Jarah and my lactating body parts are "breast friends" (bad pun intended). I have not minded having an opihi (that's a limpet for all your non-Hawaiian residents out there) baby who needed frequent feeding to find his place of zen. However, his poor tummy seems to suffer under his appetite. I've watched his poos with the careful attention only a first-time mom can have and noticed the more he eats, the stranger the consistency gets.
I won't delve as deep into the color and consistency of baby poo as I'd like...because I'd like you all to keep reading. Let's just suffice it to say that too much frequent snacking (like once and hour) results in a less than optimum digestion situation. So I'm trying to space the feedings out a bit. Every time he head butts my chest I try to use some wily redirection. "Look at the fan." "Let's sing 'The Little Mosquito" song, "Aloha! (the word cracks him up)," "Look there's you're reflection in the mirror."
It has been working. Imperfectly, but working.
Except for night. He would go happily for over an hour if I let him. Take it away and peril. I'm sure the neighbors hate us after 7pm. So tonight I nursed him until he seemed full. Good and full. Milk dribbling down his chin and belly taut full. Then I sang. I sang until my singer was sore. Than I went to Pandora Radio and played Enya. He hated it. Sorry New Age. I played him Ben Harper. He liked it. Yeah for hippies! I played him Ladysmith Black Mambazo. He cried. Sorry Africa. I played him nature music sent to chants and flutes. He fell asleep.
Perhaps he is still New Age. He is a Kauai baby after all. It's only a matter of time until he starts practising Hatha Yoga, packing vegan lunches for school and engaging in non-violent communication. That or wearing camo and hunting pigs.
Let's just hope New Age music is worth it and the Empire Doesn't Strike Back tomorrow night.
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