On Nursing and Panicking (The Hallmarks of New Motherhood)

Asher is a different nurser than Talmage. What to Expect the First Year described Talmage as a barracuda baby, and that child went after my mammaries like a blood-thirsty great white feasting on a diet of baby porpoises. I've never seen Jaws, but I've experienced Jaws. There was no dawdling, no enjoying, no nonsense about it. That boy latched on, sucked me dry, and then slept for the next three hours.

What to Expect would describe Asher as more of Gourmet. He'll latch on for about 5 seconds, get my milk flowing, and then pull off and try to enjoy the firehose squirting his face at his leisure. He'll sample a mouthful of Mama's Milk (the newest rage at all the finest newborn restaurants) smack his lips satisfactorily, and then maybe spit it out like a wine-taster after he's fully analyzed the bouquet and body. I feel like I've given birth to a snobby Parisian milk connoisseur and at one point he's going to send the milk back if he doesn't find it to his liking.

There is also an element of a Rester in him. If I can talk the gourmand out of him and actually get him to eat, he will nurse for a few minutes and then rest for a few minutes. This keeps me consistently tickling his feet and gently shaking his head to keep him awake, and I'm sure Tyler feels like he's in one of those coin operated vibrating beds in movies that I've never quite understood the kinky purpose of.

This combination--The Gourmet and the Rester--has me worried that he's not eating enough. Isn't this what every mother worries about? Which has given birth to a whole bunch of related worries. If Asher sleeps three hours fifteen minutes, I panick that perhaps his organs will shrivel up. And speaking of those extra fifteen minutes, maybe he died in his crib (despite the fact that he's on his back with no pillows in there) and every extra minute will lead him further into rigor mortis. And while we're at it, maybe his umbilical cord stump is infected and is about to spew herpes all over his little body.

I don't remember being this nervous about Talmage, but I think that's because I was crying so much I couldn't see clearly through the tears. But I do worry about Talmage now. Maybe he will have memories of being caged. Maybe he will have a bad dream, but we've threatened him so much about not getting out of bed he'll sit terrified in his big-boy room thinking the monsters will come and get him. Maybe I'll be nursing upstairs and kidnappers will enter in through the basement door (having killed Lu to silence her) and steal Talmage out of his bed.

But I know Asher is eating enough and here's why. The kid poops more than a holstein heifer on laxatives. Anytime my mind jumps through any of the outrageous dangers that exist for my boys, I reassure myself with this conversation I had with my pediatrician's nurse:

"How many times a day does he eat?"
"Between 8 and 12."
"How many wet diapers?"
"Between 8 and 12."
"How many poopy diapers?"
"Well let's see. If he's eaten 12 times that day, then my best guess would be 57. Maybe that's a little low. No, I'm pretty sure that I've changed 57 diapers in the last 24 hours."
"I'll mark down 'FOUR OR MORE.'"