Six weeks in, I've discovered what seems to be the major mark of achievement for new mothers and associated health practitioners: baby weight gain. And somehow, I have fallen behind.
Upon birth, James' weight was firmly in the 50th percentile, meaning of course that his weight was "about average." Sounded good to me - I had no hopes or fears around the figure. Two weeks later, he remained in the 50th percentile. But last week, the nurse looked alarmingly at me after weighing him: apparently, even though he had continued to gain weight, James had fallen to the 25th percentile. Shock! Until that point, I had breastfed exclusively, and once I got past the standard initial two weeks of pain, I felt I had found my rhythm. James seemed happy, and his little cheeks were getting fat. I felt the breast feeding to be a success.
But, upon getting the news, my resolve begin to weaken. I extrapolated, and imagined him dropping down to the 10th percentile, then the 5th. Maybe he could be taken away from me? Suddenly, I realized why it was that so many women give up breastfeeding - the fear of the percentages. In the western world, we are almost cursed with too much knowledge. Everything becomes a competition. And no matter how confident I am that my baby looks healthy, I can't help but fearing accordingly.
Since I've become aware of this information, I've been on a feeding frenzy, putting in the boob as soon as James utters a cry. The nurse says that she'll weigh him again next week to see how he's doing. I'm determined to fatten this little baby up accordingly. And if I don't? Time will tell.
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