Apparently, I do not have a temperamental girl. I do not have a fast eater who puts on weight miraculously. I do not have a colicky baby.  What I do have is an overactive milk letdown. The poor girl has been choking back too much foremilk and has been trying desperately to tell me. I finally got it, and that has made all the difference. I talked to a health nurse, and it was pretty clear to her what the problem was. Loads of weight gain? Super fast feeds? Lots of fussiness? Choking and gasping at the breast? All of this is not normal, apparently; it's my boobs making too much bloody milk. I took her off the breast when my milk was letting down to test this nurse's theory -- I was skeptical, I admit -- and it was a fire hose of milk spraying out. Gross, I know, but poor Rosemary has been trying to deal with all that milk. Aye carumba!
Now that she's not crying, she has more free time for things like staring into space, making cute chubby-cheeked faces, and hanging out in the bouncy chair with her bro. Yesterday, they watched Sesame Street together.

"Listen up, Rosemary. I'm going to share with you all my secrets to drive Mommy crazy.These are tried, foolproof methods. Trust me on these, and together we can rule this joint. Just stick with me, kid."

"Now time to put our evil plan into action! I'll distract Mommy, and you get your arms working, Rose! I need you to throw some food, STAT."

Also, Finn is the grand, old age of two. His b-day was low-key, but really, he didn't know what was happening anyway. He was just happy to have some cake. Okay, a lot of cake.
Yummy! Oh, and the cake looked good too.
Finn and I are both so relieved to have a little girl in our lives who doesn't cry all the freaking time. Because. That. Sucked. Ass. I feel for anyone who has a colicky baby. 

 No fun! 
More fun! With some proper feeds, she's a peaceful, sweet little girl who reminds me of her brother more and more each day.

Oh Rosemary! You're such a sweet, sweet, temperamental little girl. We've had a rough week. She hit three-weeks-old and woke up out of her newborn sleepiness and wasn't happy about it at all. We've discovered she is a very sensitive little girl. She doesn't like much stimulation at all, and she really only likes me right now.

I spend a lot of time wearing this sling. Thank god for slings. I can be holding the baby and making lunch and entertaining Finn and talking on the phone at all at the same time. 

Rosemary likes her bath! She kind of coos in it. Finn hated the bath at first; I remember screaming, lots of screaming. I was looking at this picture and thinking how plump she was looking. Then we had her weighed today. She's nine pounds!!! She has put on almost a pound and a half in two weeks. Finn was nowhere near this prodigious in growth. 

She's just so fast, this girl. She came into the world fast and appears to want to conquer it at lightening speed. She can lift her head already. She's sleeping 5-to-6 hours at night. (I know. I know. Wtf? I keep thinking it can't keep going like this, and then another night hits, and I get sleep. I will have probably just jinxed myself, but it's been nice.) She's raring to go. She seems at two-weeks-old like Finn did at six. That's my last comparison because these two kids are clearly very different right from the get-go. But both so cute! 
What's Finn playing with? I have no idea, but it's entertaining him, and at this point, whatever entertains him is golden.
"I'm bored, MAMA! Let's do something fun. No, feeding Rosemary is not fun."

"Twirling in circles? Now that's fun."
"Hey you! Boob lady! Over here! BOOOOB! BOOBIE!! I like that boobie business."
"YAH! That hand is connected to the boob! Yah! Yum!"
"Wait, I hear that kid again. He's distracting me from my boob. Just you wait, kid, till I'm mobile."

"Help!"

Breastfeeding is going well. There was a lot I had forgotten about milk coming in and gigantic milk boobs and getting the latch right, but everything seems to have settled out.


Milk coma.

How is the Mighty Finn doing? He's good. He was worried about Mama when she had to sleep a lot and lie in bed, but now that I'm up and we're back to regular activities, he's happy. He seems remarkably unfazed. He's been through a lot in his two years -- moving to Ottawa -- and he's always proved to be pretty adaptable. Hopefully, this keeps up. I'm sure there will be some backlash when it sets in that the baby will not be going back to wherever she came from, but we'll meet that when it comes.


He loves these Ikea chickens.
So far, he gives Rosemary the odd kiss and cuddle. Mostly, he's too busy playing and running amok to really pay her much attention. She's pretty boring, really, what with the sleeping and the eating and the more sleeping and the more eating. He does like helping with the diaper changes, though. So far, so good.
This is my current reality. While Rosemary is breastfeeding, Finn sits on the ottoman, and we read books. Sometimes he jumps on the bed too.

Herein will be the day-to-day (mis)adventures of myself, the Mighty Finn, and newborn Rosemary. I'll try and keep the navel-gazing to a minimum and upload pictures daily, you know, because I'm going to have so much free time on my hands. I've got two kids under two for the next few weeks; wish me luck. After the 27th, Finn turns two, and then, I'm sure, all will be orderly and sane around the Leite house. HA!

Rosemary Anne Leite was born April 8th, 2009, at 10:41 p.m. Here is her birth story. Early in the day, I had a doctor's appointment and happily found out I was 4-centimetres dilated. All I could think was, "Thank freaking God," because I was, as they say, so over being pregnant: up to there, done like dinner, over it, kaput.

After an anxious day of waiting for labor to start -- "Now? How about now? Is that a contraction? WHAT ABOUT NOW, KID??" -- my labor began at 6:45 p.m. just as I was putting Finn to bed. This timing was perfect because it meant as little disruption to Finn as possible, something I had been worrying about. He would simply wake up and find his world forever changed. What a relief.

After 7, my contractions were getting closer together quickly, and in hindsight, I should have gone immediately to the hospital right then. Instead, we had to wait for our babysitter to come. She arrived at 9, and at that point, my contractions were 4-to-5 minutes apart. I was still talking through my contractions and not laboring too hard; I was not worried. We had plenty of time. This point in the movie version, Rosemary, The Baby, will have increasingly foreboding music.

At the hospital, when I was examined at the labor-and-delivery triage, I was deemed 5-to-6 centimetres dilated, and things were picking up at that point. I told the nurse the contractions were getting closer and that my first baby came quickly. This was my way of saying, "Come on, French nurse whom I can barely understand. I am telling you this baby is coming quickly." She sort of got it because I was wheeled up to the labor room immediately.

I had not been admitted at this point. I don't even know if they knew my name. Three nurses were trying to set up the room for me as quickly as they could. They explained they weren't ready for me yet. They were running around, dropping shit everywhere, looking harassed. Later, Dylan remarked that these three stooges had no idea how not ready they were for me.

The contractions worsened at this point. I start asking for the epidural in an increasingly whiny and annoying voice. I am no good at pain. I have no pretense about that. I am not stoic. I hate pain. When I am in it, I want it to stop. Immediately. I tell the nurse a few dozen how much I would like the epidural now. She tells me the doctor is in the OR and that it will only be a half-hour at the most. The movie will cast an ugly, mean, terrible woman for this role. I hate her, but this sounds reasonable, doesn't it? I've only been there 10 minutes. I can surely wait a half-hour. The voice in my head says, "You can do this. You can hold on till then."

The contractions are getting very close together at this point. Someone is trying to admit me and is asking me my medical history. I tell him in between excruciating contractions. He leaves. It's just me, Dylan, and my nurse who is frantically setting up the room and, for whatever reason, trying to start up her computer. This is apparently an important part of baby delivery in Ottawa. I almost suggest Dylan, computer guy, to help her, but then suddenly the contractions are not one minute apart or even 30-seconds apart. There is no apart. Cue horror-movie soundtrack.

This is the part where things get gross. I really feel for Dylan. He has such a weak stomach. Once I had to pop this gigantic pus-blob that was festering on our cat's back. There was maybe a teaspoon of blood and pus that gushed out, and Dylan turned white and almost passed out then. I'm just glad I didn't have to watch the following few minutes. Yep, that's right -- FEW minutes.

I feel her head drop into the canal, and I have to push. I remember telling the nurse, "I have to push." She calmly told me that no, I didn't and that she would check to see how far along I had progressed, but generally, she doesn't like to check too much because blah, blah, blah. This too seems reasonable. I've been at the hospital -- oh -- a half-hour. Surely not time to push.

She checks. She runs away. I hear her yelling into the hallway that I have completed, the baby is coming, and we need a doctor right now. My water breaks suddenly. I think I scream this little fact out. The nurse says, "Greeaaat." I am still able to appreciate her sarcasm at this point, but soon, frighteningly soon, everything other than me and the coming baby will fade away.

The doctor is still in the OR. This is when it really sets in that I will not be getting that epidural. There will be no pain relief. I am going to have to do this without any help. The two Tylenol I took before leaving for the hospital are not cutting it. Is the voice still saying, "You can do this"? That voice is stunned into silence, I am afraid.

The nurse puts a fetal-heart monitor on my stomach. People run into the room. Legs up, gross stuff happens, some more gross stuff. Suddenly, there is a doctor telling me that I have to get this baby out now. I cannot wait for contractions. I cannot catch my breath. I cannot do anything but push her out. Now. Right now.

There is a lot of yelling at me about getting mad, get her out, get this baby born, blah, blah, find the motivation. The voice in my head says, "Quit fucking yelling at me, people. Giving birth has not affected my hearing." Her heart rate was dropping. Really dropping. Of course, it was. What kind of movie would this be without at least a bit of drama?

Now it stikes me hard that I really, really am going to push a baby out of my body without drugs. There will be no epidural, no morphine, nothing. It is soberingly clear I really have to do this alone. I wish I could say I handle this realization with grace and calm. Not exactly.

Then from somewhere deep, deep inside of me, I find the whatever the fuck it was I needed to push her out. With three long pushes, out Rosemary Anne Leite came. The cord was wrapped around her neck twice. The doctor released her from it and asked Dylan if he wanted to cut the cord. I think he was crying too hard at this point to say no and just shook his head. His stomach is weak, remember, but they are tears of joy.

I had given birth to another child. I had a perfect, beautiful baby girl. All I could say was, "I can't believe I just did that."

The director will want a rewrite on that line, but I really still can't.