Four weeks old

Last Monday our son turned a month old. And it was like an invisible cue had been given to my entire body to just sigh in relief.

I had managed to go an entire month and:
--breastfeed as much as possible for me (5-8 times a day depending on the day)
--not hit his head on the corner of our nightstand while picking him up for 3am feedings
--change countless diapers without wincing, avoiding, or griping

We finally got what each other were about, my boy and I.

I understood that he could wait a few more hours to eat and that not every cry meant that he was in fact hungry. Sometimes he had gas, or a stomach full that he was trying to dump, or a wet diaper. I discovered he could sit in his poop all day but thirty seconds of his own pee was more than he could be asked to handle.

He started smiling at the sound of my voice and calming down if I entered a room. He showed us how good he could be in the car seat and slept through the blaring music of the mall, the blistering heat of a never ending Doha summer, and being passed around like a party favor at my 32nd birthday.

The rest of the people in the house are around story: they wrecked his schedule this past Wednesday out of misguided sympathy because the kid was working the angles with his cries while I was out at an office gathering. It took me a full day to get him back on his schedule.

Now I'm counting how many more cases of ready made formula we'll need before he's on solid food.

Though it's exhausting, mentally and physically, to breastfeed I have committed to do it for the first three months of his life. This means October 30th. Crossing the one month mark gave me the confidence to look ahead to the end of September. Since we are still on Ramadan hours, and have a week's holiday, this should not be that hard.

No one could believe I went back to work three weeks after my first child was born and by C-section. I dreaded it myself. I wasn't sure how it would go or how much energy I would have. The thought of postponing it was available: I had an appointment to go to the Embassy to apply for his passport the first morning I was due back. But like removing a band aid or setting a broken bone, I rescheduled and went it. There were no balloons or welcome signs, but it felt strangely good to sit down at my desk and get back to work.

Granted this was for all of three and a half hours; it felt like my play job. For the past three weeks we've settled into a routine of getting up, going to work, coming home, eating lunch, and sleeping for two hours. I don't know who will miss the nap more: me or the kid. This is the wonderful thing about Ramadan and the reduced working hours. Since the majority of people are fasting, if you work for the government or Arab company, then the day is only five hours. Subtract from that the fact nursing mothers get one hour, either to come in late or to leave early, and I'm turning off my computer at 1:00 p.m. everyday. The end of Ramadan brings with it some trepidation, however, as I know this cannot go on forever.

But over the weekend I wrote out the schedule again, adjusting the times slightly, and I think even after the Eid break we will be able to carry on more or less the same.