Things I dropped on my precious baby’s face or head over the weekend:
- Droplets of syrup
- Pinto beans
- A large plastic diaper wipes container
The other day when Linnea pooped on my shirt and pants and shoes, I decided it was time for a walk. Keith asked me if I was going to change first. I said, “Nah”. He told me I was becoming my Halloween costume.
Some days I don’t get to put the baby down to pee. I whined to Keith the other day that I hadn’t had a chance to take my vitamins, brush my teeth, or clip my fingernails in a week. He replied, “Honey, there is nothing stopping you from taking your vitamins”. I disemboweled him with one flick of my dirty long fingernails. One handed of course. Because Linnea won’t be set down. Do NOT set her down. Her cries will hurt you.
Linnea is six weeks old this week. She started to smile at people and her little body is filing out and she is working on a wicked double chin. People are always chortling to me about how little sleep I am probably getting. It’s true. She’s a little baby who needs to eat every 2-4 hours. I get that. No problem. It’s when you have to get up and change her diaper and turn on a light that things get nasty.
I wake up and discover that I am bathed in baby vomit and urine. I wake Keith up to change her. He takes the baby and stumbles into the bathroom.
That stupid little lamp fell and broke. I have to turn on the overhead light.
Nooooo! Not the overhead baby waking light of 3AM doom!
Yes. That one.
I turn over in my pee/vomit sheets and try to get 4 minutes of sleep before I have to nurse and try to get Linnea back to sleep.
They’re back. She’s wearing nothing but a diaper and an open necked floral onesie.
I thought you were putting pajamas on her!
These are not pajamas!
You told me they were on the shelf!
Not that shelf! The other shelf!
Baby is rooting and grunting.
I haul her back to the bathroom and put on her pajamas. I bring her out to the living room and nurse her. She vomits on me. She’s wide awake. Let’s hang out! She says. She wants to eat snacks and show me this YouTube video.
And then rock and bounce and dance and do aerobics for an hour and a half. By 8AM every morning, she is sound asleep, though, so that’s good.
The other night, I woke up to nurse Linnea. It’s like 2AM. She’s grunting and kicking and rooting like she does when she’s hungry. I’m getting ready to nurse, arranging myself and Linnea, lying on my side facing Keith. Keith is dead asleep, facing us. Suddenly his eyes pop open. He takes one look at us and SHOVES me backward.
“Hey! What the hell!” I exclaim.
“Oh. Were you nursing?” he asks groggily.
“Uh, yes!” I shout.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were smothering her in your sleep” He begins to snore.
Today is Linnea’s due date. I tried to fold her body up this morning to see how she could fit inside me, and I just couldn’t see it. She hasn’t even hit 8 pounds! I don’t know how my friend Sarah (who is my size) squeezed out a 10 pounder. It seems impossible.
So here I am with a two week old. A stereotypical new mom. Sleeplessness? Check. Worry about every little thing? (She’s congested! Ah! She holds her breath when she sleeps she must have sleep apnea and therefore is at risk for SIDS! AH! AH!) Check. Wild hair? Check. Fits of crying? Crusty shirt? Check. I have arrived.
This morning I really turned a corner in terms of recovery from the birth. I was up early, milking goats and everything. I almost feel like my old self. It is hard to believe I had a baby 9 days ago. We are learning how to work the night time parenting shift. Man, it’s hard! Last night wasn’t too bad, though.
Yesterday on a walk we ran into our next door neighbor, a dude, and he said something like, “So…how’s it going with the new baby?” and I said something like, it’s going fine, we’re adjusting and I’m healing. He got this awkward, disgusted look on his face and pointing vaguely to his own belly said, “Oh…right…you have to recover and whatnot…” I restrained myself from saying something like, “well, yeah, my vagina ripped in two places, so there’s a bit of healing to do.” Proud of me? I am.