Please just don't call him small

Its been 8 days since we brought Miles home. Eight days for him to find his voice, put on a half of pound and for us to figure out our own schedule, absent the hospital regulations. Everyone has an opinion - everyone that has kids, that is - and each time, I need to remind someone that Miles is not like any other baby. He is still just 37 weeks old, or minus 3 weeks corrected, and if all had gone as it should, I would be bitching about how big and fat I was.

The same rules that apply to term babies dont apply to preemies. My sister reprimands me for counting the ounces he drinks - she thinks the hospital brainwashed me and he need to be exclusively breastfeeding. He also needs to gain weight. More than one person has noted how small he is. I feel like a broken record saying, "He's huge to us!" with a big smile on my face.

Miles has grown quickly to not only enjoy but to demand, his cuddle time. Put him down early and his previously not so shrill cry pierces through the house, quieted as soon as his head is comfortably on mom or dad's chest and little hands grip for dear life. This is usually in the middle of the night and I have taken to hold him on my chest in bed, working hard to stay awake. Most people would say that babies need to learn to cry it out some but again this is where preemies differ. For the first six weeks of his life, touch was more often than not associated with a nurse who handled him as a job not love. Touch meant shots, cold wipes, temperature taken, monitors moved, tubes inserted in his throat and only once or twice a day, the warmth of me or Dave. So for now, on doctors orders and at least until he is term, we have carte blanche to cuddle, coo and love him as much as we can, crying or not.

And as you can tell from the pictures, there is a lot to cuddle and coo at. With every ounce, he comes into his own even more, becoming more delicious and sweet.