I begin to feel less like a mommy and more like a feedbag. Perhaps I'll feel better when he actually starts looking at me while he's eating instead of focusing so intently on the breast itself, as though it's not really attached to anyone in particular.

The fact that he is, very obviously, growing like gangbusters is quite reassuring. He's not feeding so frequently because of any problem with the milk; he seems to just want the constant reassurance and cuddling that breastfeeding provides - as well as a nice, full tummy at all times. If he occasionally goes overboard with the latter and ends up spitting up half of what he ate, well, that's all part of the game.

Anyway, the net result of the whole situation is that I'm lucky if I can do much of anything productive during the day. (Case in point: it's taken me about two hours to write the last few paragraphs.) I can't really put Sam down much; he tends to awaken a few minutes later and demand more nursing. If I'm willing to hold him on my chest, then he'll sleep much longer and more soundly, but then I'm stuck to the sofa. He doesn't even like me to read while I'm holding him in his sleep; it seems the motion of turning the pages disturbs him. Television, I'm allowed. The radio is fine. Anything else is strictly verboten.

I comfort myself with the notion that he's just too smart to accept anything but first-rate care. Yep, that's it.

Oh, but it looks as though the forceful let-down problem seems to be resolving itself. He only freaks out now if he's too sleepy to deal with the sudden mouthful or if I'm holding him in such a way that he can't pull his head away. Nursing while lying down is tremendously helpful, except when he's in twilight sleep and can't be convinced to open his mouth more than a few centimeters. Yeow, I say.

Things are maybe, sort of, perhaps a little better between Eric and me. We've certainly hit some rocky spots, to be certain. He'll be travelling in August and hit upon the idea of me staying with Mom and Dad during that time. That sounded wonderful to me and so I agreed, but then he started becoming more and more "enthusiastic," telling me that I could go whenever I wanted and asking me whether I'd like to go sooner... After a bit, I began to feel hurt.

"Eric, do you want me to leave?"
"Well, I want you to be happy. You're happy with your family."
"But wouldn't you miss us? This is such a short period in Sam's life."
"Sure, I'd miss you. Don't you want to go?"
"I don't want to leave you!"
"Well, fine. Don't go."

Which entirely missed the point, though I wasn't sure how to clarify it. I love spending time with my family, but I needed to hear in Eric's voice some reluctance to let us go. I didn't hear a bit of it, and that frightened me a little. I'm still not sure he understands entirely.

Oh, and add to the current family stress level that of a dying car. The Saturn isn't long for the world, my husband feels, so we may be once more shopping for a car in the near future. We still owe quite a bit on the Saturn, too, which really steams Eric. Even so, we need a reliable car, now more than ever.

"How often are they supposed to wake at night?"
"Well, you woke once or twice a night until four weeks, when you started sleeping straight through till morning."

I guess it runs in the family. Last night Sam went to sleep around 11:00, woke once around 2:30 to nurse a tiny bit; he then slept till 5:30, whereupon a good nursing had him asleep till almost 8:00. I feel positively spoiled, especially considering that I barely have to rouse myself for those nursings. In fact, once I awoke to find him busily nursing away without the benefit of my having assisted him. True, his latch was positively awful - he was barely centered, in fact - but it was a good try.

Naturally, I don't expect this to last.

Whoops, his Lordship calls, so the Feedbag must answer!