicare number and so forth, now the hospital does half the work.) I confirmed the birthdate on my form was the correct one, she compared it to my health insurance file, and said that everything was fine, the doctor had miswritten a single digit, and she’d process the case right away. Why they didn’t double-check against my health insurance number in the first place is beyond me. On top of that, she said it looked like she’d sent me the wrong letter in error. (You think?) So today I got a letter of confirmation saying that the Owlet is an Official Person, and all the associated departments both federal and provincial have been notified, so her social insurance number, her Medicare, our family allowance cheques, and all the other credits that get recalculated because we now have another person in our family can finally go ahead as they ought to.
With the completion of the attic office (did I mention that? HRH finished the attic and it is spectacular; photos at one point) Bria now has her own room, which has made a huge difference in the energy of the house. We have somewhere quiet to go, somewhere to centralise all her stuff; she has her very own space, and it’s a huge relief. My mum came down for a week to help out while HRH and I went into overdrive on finishing the attic, moving my office upstairs, and making up Owlet’s room. We had a few people over yesterday to celebrate the attic being finished, and Owlet behaved charmingly, trading quiet and alert periods with nursing breaks.
Owlet with her owlet:
What? You want another photo of Owlet with her owlet?
One of the rare moments of daytime sleep:
Laughing babies are good for the soul:
Being a sibling is Serious Business:
But also fun: