Post-Partum Worries

I'm a worry wart. When I was exhibiting all the signs of early pregnancy, I told my best friend I thought I had cysts or endometriosis or something else that would render me infertile. She told me to shut up and use one of her pregnancy tests. When that came back positive, I worried that the cold turkey sandwich I had for lunch would impart food poisoning to the unborn baby or that the head cold I had would develop into a full blown infection and I'd go into early labor. When the contractions started and labor refused to progress for days on end, I worried that contractions was a new reality of my life--that I'd just have to live with them another three weeks until my due date. Now, the baby's here, and while I'm not suffering from any of the post-partum blues people keep asking me about, I AM worrying. I am absolutely scared to death that I will wake one morning to find Evelyn Grace dead in her crib. When she naps during the day, I go in and hold my finger to her nose to make sure breath is still blowing out of her little nostrils. When she starts fussing in the night, I make Craig get up to check that she isn't suffocating on spit up. On car rides, I blast the air conditioning so she won't overheat and then I crank it off and pile her with blankets so she won't freeze.

But she's made it through two weeks of life and each day she's alive, I feel a little more at ease. Plus, her two week checkup yesterday REALLY put my mind to rest. At two weeks old, the doctor wanted her to have gained half a pound from her one week checkup. Well, my little bird did twice better--she gained a full pound exactly and didn't grow any taller! She's quite the chunk these days. Of course, she's also started spitting up after each meal and the doctor thinks (based on this incredible weight gain) that it's from getting overly full at each feeding.

So now I worry about that. When I let her go her customary 10 minutes on each side, I worry that I'm stuffing her to death and causing her to spit up (which, actually, I probably am. God knows she certainly does spit up!). When I pull her off after only five minutes on each side, I worry that I'm starving her. Then Craig points out all the dirty diapers we're changing and all the fat building up on her legs. That's when I worry that I'm creating one of those new "obese child" phenoms.