How the gal grows

Phoebe is experiencing her third trimester outside of the womb.  That's so bizarre.  Like, the things she's doing are about the same as she'd be doing if she were in my belly, minus all the wires she's hooked up to.  And the breathing.  And the occasional bleating like a goat.

In many ways, she's like a regular newborn but teenier.  She was 16.5 inches long at birth (possibly shorter now since her cone head has gone down some), and a full-term baby is about 20 inches long.   That means most of the weight difference is made up in chub.  She's skinny like Hamb, except it's not quite as handsome on a baby.

Awake, wired up, and cone-headed!

Fortunately, I have a plethora of excess ounces to transfer her way via boob milk.  I pump my milk bags every 2-3 hours, just as often as if she were nursing regularly.  (This has challenged my initial thought of, "The only nice thing of having a baby in the NICU is that I'll get more sleep than I would if she were home right now.")  Then I deliver it to the NICU nurses, and they stick it in a tube that goes through Phoebe's nose into her stomach.  She eats 30 ml (about one ounce) every 3 hours.  That seems like a lot, but we need to bulk up this baby!  Right now, she's 10 grams (about a third of an ounce) from her birth weight, and the goal is to get her gaining 20-30 grams a day.  

A week and a half ago, I couldn't have told you much about why breast milk was great except that smart people told me it was, so I believed them.  Now, those smart people have given me details.  In addition to helping babies gain weight, breast milk also helps their brains develop more quickly (something about certain fats) and - get this - I PASS ON ANTIBODIES TO HER!  So let's say I'm exposed to some li'l virus at 1:00 PM.  By 2:00 PM, my body has figured out a way to fight that virus and then I pass that "immuno-knowledge" to Phoebe in the next breastfeeding session.  Whaaaat!

For some reason, my breastmilk is also helping Phoebe become more resistant to other dumb diseases and health hassles later in life including cancer, diabetes, allergies, and Inflammatory Bowel Disease (something she has a 1 in 10 chance of getting, what with my Crohn's and all).

All of this makes the 4:30 AM alarm and "Pump!" message that flashes on my phone screen far more tolerable.  When she's home and eventually able to breastfeed (34 weeks gestational age at the earliest - her brain can't tell her how to multi-task sucking, swallowing, and breathing right now), I'll think of her midnight whinings for food as a request for magic disease-fighters.  That's kind of bad ass, and I'd much rather cuddle up to a baby than a hospital-grade breast pump anyway.