Just a few thoughts to post in a moment in between ...
Watching D's face is fascinating. I never get tired of it, even when he's cranky and showing all his gums in a wide-mouthed cry. It's like his face has all the pre-sets for emotions, even though he doesn't really know what those emotions are yet. His expressions cycle through happy, perplexed, disgusted, one after the other. I can't wait until he genuinely is smiling back at me.
And though I've never been a religious person (except when I was 12 and scared of Satan and ghosts, and so slept with a crucifix under my pillow), there are moments with D. that convince me god is really is some old guy sitting up on a cloud watching all us silly people. Like when I was rushing to get out of the house to run some errands the other day. D was full of breastmilk, and each time I tried to buckle him into his carseat, the pressure on his tummy made him projectile vomit all over himself. After two clothing changes, I decided I just needed to wait a few minutes. If god really is an old dude on a cloud, he really thinks projectile vomit stunts are hilarious.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
Sleep or write?
I'm having a little trouble managing my time these days. Out of every three hours, approximately one of them is devoted to nursing, supplemental feeding and using the breast pump to prepare for the next feeding. I spend a large part of my day with my boobs hanging out. (If there were ever a time to get comfortable with my body, this is it!) But that means I have to decide what to do with the rest. Lots of times it's eat, shower, change D's diapers, soothe him, talk to him, etc. But at least once a day, gloriously, he slips off into a two hour nap, and I am faced with the dilemma: sleep or write?
The logical person in me screams, "Sleep! You idiot!" But I've got stuff buzzing through my head, and it wants to come out. I also crave gardening--what there is of it this year. I just want to get outside with my watering can and tend to my pathetic little basil shoots.
It's the same thing in the evenings. D gets really sleepy around 10 pm (for now, at least) and it provides T. and I a chance to watch a movie and have some 1:1 time, but I know that the darkest hours are just around the corner, and I'm going to be awake for some of them.
The logical person in me screams, "Sleep! You idiot!" But I've got stuff buzzing through my head, and it wants to come out. I also crave gardening--what there is of it this year. I just want to get outside with my watering can and tend to my pathetic little basil shoots.
It's the same thing in the evenings. D gets really sleepy around 10 pm (for now, at least) and it provides T. and I a chance to watch a movie and have some 1:1 time, but I know that the darkest hours are just around the corner, and I'm going to be awake for some of them.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Someone stole my legs
The exhaustion set in yesterday. Funny, because just the day before, T. and I had managed to get out for a walk and lunch at a local cafe, and we sat there gloating about how we didn't think this was all that bad. Tiring, sure. But we could deal. But yesterday, I woke up feeling like a truck had hit me. Sore from my shoulders to my toes.
And someone stole my legs. They took my nice legs and slender feet (one part of my body I've never had an issue with) and have given me the legs of Fat Bastard from the Austin Powers movies.
Good thing this baby is just so damn beautiful. I can't keep my eyes off him. He does what I call "bird faces," where he will look up at me with his beautiful blue eyes and make little hooting lip gestures. Before he was born, I imagined all sorts of things about the way things would be. I could imagine the tiredness, the sore boobs, all that. And I knew I would love him, but I knew it in this intellectual sort of way. I just couldn't imagine how it would feel. He's a mere a week old, and I feel like I want time to stop for a bit so I can make sure I get my fill of bird faces and soft baby skin. I am absolutely weepy with love and the need to make every moment count.
He was born on July 2, more than two weeks late. I'll save his dramatic birth story for another post. But that means he's having his first week birthday today!
I've been reading Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions, mostly while pumping breastmilk. I do this every three hours or so, so that's a lot of reading time. Thank god for her book, because pumping sucks, and her book is so funny and she writes about everything I am dealing with right now, that I can actually make it a whole 15 minutes without tearing my hair out. I personally credit Ms. Lamott for my ability to pump enough so that I don't have to resort to formula.
But as I'm reading, I'm thinking that even though I have some higher aspirations for this blog (I dunno why) I should do what she's done, and use it to document this time. So I'm gonna. Sorry to those who want to read about something other than baby. But that's what's goin' on around here. As T. says, "All we hear is radio ga-ga."
So here's a funny picture for you. This was maybe our first night home from the hospital, and I'd asked T. to pick up one bottle of IPA on his trip to the store. I was so pleased with the idea of an hour or two in my own bed, with a bottle of long-dreamed about beer, that I completly forgot I was already completely high on pain killers. A sip or two later and the realization kicked in. T. finished the beer. Sigh.
And someone stole my legs. They took my nice legs and slender feet (one part of my body I've never had an issue with) and have given me the legs of Fat Bastard from the Austin Powers movies.
Good thing this baby is just so damn beautiful. I can't keep my eyes off him. He does what I call "bird faces," where he will look up at me with his beautiful blue eyes and make little hooting lip gestures. Before he was born, I imagined all sorts of things about the way things would be. I could imagine the tiredness, the sore boobs, all that. And I knew I would love him, but I knew it in this intellectual sort of way. I just couldn't imagine how it would feel. He's a mere a week old, and I feel like I want time to stop for a bit so I can make sure I get my fill of bird faces and soft baby skin. I am absolutely weepy with love and the need to make every moment count.
He was born on July 2, more than two weeks late. I'll save his dramatic birth story for another post. But that means he's having his first week birthday today!
I've been reading Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions, mostly while pumping breastmilk. I do this every three hours or so, so that's a lot of reading time. Thank god for her book, because pumping sucks, and her book is so funny and she writes about everything I am dealing with right now, that I can actually make it a whole 15 minutes without tearing my hair out. I personally credit Ms. Lamott for my ability to pump enough so that I don't have to resort to formula.
But as I'm reading, I'm thinking that even though I have some higher aspirations for this blog (I dunno why) I should do what she's done, and use it to document this time. So I'm gonna. Sorry to those who want to read about something other than baby. But that's what's goin' on around here. As T. says, "All we hear is radio ga-ga."
So here's a funny picture for you. This was maybe our first night home from the hospital, and I'd asked T. to pick up one bottle of IPA on his trip to the store. I was so pleased with the idea of an hour or two in my own bed, with a bottle of long-dreamed about beer, that I completly forgot I was already completely high on pain killers. A sip or two later and the realization kicked in. T. finished the beer. Sigh.
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