Prior to having Thing 1, some friends of ours who already had kids remarked to us that their conversations, since the arrival of their kid, were dominated by discussions of poo (to qualify, the child’s). Colour, shape, consistence, frequency, smell. Laugh at them, we did, with our naive, we-won’t-be-like-that, soon-to-be-new-parents ways. But boy, the joke was on us. There’s virtually nothing in the early days of having a baby that takes up as much of a parent’s time as faecal analysis. A newborn wends it way through a spectrum of wildly different turds, with each day seemingly heralding an exciting new plop to contend with. The early-days, black tar ones sure are fun, what with their ability to cling to a baby’s arse like, well, the proverbial to a blanket. We then get the transition through dark green (what’s with that?), to brown, to mustard yellow, replete with fake seeds. There’re colours in between that I’ve missed out, but I think that’s because I’m repressing the horror of it all.
So week 2 has been all about poos, and constitutions, and nappy rash. The transition through the array of stinky messes has brought with it a good dose of nappy rash. According to our health visitor, exclusively breast-fed babies (ahem more on that later) can have up to a dozen soiled nappies a day, which is exactly what we’re finding. The poor lad is red raw down there, necessitating the reappearance of the equal-parts awesome/awful Metanium cream, a substance that has the power to both heal the most tender of back-ends, and also to permanently stain any fingers, clothes, towels, walls, and cats that may come into even the slightest of contact with it. So the Metanium has been liberally applied, and things are improving in that area (though our fingers are now permanently yellow).
Feeding has become quite regular, too, though an apparent growth spurt towards the end of the week has meant Thing 2 is one hungry child. To sate his increasing hunger, we resorted to giving him a bottle of formula for the 23.00 feed a couple of nights (please, don’t tell the health visitor). We made up 4 fl. oz. of Aptamil, of which he took nearly three, and subsequently slept like, well, a baby, for about 4½ hours. Result. Well, almost. The formula seems to give him dodgy guts – not just the immediate increase in wind from bottle-feeding, but discomfort and gripes a few hours after the fact, too. Liberal application of Infacol seems to do the trick, but it’s not pleasant for the poor kid, and failing to get the gas out of him and his stomach settled means that he usually has a crap nap, and then before you know it YOUR WHOLE DAY IS RUINED. Standard.
So we’ve just about survived week 2, though it’s been two steps forward, and one back. Routines taking shape, poos on the change, but increased hunger sated with the odd bottle of formula has led to dodgy guts and a sore arse.
Our friends were truly right. It is all about poos. Sigh.
What Did You Do, Ray? 