But then baby Blair stopped going. Sometimes, for eight days at a stretch. All the 453 baby books I read said this was normal for nursing babies. "She's fine," our pediatrician assured us. And she seemed fine. We were the ones who were not fine. The entire family united in a Poop Watch.
We felt responsible, because we figured everything we were doing had to be wrong. We weren't feeding her enough. We weren't comforting her sufficiently. We were over-stimulating her, under-stimulating her. We, like all new parents, were driving this baby train without a map--except for the poop. We understood poop. We pooped ourselves. Then the reason for our obsession suddenly became clear: If little 8-week-old Blair was pooping, we were doing at least one thing right.
Blair did poop again, of course. And there was much rejoicing. The switch to solid food opened up a whole new adventure for us. And the colors ... well ... it was Monet twice a day. So regular, so dependable that we finally stopped being so anal (about this, anyway).