Judging by his insistent, I'm-starving-to-death cries every 90 minutes, we were in the midst of his first growth spurt. That, naturally, led to a lot of eating. That, naturally, led to a lot of gas bubbles, not-so-affectionately known as the pain of a thousand scorpions in one's tummy.
So he cried. And he fussed. And he jerked up his knees in that pitiful way babies do. And he cried some more. Nothing we could do brought much relief. (Except for more eating. Which kept the vicious cycle going.)
At one point, I got him to sleep by wearing him in the Baby Bjorn. His little arms were tucked inside, next to his face. It looked uncomfortable, frankly, but what do I know about being a baby? He was happy. It worked. The end.
An hour later, when the pain returned and I took him out of his snug cocoon, I noticed dark purple bruises on both his forearms. Dark purple. About an inch long and half an inch wide. On my baby. My new baby.
I. Was. Horrified.
Had I somehow pinched his precious little skin in a strap? Was the fabric too restricting for a baby his size? Was there a design on my shirt that left a purple tattoo on my baby?
No answers. I just hoped no one would look at my three-week-old too closely, lest they call CPS pronto.
Fast forward to this morning. Natalie walked around with a hungry Kieran while I took a fast shower.
Twenty minutes later, her upper arm was sporting this:
What in the world? Are we ground zero for the plague?!?
"What happened, Natalie?" I gasped.
"Oh," she shrugged, "Kieran was just sucking on my arm."
Dude.
DUDE!
Our boy is a serious sucker. (Cue the sympathy for the breastfeeding mom in 3...2...1....)
And if you need further proof that Kieran is a good eater: He weighed 7 pounds, 14 ounces when he was born. He weighed 7 pounds, 9 ounces upon discharge from the hospital. He weighed 9 pounds even at his two-week check-up.
Pediatricians are usually happy just to have the newborn back at birth weight at that point. Here at Chez Love Well, we strive to meet and even exceed expectations.
