I'm sorry to be your alarm clock this morning. Really sorry. I know you like to sleep - your 14 hours of uninterrupted snoozing since you were 7 weeks old tells me this. I totally get it. I'm a huge fan of sleeping myself.
And I also hate alarm clocks.
But sometimes a Mom has to do things she doesn't want to do, including waking her baby from a wonderful, deep sleep filled with sugar plum dreams. So, I'm sorry, but I have to.
Because the 1 pound you gained in the last two months is not enough. Because going from the 75th percentile in height and weight to the 25th percentile means your growth is stunting. Because the 10 hours you are awake in the day means you only eat 4 times, and the average breastfed baby needs to eat 8-10 times, and you have some major catching up to do.
Because I'm your mom and I said so. (And because your pediatrician says so, too.)
So we are going to pretend you are a newborn again, and we are going to feed you every 2 hours. Waking you when you try to sleep until 9 am, and feeding you whenever I possibly can. I won't leave the couch except to take you to your crib to nap, spending the time feeding and feeding and feeding and feeding.
Anything to make you big and strong.
I know it's not your fault you weren't eating enough. Your acid reflux medication had never been adjusted to your weight, thus not giving you enough relief from the heartburn. I know mealtime was something of a burden to you, causing your stomach and throat to inflame and hurt. Poor little girl. Don't worry, though - I got it fixed. Your meds are at the proper amount now, so give it just two days, and I promise - mealtime will soon be enjoyable again. Then we can start to beef you back up.
But you're going to have to do your part.
If you want to sleep as late as you want, you are going to have to spend the next two weeks filling that belly and eating and growing. Then, once we have established a good eating routine, we can talk this over again. Until then, say sayonara to sleeping in, little one. Because it's time to eat. Again.
Your Udder Mother,
The One With All The Food. . .