Dear Zoe,
I know it gets very old when people go on about how quickly time passes, but I swear, time is not just passing - it’s sprinting on steroids. I can barely keep my brain up with everything. You have had a big month for such a tiny thing. The main thing that happened was that you had some horrible tummy pains.

Most doctors and other people write this stuff off as ‘colic’ but we were very lucky to have a gun lactation consultant visit us, who took one look at my megaboobs and how fast they shoot the milk down your throat, and said one word: oversupply. I wrote about that here. It was obvious to us that you were in lots of pain - you didn’t cry, but you grunted and screamed. Early Friday morning on 22 February we took you to the emergency department, as we needed to make sure you were okay.

The doctor there was less than useless, and by then the pain had passed and you were back to your little excellent self. The following Monday you had an appointment with a lovely paediatrician, who examined you - you were very unimpressed when he had to put his finger in your bottom. Apprently there is a condition where a muscle in there is too tight for poo to come out.

He took an exaustive history (or tried to - as he only had about seven weeks to work with) and arranged for your poo and wee to be tested for a few things, including whether you are lactose intolerant. I had been off dairy for just over a week, and also off my iron supplements. This was more scary than the dairy, as it meant I would inevitably turn into a psycho tired version of my already tired self. The doctor said he doubted that the iron was the problem and that it was important for me to get back to taking it - he also had doubts about the dairy, but decided to test for it anyway.

Your tests were perfect. I continued to block feed you - which is feeding you on the one side for as many feeds as it takes you to drain it. Your symptoms settled down a fair bit, which was a big relief. I also went into the birth centre so see a lactation consultant there and had my boobs drained by an electric pump. The lady we saw - Jane the Amazing Dane - showed me how to try and get you to attach, but basically there is so much milk that you can just lie under my boob with your mouth open.

You sleep in bed with us, in between your dad and myself. I have this weird perception of you being bigger than you are, because I see you so close up when I feed you. It’s odd. You’re great in the night - you start flipping back and forth when your nappy is wet, and make little sucking sounds when you’ve decided you’re hungry. Generally there is not a peep out of you. There is no way we could put you in another room - you were used to sounds all around you for the nine months you were inside me, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from getting up and checking on you all the time. And besides, it’s cosy. You feed lying down and sometimes we both fall asleep and wake up tummy to tummy.

You met your  great-grandma this month. It’s funny to think that my nanna is someone’s great-grandma! She’s pretty keen on holding you and thinks you are a cute button. I have the feeling she looks at M and I and internally does a little shake of her head - don’t we know that she had FOUR babies - before there were such things as doulas, waterbirths, lactation consultants and maternal and child health care nurses? We should just chill.

You are growing like a weed. This is all recorded in your little Blue Book, which all babies in Victoria get when they are born. When I am less tired I will have a look in it and see how crazily you’ve grown over eight weeks. Your dad loves to take you outside and show you things - he’s very keen to organise you a ‘Welcome To the World’ party while certain family members are in the country. I’ve told him it’s more than my brain can handle, but he can definitely go right ahead…

The day before you hit the eight week mark, your uncle turned up from London. It was so fantastic to see him, and he liked you straightaway! You scored some excellent presents - gorgeous shoes, a stripey onesie, a bib with miaowthecat and your name on it and a long sleeved t-shirt that says PARTYPIE!

We went over to the tennis court, and I played tennis with him while your dad held you on the sidelines. Then I held you while they had a hit - of course they had to hit the ball as hard as they could, so you and I left for the trailer - I wanted you to reach eight weeks intact!

We are occasionally baffled by you, but mostly we are astounded and smitten by your logic. You hardly ever just cry for no apparent reason - although you do detest a wet nappy, and so get changed very, very frequently. Your dad isn’t that keen on the whole cloth nappy scenario…but I grit my teeth and just listen to him whine. Disposable nappies are from Satan. Make sure you remember that.

Love,
B (who is having difficulty with the word ‘mummy’, it feels kind of weird.)