Mar
4
I keep a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans readily accessible in my closet for the purpose of trying them on every couple days and angrily shaking my fist at the sky when they still don’t fit. Don’t try and tell ME I don’t know how to party. Anyway, I pulled them on yesterday and noticed that for the first time the button actually closed fairly easily and I was all, woo! Then I exhaled, and something Extremely Unpleasant happened in my midsection, where I suddenly had this . . . fleshy innertube, and while that might prove to be a handy flotation device should I be thrown from the bow of a ship into eel-infested waters I think you might call generally call that sort of thing a Glamour Don’t.
I hate this post-partum body stage, it’s so aggravating to not be able to wear hardly any of my regular clothes and while it’s tempting to live in maternity stuff, those really don’t fit either. I was trying to get dressed to go run some errands last weekend and I tried on about forty hojillion different things, getting progressively more frustrated, until I stood in a pile of ill-fitting clothes literally stamping my foot the way Riley does, because jesus, NOTHING WORKED, and I finally draped myself in a giant sweater and a baggy pair of Levis that were about five sizes too big for me before pregnancy and went lurching out the door looking for a defenseless animal to kick.
It seems I’m short on patience for everyone these days, including children, genitalia-licking dogs, cereal-dish-leaver-outter husbands, and my own waistline. GRAH HULK SMASH.
I have been trying to work out fairly frequently, not only to deal with the innertube issue but also to help de-stress and hopefully encourage the ongoing circulation of happy brain chemicals (since my “relax with a two or three fourteen glasses of wine” days are behind me), and while finding the time to do can be a little, ha ha, challenging, it does seem to help. Maybe it’s the endorphins, maybe it’s Chalene Johnson reminding me that I can do anything, by god.
Is there something kind of pitiful about a franchise fitness instructor becoming my personal life coach?
Other things for which I am grateful: fat-free sugar-free chocolate pudding, even if it goes against all that is good and pure in this world, Mylicon drops (not actually sure yet if they make a difference or just fulfill my desire to Do Something when the baby is visibly uncomfortable and freaking out), Louis C.K. stand up comedy videos, and Lululemon yoga pants. Also, the glorious invention of the drive-through Starbucks.
:::
Three Random Conversations With a Toddler
Me (singing, as the dog comes barreling in from the backyard): “Whooo let the dog in? Who? Who? Who? Who?”
Riley: “Daddy let the dog in, Mommy.”
—
Riley: “Riwwy get inna airplane and fly high in the sky to the farm! Brrm brrm! Go see the moo cow and the chickens!”
Me: “Can Mommy ride in the plane with Riley?”
Riley (looking me up and down): “No, Mommy’s too BIG.”
—
JB: “Riley, do you want a big spoon or a little spoon?”
Riley: “BIG poon!”
JB: “A man-sized spoon?”
Riley: “Yeah, MAN POON!”
JB: “And do you want jelly on your toast?”
Riley: “Yeah, MAN JELLY!”
Me: “You know, I don’t even want to know what his daycare teachers think we’re teaching him.”
Riley: “Mommy! Mommy! I have a big poon and MAN JELLY!”
Mar
3
I have been playing a festive internet game of Colic, GERD, or Perfectly Normal Baby?, which involves typing up random google strings like “baby spitting up like Linda Blair”, and “infant appears to be attempting to shit a large pinecone” and seeing what kind of results I get. I have of course now diagnosed Dylan with many, many afflictions, including housemaid’s knee, infection of the blowhole, and perhaps most accurately, Mother’s Complaint.
I thought I had the spitting-up thing figured out when we switched to a smaller bottle nipple size, but we’re back to the endless laundry cycles, and now there’s these other things going on, like the writhing, turning-bright-red-and-screaming, stiff-bodied thing/drawn-up-legs he does during a feeding. It’s like he’s horribly gassy, but burping produces little results. It seems like he eats all the time, but only takes an ounce or two at most at each feeding, and every meal involves such an exhausting amount of fussing/spitting up/thrashing around I can’t imagine it’s very pleasant for him. It’s certainly unpleasant for ME, and since I feel like I’m feeding him at least every couple hours around the damn clock (not consistently true, but true enough) — well, I’ve been in cheerier states of mind, I’ll just say that.
He also seems to have a hair-trigger gag reflex, which seems entirely unfair. I mean, who ever heard of a baby who gagged on a binky? If he sort of chokes on his milk, he gags. If his nose is all plugged up and he inhales wrong, he gags. One gag, and it’s all over — I’ve learned to scoop him up and aim him over the sink, because otherwise I’ll just be scrubbing curdled stomach contents out of the couch again (sorry, were you maybe trying to eat lunch?).
I know mothers are supposed to bond with their children during feedings but if there was some sort of Roomba that could take care of this child’s nutritional needs I would buy it in a heartbeat and not feel bad for one hot second.
He’s got a 1-month checkup coming soon so I’ll see what the pediatrician says, although I’m guessing I won’t hear anything like “You have a crabby, fussy baby who’s a pain in the ass to feed? Yes, this is indeed a unique and concerning situation for which I have just the right miracle pill.” Maybe we’ll try switching formulas again. Or maybe this has been part of the famed 3-week growth spurt and he’ll get his shit squared away soon. Or maybe I should just buy equal stock in Tide, Valium, and Red Bull.
Other than the whole draining-Mama’s-will-to-live thing, Dylan’s thriving quite nicely. He’s pudgening up a bit and losing some of that spindly tiny-baby look, he appears to be actually trying to look at things instead of staring blurrily at nothing, he does the funny marching-legs business I remember Riley doing when he was in an active state. Oh, and he’s also started perfecting that sneaky baby technique where they clutch the top of your shirt without you noticing and so when you go to lower them to a carseat or stroller or whatever one of your boobs pops out and says howdy.
I love this kid and I know things are going to improve, we just have to motor through this rough period and eventually we’ll get to some easier days.
(I want to also say that I am so grateful for your presence and comments and support right now, and I cannot tell you how much it helps to be reminded I’m not alone with these parenting struggles. Thank you for listening, and enduring all this baby blather.)
Lastly:
The boy can’t clear a fence yet, but he’s well on his way to following his father’s footsteps.
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