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| Yes, we have tried the California flying butt wiggle hold. It's funny, so it sort of works. |
The second month has been harder than the first. Better, but
harder. I don’t have much time to edit—tricky to do that one handed with a 12
pound baby on the other arm. But here are some thoughts.
***
My friends have made things easier. More than half a dozen
of my friends have new babies, some have older kids, too. I text these women constantly.
They always reply with their own stories about spit and crying and exhaustion
and joy. Pictures of chubby baby thighs and toddlers smooching their siblings.
I ask them about the small, hard things . Rashes. Gas. Bouts
of fierce crying followed by long, coma-like naps. Spitup, oh my, the spitup.
And the internet is sometimes reassuring but mostly terrifying. I can Google
any baby ailment, and there’s undoubtedly another person on a chat room from
2008 who had a 7-week-old with reflux and a rash who sleeps in a rock-and-play.
But better to text my mama friends. Am I doing it right? Did
your baby do that? Is this ok? Yes. The answer is always, eventually, yes. It’s
ok. They make me laugh and worry less and enjoy my baby more. I’m so grateful
for them.
***
Our tiny baby has grown into a long, tall boy whose legs
stretch out into the tip toes of 3 to 6 month pajamas. I put him in the same
outfits over and over again. These outfits have names. Duckie jammies. Foxy
baby. Monster butt.
This new baby is strong. He thrashes his head into mine,
bouncing off my jaw and then crying because it hurt him. He grips things
mightily, sometimes pinches me. He got ahold of the string on Mike’s hoodie the
other day and would not let go.
He is chatty. His new favorite spot is the changing table,
once the diaper business is done. He lies there and coos and chats and bats his
fine eyelashes at me and I melt. Then he spits and farts and I laugh. Every
moment he changes, his cheeks rounder, his mouth fuller and more expressive.
When he’s really sad he pouts, does a Claire Danes lip quiver. I take pictures,
more and more of them. Then I stop, and just look.
***
Mike went back to work. It’s worth a post all on its own,
why paternity leave is essential. He is essential. The days are so much harder
without him. I get through two or three fussy bouts and just want to hand the
baby over to someone for a minute.
At night we take turns rocking him to sleep. In the kitchen
listening to music. On a bouncy exercise ball. In the decadently cushy glider
chair where I also nurse him. When it’s all just too much, he screams in our
faces. My mom says to put in earplugs, but I can’t. I may have lost a little
hearing in my left ear.
We joke about sending him back to the hospital nursery for a
nap. We pace the floor, handing him pack and forth and make empty threats to
take him to the safe place at the fire station. It’s dark, but that’s what
happens after an infant screams in your face for three hours.
Then for a few nights in a row, he slept 7 hours. Not last
night, but, you know. At least it’s something.
***
We have a big picture window in the kitchen that looks out
into the backyard. We watch cardinals and bunnies and squirrels play all day, give
them names. In the evening, clouds shift behind the wires strung across the
alley, empty lines on sheet music with the occasional note of a perched
sparrow. The other night the glass was streaked with rain, the lamps on the
garage smearing light through it. I rocked the baby as the purple sky deepened.
His fist clutching my shirt, his knees tucked underneath
him. I sing. I sing louder and more than I have in years. I play him songs on
the piano with one hand. He tries to be patient with that, but he fusses. The
acoustics in the kitchen are good. I realize how dark the lyrics are to so many
of my favorite songs. I sing them anyway.
I will remember these things, I think. I try.
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