Mar
13
Tapas style
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We have this swing for Dylan that has an adjustable seat, can swing either back and forth or forward and back, and has various audio settings that play music or white noise or weird outdoor sounds that include a chirping cricket. It is quite fancy, the “Nature’s Touch Cradle Swing”, except for one problem: the audio stops playing after a few minutes. I guess this is to save your batteries, and the assumption is that your sweet slumbering angel won’t notice the sudden lack of noise, but Dylan sure as shit does. This is a baby who could sleep through an M-80 going off in the living room but god forbid the tinkling little tune on his freaking swing comes to an end.
I have experienced many moments of extreme frustration over the last several weeks, but the ongoing need to lunge to the swing in order to reset the music before Dylan progresses from squirming and half-opening his eyes to wide-awake yelling trumps them all, even the 3 AM jesus-christ-kid-I-just-fed-you-at-2:30 grousefests.
Dear Fisher Price: why no ALWAYS ON button? I can always buy new batteries, you heartless fucks, but I will NEVER GET THAT AFTERNOON NAP BACK.
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Did anyone watch American Idol last night and literally cringe with pain at the Jim Carrey tie-in? JB was staring at the TV going, doesn’t that guy earn, like, millions per movie? Did his Horton Hears a Sell-Out contract stipulate a physical extraction of his dignity, or what? That whole thing was so lame I actually felt violated for having watched it.
PS. I SO want the Irish chick, Carly, to win. Although I really like Brooke, too. All of the guys can suck it.
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Last weekend while JB’s brother was visiting:
Me (as JB and I are heading off to put Riley to bed): “Hey, if the baby starts fussing just cram that little thing in his mouth.”
Joe: “Okay.”
Me: “Uh, by little thing I mean his pacifier.”
Joe: “. . .”
Me: “I . . . probably didn’t need to clarify that, did I.”
Joe: “Not really.”
:::
I started doing Tae Bo again, a video called Cardio Circuit which should really be called Like Hell You Can Kick This Fast because jesus, Billy Blanks, what are you trying to DO to me over here. I find him strangely encouraging, though, in a maniacal kind of way, like if I don’t at least try to whip my leg up and down like I’m karate-kicking away a cloud of insects he’s going to show up at my house and give me a stern lecture, probably getting little foamballs of spit all over my face while yelling COUNT IT! COUNT IT!
In the video he repeatedly draws the viewer’s attention to a woman formed entirely of sinew and muscle and informs us she’s had two c-sections, TWO! And just look at her abs! And I have to admit, they are very nice abs indeed, probably very handy for crushing walnuts and human skulls and such. I would settle for a stomach that looks less like a fallen souffle, but I suppose it’s nice to know the extent of my Tae Bo potential. Now I just have to make it through the workout without stopping to check and see what just landed on the floor during that last round of side kicks, hey look it’s my LUNGS.
Mar
12
Still (one month and counting)
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He’s gotten better about feedings but sometimes he still eats like a total freak: sucking frantically, then pulling back to wail, then sucking openmouthed so that milk spills down his neck. He’ll eat about an ounce before we both give it a brief rest, then it’s back to the crappy feeding session that leaves him soaking wet and me thoroughly frustrated. In this manner we can pass hours out of the day, it takes all of my attention but provides little reward. He barfs less but is still unpredictable with his stomach contents: sometimes they stay inside his body, sometimes they end up all over whichever nearby household item is hardest to clean.
He wakes up from long naps seemingly filled with discomfort at his lengthy rest, he grouses and yells and turns bright red and rips enormous farts. He fusses for long, draining amounts of time, and has a knack for stepping up his complaints the instant I sit down to bolt my lunch or play a quick game with Riley. He wakes up at 3 AM and refuses to go back to sleep after he’s been fed, he kicks at his swaddle wrap and makes angry buzzing hornet sounds that escalate into full-scale howls. Most nights he’ll only go back down if I put him on my chest, then he spends half the night inching slowly up towards my neck, head-butting my jaw, scrabbling at me with his scratchy toenails.
He’s got zits on his tiny chin. His scalp and face is flaky. His hair is barely there on top but longer in the back, like an old man.
He gets big meaty hiccups that send little blorts of formula running out of his mouth. He poops four or five times a day, often while I’m in the middle of a diaper change. He grunts and grumbles and squeaks when he’s picked up, thrashes angrily when held, then yells with dismay when he’s put back down.
The only smiles I’ve seen have been in his sleep or as a prelude to a trumpeting emission from his rear end.
It isn’t entirely easy to love this little creature, is what I’m saying.
And still.
Dylan is over a month old now, and there are some days when I think I’m adjusting as well as can be expected and others when I cry in the middle of the afternoon because I cannot believe how relentless this is, how frustrating and how hard. There are times when I take great pleasure in threading his noodly arms and legs in and out of little outfits because I love the feel of his skin and the wide-awake expression he gets, there are other times when doing so makes me feel mired on some dreary treadmill, irritated with him for spitting up on another clean onesie, flattened by the never-ending loads of laundry.
His charming qualities include briskly marching his legs up and down and waving his arms when he’s in that precarious awake-and-kind-of-hungry-but-not-yet-starving state, making sleepy contented “eh, eh, eh” sounds during a good feeding, sighing like a tired puppy when he’s falling asleep in my arms. He’s started making a noise that is not a cry, sort of a staccato call-for-attention that sounds like a cat’s meow. The tiny suctioning noises he makes with his pacifier tickle the insides of my ears and make me yawn and stretch.
I thought I’d be better at things this time around and in some ways I am, but oh, it is a humbling task to become someone’s mother. I sometimes don’t know if I’m worthy of it, this massive honor and burden and joy, but here I am. Here we are.
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