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.