Our Zoe - Pt. 3

After birth, Zoe wasn't ready to eat. She takes her time doing things, my girl. Despite my efforts to latch her on, she screwed that tiny mouth shut and scowled. She needed a nap first, just like her mom. And then, just like her mom, she proceeded to engorge herself, again and again, drinking milk like a starving kitten, gulping and rooting, until at last she falls off with a lip smack and sigh. Always the lip smack, always the sigh.

She eats voraciously, again and again, seemingly without end, and then falls to sleep for several hours, giving mom a break before waking again for a marathon nurse.

At birth she measured a tiny 6 lb. 3 oz., 19 inches long. Three days later, at the doctor's office, the nurse helped us strip her rosy body down and place her on the scale. She wailed and wiggled about. The nurse pursed her lips. "What does she weigh?" She smiled. "SEVEN pounds, two ounces! What did you say she weighed?" Michael's eyes widened in amazement. I smiled smugly, remembering how the hospital was sure she didn't eat enough and would need formula. "Maybe I'll check my scale," the nurse muttered as she walked back across the room. Michael laughed at my beaming pride.