Today is Zephyr's three-week birthday. He has earned himself a few nicknames, including Amuse Bouche and Jellybean (aka Butterbean). My favorite is McBoosh (the natural evolution of Ooschie). Scott overheard me one night when I was having trouble getting Zephyr latched on to the nipple, and in frustration I muttered "Dammit, McBoosh!" He laughed and said it made Zephyr sound like a character in a bad 1980s cop movie. Now we get a kick out of saying it, but adding lines like "You're out of your jurisdiction!" or "One more move like that and you're off the force!" We laugh and laugh at the thought of a tiny baby getting put on desk duty as punishment.
Any day now, I expect that my milk should start changing to a higher butterfat content, keeping him full longer. This is about the time when babies are theoretically supposed to be able to sleep for those four or five hour stretches, right?
Instead, we get a growth spurt.
Now, instead of those lovely three hour sleep chunks (still hard to adjust to but at least it's sleep), for the past two nights he's been waking every hour or two and wanting to feed. He falls asleep on the breast and never eats enough to stay full for longer than that. Or conversely, he'll want to cluster-feed, essentially staying at the breast for three hours, during which time he usually fills up completely and pukes all over me at least twice. My side of the bed smells like a yogurt factory about now.
Ohp, he's a-stirrin'.