Duuuudes. WTF day is it? Childbirth brain ate words not forming so good also boobs. Booobs! Dude. Etc.
Ezra Harrington Storch was discharged from the hospital Saturday morning, weighing in at a rather puny six pounds, 12 ounces.
He was put on a strict regimen of Moar Boobage. Expectations were low, as the boobs in question are known for their losing record in past seasons.
Young Storch is also having problems with his frenulum (AKA that stretchy bit of uselessness under the tongue), a condition his mother first started pointing out to people on Thursday morning, but oh, do you think anyone listened to her? Do you think she ever got the visit from a lactation consultant she requested over and over and OVER? Do you think it was at all helpful when the LC showed up AS WE WERE WALKING OUT THE DOOR POST-DISCHARGE to announce that hey! This baby is tongue-tied! How about that? I bet your boobs are KILLING YOU.
Do you think maybe someone is still just a tad annoyed by this, a little bit?
However, the teeth were gritted and the milks came in and the Soothie gel pads were applied and GODDAMN, this kid is cute and at today's weigh-in we are back up to seven pounds even and the tongue-tie will be dealt with on Thursday and GODDAMN, this kid is cute.
Anyway. I am tired, but Internet, I am so HAPPY. I know! I'm shocked too. I remember these days from last time, and I distinctly remember my hormones crashing through the floor sometime around day five. I remember much weeping.
I love him so much already. I love looking at him, feeding him, praising him for such good pooping! Best pooping ever! My in-laws left today and for now we're on our own, and yeah, I sure would like a little more sleep and a LOT more patience for Noah and his Terrible Attack of the Threes, Oh My God, I Love You So Much Too But Get A Freaking Grip On Yourself Already. But then he hugs and kisses the baby and the baby smells so good and is so tiny and Noah is so handsome and gigantic and there's little to do but just drink in the chaos and admit that it's still all kinds of awesome.
This, however, is not so awesome.
This is what happens when you bring home an infant who is a good
three pounds under your clothing expectations, so even after a frantic
trip to Target for some newborn footie sleepers you still aren't
particularly well-stocked in clothing that won't swallow your baby's
head up whole, and then you promptly go through every single one of those outfits in one
And then the dryer breaks.
Grill pan or pants? Take your pick.
(At least it wasn't a leg this time. I definitely prefer a busted appliance to a busted-up dog.)