So, it turns out that Alli has reflux. I didn't understand why she would cry the second I placed her on her back. Now I know.
The doctor was quick to diagnose her at our two week appointment today.
I explained that she had been spitting up a lot lately. I would hear her gurgle and gasp, then she'd spout loads of warm bubbly white wherever gravity preferred. Jerry and I have been reaching for blankets, tissues and even our own sleeves in the past few days.
The change happened very suddenly. She went from never spitting up to mimicking an active volcano practically overnight. And, of course, I blamed myself. I assumed it was the spicy chicken I had for dinner. Or maybe I overfed her. Or maybe I should just give up on sleep completely and hold her upright 24/7.
Having just gone through months of horrendous reflux while I was pregnant, I commiserate with her completely. It's no fun feeling your meal creep back up your esophagus.
On the other hand, I feel fortunate to at least know what the problem is. Granted, there isn't much we can do other than feed her smaller meals at more frequent intervals, try to get her to burp more rigorously and put a pillow under her mattress so she isn't laying flat. But it's something.
I also started reading "Good Night, Sleep Tight" -- a book about how to get an infant to sleep -- because I keep blowing through my "Newsweek" and "Entertainment Weekly" magazines during those early morning feedings. The book was a gift from another new mother, so I figured it must have some golden nugget of advice that had worked for her.
Now I think she's crazy. Because I want to douse the pages in gasoline and watch them burn, burn, burn.
It's written by a woman who coined herself "The Sleep Lady." Well, I think she should just be put to sleep by a veterinarian.
In the chapters where she starts breaking down advice by the child's age, she advises parents to start a routine by two weeks old.
My routine is a lack of one. I don't know what day it is, let alone what hour of the day it is. I'm catching quick naps in the afternoon, crashing at 7 p.m. if that's when Allison decides to cooperate, then I'm back up pacing the upstairs hallway from 4 a.m. until 8.
Schedule at two weeks old. Right. I'll schedule a trip to California just so I can slap that author.
Thankfully, the doctor calmed my growing neurosis that I was doing our daughter a disservice by not timing her every move with a stopwatch.
"You will learn as she grows," he said.
And she already is. She grew half an inch in two weeks. Amazing.
Now imagine how much she'll grow if I can manage to help her keep her food down.