In case we didn’t figure out from WA’s pregnancy or her first three weeks earth-side, this sweet fifth child of mine is bound and determined, in all her glory and cuteness, to do her own blessed thing. She may look like one of ours and sounds like one of ours (because, hi, she’s one of ours) but make no mistake that she’s also here to carve her own path, thank you very much. Then again, don’t they all?
In Wilson’s case, this carving takes many shapes. Such as drooling all the live-long day. Such as sleeping through the night earlier than anyone else (gold star for that one, Baby). Such as needing/wanting the pacifier (long side story: we’ve never had a paci kid and I honestly think this might be a residual NICU thing for me. She really liked it when we were there and it helped get her sucking reflex going in those early days. Then, when we got home and she had some bouts of what I call her NICU cry – a really loud, freaked out sound of SOMEONE COME GET ME RIGHT THIS INSTANT I NEED PEOPLE NOW COME GET ME – the paci helped that, too. And apparently I still don’t like to hear her cry or fuss because when she does, my first answer is the paci. Whoops?). Such as boob drama.
Another long side story: what has gone through Stage One, Two, and Three, is now sitting as yet another unknown in the original hurt boob – some sort of stinging, stabbing, constant pain plus weird spot but not a bleb on my nipple. I know. Everyone is sick of me talking about my boobs. I AM SICK OF ME TALKING ABOUT MY BOOBS. But they are pretty hard to freaking ignore when they hurt constantly and you have to use them every three hours to feed a human being and your other human beings insist on sitting on your lap and hugging you and therefore bumping your sore boobs and the ugh just goes on and on and on, it seems. Which, if in all my whineyness I have not yet mentioned, seems terribly shitty to start in Month 5, the time in which things are meant to be getting EASIER, but I digress. And okay. Done with the shouty caps. Maybe.
So, yes. Five months in with Baby No.5 and it is clear that as much as one might think that we’ve got it all figured out by now and know exactly what we are doing, that is just never going to be the case. 1, 2, 3, or 7 (nope. measures have been taken. we are not having more than 5, my friends!) still applies because each new person is their own blessed, beautiful (minus the boob drama) uncharted territory.