6:49 a.m. -- 3 mos., 12 days old
We have a big baby. Baby A weighed in at yesterday's doctor appointment at 15 pounds, 6 ounces -- 95th percentile. She's 25-and-a-half inches long -- 95th percentile. Her head was more than 17 inches around -- off the chart (or, more literally, above the 95th percentile curve on the pediatrician's chart).
Concerning the head circumference, the doc said that only one number was not worrying, that trends could only be told over time, such as over three measurements. Instantly, of course, that caused worry: What could be wrong with a big head? M and I both have big heads. (Literally; I'll leave it to others to gauge that statement's metaphorical truth.) Encephylitis? Another medical condition to look up.
All the other size comes from M's family. M's about 6 feet, while I'm about 5'5"; her shortest sister is 5'9" and her brother tops out at 6'9", whereas my dad remains the giant in my family at 5'8". All this is fine. I won't complain if Baby A's looking down on me by the sixth grade.
This 3-month pediatrician visit caused us parents little worry. Baby A's long over her thrush, her lone medical condition that required medicine. Beyond that, aside from a couple of colds, she's been healthy. And she seems to be hitting early all of the markers that indicate infant development. She recognized our faces, it seemed to us, before 4 weeks, and she started smiling around the same time. She laughed for the first time around 8 weeks -- laughed hard, repeatedly, when I played the "Rain" game with her. She started tracking with her eyes early, and she could track left-to-right, past the midpoint of her head, by around 8 weeks. Etcetera.
All of this parental gauging comes with a weird mixture of fear (is she normal?) and pride (is she a genius?), repressed quickly with thoughts that we don't want to burden her with expectations and that she's a blessing no matter her skills and talents or lack thereof. Etcetera.
One thing that has become clear to both of us is how "able-ist" we became when it mattered. M has worked with the disabled and the disability rights community, so she in particular is conscious of of the discrimination such folks face. But, boy, did we want Baby A to be born with all her fingers and toes and whatnot. We decided early that we'd carry Baby A to term if she had a high probability of Down Syndrome or other non-life-threatening condition. (We didn't want the tests that would make such diagnoses absolute.) But that decision made us face our deep desires to have Baby A be not just "healthy" but "normal" -- a troubling but incontrovertible conclusion.
Anyway, our devil-may-care attitude toward this 3-month checkup did not extend, in the event, to Baby A. She was calm in the waiting room. But as soon as we walked into the check-up room, things changed. She'd been nursing, and immediately she popped off M's breast and began to scan the room, moving her head from side to side. M said nothing at the time but was certain she was afraid. The kid stayed unsettled for the few minutes we waited, and we took turns walking her around.
Then the doctor came in, and we laid her down on the examination table. Her eyes got huge, and as soon as she saw the pediatrician loom over her, she begain to wail. Now we like our pediatrician, and he's never been anything but gentle with her. (We signed up with him in part because he told us in our initial interview, "These hands are for holding tushies.")
But he's also been responsible for giving her multiple shots. And he's a reminder of what I consider the most traumatic experience of Baby A's life: lying on her back in the maternity ward upon a glorified heating tray, naked, shivering, and wailing, for more than an hour shortly after her birth. I say "more than an hour," but I don't in fact know; after 15 minutes I couldn't bear any more helpless spectating and left the viewing window to catch some sleep. She was returned to our hospital room about three hours later, calm and sleepy. But for the first few weeks she hated any clothing changes or baths -- as soon as she was naked on her back, she began to wail.
That behavior has long passed. (Now she loves baths.) And yesterday's wails didn't accompany any activity of the doctor at all, much less probing or pain. There's no doubt that she recognized the pediatrician's face, stored from her last visit some four weeks prior. The cries didn't stop until he was done with his mercifully brief exam and I could pick her up. They started again even before he loomed over her a few minutes later to give her two more shots.
Afterward, the doc said he associated this behavior -- fear accessed from long-term memory -- with 6-month-olds. "That's typically when they start to hate me," he said. "I hesitate to make too much out of any one incident. But that's quite unusual for a child of her age. I don't know what it means, but it's something to note."
Rest assured, doctor, that Baby A's parents, having repressed all prideful thoughts that their child is doubtless the most ingenious infant in human history, did so note. Etcetera.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Holding
7:19 a.m. -- 3 mos., 10 days old
Of more than a thousand parenting pleasures I hadn't anticipated, holding Baby A ranks close to the top. Which is good, since M and I spend a lot of time doing it.
I generally carry her in my left arm, leaving my right free to pat her back, pick up mail, change CDs, or, now that she's strong enough to wriggle free, catch her. (Beyond pouring milk for cereal, one-armed cooking remains beyond my level of expertise.) She likes to perch high, to look over my left shoulder. My left hand curls around her left hip. Gradually, especially if I'm comforting her or trying to put her to sleep, she sinks and rests her left cheek against my shoulder, her little chest pressed to mine, her butt tucked above my forearm. When newly asleep, her head often tucks securely under my jawline and above my Adam's apple. Over time, she curls into shapes that would have any adult seeking chiropractic aid. Her 90-degree neck twists and mid-back humps can be realigned, but to little avail, as she slumps into a new contortion. The positions cause alarm only among the unchilded.
The pleasure is primarily, of course, physical. It's like hugging a friend with whom one instantly connects: there's no awkwardness or fumbling, no sense that parts are unattended or require rearranging. Like a dowel in a groove, or two components assembled properly -- click, it fits.
But beyond her warmth and her weightedness, Baby A also brings an acceptance, or absence of resistance. If fussy with others, as a rule she'll instantly settle down in the arms of M or me. Several times a day she demonstrates a level of trust that I, a typically defended American adult male, can regard only as unfathomable. She has faith that I will sustain her.
One evening, after guests had visited and she had calmed only after curling into my arms, I came to M teary eyed and said, "My God -- she needs me." I meant in a way that no one had; lovers and friends, after all, could always find sustenance elsewhere. I suppose Baby A could, too. But she'd notice the lack. M of course understands this more deeply, biologically, having sustained the child first for nine months and now with milk pumping through her body. I can only imagine; the father-child bond is powerful enough. But while Baby A's trust and its attendant responsibility can be overwhelming, more often it's come to feel like a blessing.
Here's the contravening curse.
Baby A's a big kid -- 9.3 lbs. and more than 21 inches at birth, staying around the 95th percentile in weight and height ever since. Now she's about 15 pounds.(We'll find out precisely tomorrow at the pediatrician's.) And she's developed fast. Ability to track with her eyes, lift her head, grab a toy: all have arrived ahead of schedule. All of which is great.
But as she's gained strength and a sense of autonomy, she's begun to wriggle: back arches, legs pinwheel, hands clutch my sweater or grab at my face, head pivots side to side (especially when she's tired). Her skull remains relatively soft, but with the bonks my nose and cheeks and jaw have taken, I can anticipate boxer-like blows in the coming months.
And, as my sister concluded after holding her for about 30 seconds, "She's not ergonomic." There's nowhere to hold her in which one's body doesn't begin to torque or twist or tweak. Neither M nor I are in great shape (she with the excuse of pregnancy, I with none but a lifetime of lassitude), and our backs have become constant shifting masses of pain. M did something horrendous to the muscles under her left scapula this weekend, and at the moment she can't even shift in bed without grimacing.
What happens when the kid's 6 months? A year?
Here's the other tricky part about holding Baby A: she likes it so much she instantly notices its absence, even dead asleep. The sternest advice we received recently from my brother-in-law, a father of three, was to put the kid down as soon as her eyes closed. "Don't get her used to sleeping on your body, or you'll become the favorite pillow she can't sleep without." Umm -- too late, brother. Pillows we have become. Our once-productive lives are now passed as sentient pieces of furniture.
So we've begun a process of weaning her from our bodies. The best advice we've received is from my sister, who made the process of laying down her son so deliberate that it was capturable only in time-lapse photography. She would literally keep her hands on him for minutes, gradually withdrawing one and then, painstakingly, the second, replacing it on his chest if he stirred. Even after contact was broken she'd remain, hands hovering inches over his prostate body. "I swear he could feel my aura. He'd wake up if I broke the connection too fast."
So these days you can often find M or me hunched over a crib or a playpen, one hand perched inches away from Baby A's chest, murmuring inaudible prayers that she stay asleep so we can straighten up, rediscover our existence as human beings, and get three uninterrupted minutes to do some back stretches.
Of more than a thousand parenting pleasures I hadn't anticipated, holding Baby A ranks close to the top. Which is good, since M and I spend a lot of time doing it.
I generally carry her in my left arm, leaving my right free to pat her back, pick up mail, change CDs, or, now that she's strong enough to wriggle free, catch her. (Beyond pouring milk for cereal, one-armed cooking remains beyond my level of expertise.) She likes to perch high, to look over my left shoulder. My left hand curls around her left hip. Gradually, especially if I'm comforting her or trying to put her to sleep, she sinks and rests her left cheek against my shoulder, her little chest pressed to mine, her butt tucked above my forearm. When newly asleep, her head often tucks securely under my jawline and above my Adam's apple. Over time, she curls into shapes that would have any adult seeking chiropractic aid. Her 90-degree neck twists and mid-back humps can be realigned, but to little avail, as she slumps into a new contortion. The positions cause alarm only among the unchilded.
The pleasure is primarily, of course, physical. It's like hugging a friend with whom one instantly connects: there's no awkwardness or fumbling, no sense that parts are unattended or require rearranging. Like a dowel in a groove, or two components assembled properly -- click, it fits.
But beyond her warmth and her weightedness, Baby A also brings an acceptance, or absence of resistance. If fussy with others, as a rule she'll instantly settle down in the arms of M or me. Several times a day she demonstrates a level of trust that I, a typically defended American adult male, can regard only as unfathomable. She has faith that I will sustain her.
One evening, after guests had visited and she had calmed only after curling into my arms, I came to M teary eyed and said, "My God -- she needs me." I meant in a way that no one had; lovers and friends, after all, could always find sustenance elsewhere. I suppose Baby A could, too. But she'd notice the lack. M of course understands this more deeply, biologically, having sustained the child first for nine months and now with milk pumping through her body. I can only imagine; the father-child bond is powerful enough. But while Baby A's trust and its attendant responsibility can be overwhelming, more often it's come to feel like a blessing.
Here's the contravening curse.
Baby A's a big kid -- 9.3 lbs. and more than 21 inches at birth, staying around the 95th percentile in weight and height ever since. Now she's about 15 pounds.(We'll find out precisely tomorrow at the pediatrician's.) And she's developed fast. Ability to track with her eyes, lift her head, grab a toy: all have arrived ahead of schedule. All of which is great.
But as she's gained strength and a sense of autonomy, she's begun to wriggle: back arches, legs pinwheel, hands clutch my sweater or grab at my face, head pivots side to side (especially when she's tired). Her skull remains relatively soft, but with the bonks my nose and cheeks and jaw have taken, I can anticipate boxer-like blows in the coming months.
And, as my sister concluded after holding her for about 30 seconds, "She's not ergonomic." There's nowhere to hold her in which one's body doesn't begin to torque or twist or tweak. Neither M nor I are in great shape (she with the excuse of pregnancy, I with none but a lifetime of lassitude), and our backs have become constant shifting masses of pain. M did something horrendous to the muscles under her left scapula this weekend, and at the moment she can't even shift in bed without grimacing.
What happens when the kid's 6 months? A year?
Here's the other tricky part about holding Baby A: she likes it so much she instantly notices its absence, even dead asleep. The sternest advice we received recently from my brother-in-law, a father of three, was to put the kid down as soon as her eyes closed. "Don't get her used to sleeping on your body, or you'll become the favorite pillow she can't sleep without." Umm -- too late, brother. Pillows we have become. Our once-productive lives are now passed as sentient pieces of furniture.
So we've begun a process of weaning her from our bodies. The best advice we've received is from my sister, who made the process of laying down her son so deliberate that it was capturable only in time-lapse photography. She would literally keep her hands on him for minutes, gradually withdrawing one and then, painstakingly, the second, replacing it on his chest if he stirred. Even after contact was broken she'd remain, hands hovering inches over his prostate body. "I swear he could feel my aura. He'd wake up if I broke the connection too fast."
So these days you can often find M or me hunched over a crib or a playpen, one hand perched inches away from Baby A's chest, murmuring inaudible prayers that she stay asleep so we can straighten up, rediscover our existence as human beings, and get three uninterrupted minutes to do some back stretches.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Teamwork
6:14 a.m. -- 3 mos., 8 days old
Baby A is a remarkably good-natured baby. Last night we took her to an M-work-related function at a crowded Chinatown restaurant. (Given that I've only visited the Lower East Side by subway, I've never seen Manhattan from the Williamsburg Bridge. Nice.)
I've taken Baby A for a neighborhood stroll around 4:30 p.m., and she's still enjoying her post-perambulation slumber when we put her in the car at 5:45. Given her inclination toward the unconscious in any mode of transport, she remains conked out until we walk off an elevator into a cacophany of clattering plates and clinking bottles and shouted conversations.
We coat-check the car seat and transfer her to the Baby Bjorn, which she's ridden in just once. She wakes up as we navigate the room, face against my chest, blinking into bright lights and a dozen curious faces. (She's hardly immune to the Law of Baby Attraction.) She's actively curious -- what is all this? Only when she realizes she's peed, about 10 minutes later, does she fuss and send M and me into action.
M and I have created a functional babycare team, which is put to the test in social situations. Tonight has unique challenges. Baby A hasn't pooped since Wednesday and is clearly uncomfortable by now (Poopless Day 3), so before leaving for Chinatown we followed my sister's advice and had M drink prune juice. Now we discover the restaurant bathrooms have no diaper-changing areas, so we find an empty table in the back corner, line up a couple of chairs, and conduct a quick change: M handles baby while I unzip diaper bag, grab changing pad and waterproof lining and covering cloth and lay them all down; M lays down Baby A and unsnaps garments while I unzip front compartment and grab wipes and new diaper; M rips open offending garment (still only pee -- sigh) and wipes while I rip open new diaper; I place offending garment in ziplock bag while M arranges new diaper; I reorder diaper bag while M rearranges clothes. Voila: the smiling child is ready to greet her public.
But, no -- now she realizes she's starving. More fussy-child transfers as I take Baby A while M unfastens one side of her undergarment and removes a breast pad and tentatively arranges a modesty scarf, then takes and turns Baby A sideways while I fumble to keep the scarf between inquiring eyes and a nippled breast while trying not to occlude M's view of the baby.
By now dinner is about to be served, and people have begun to join our table. M used to worry about public breastfeeding, but she's become more comfortable blowing off the occasional gaze of moral condemnation, and this crowd evidences nothing but admiration for the madonna-and-child tableau. Feeding over, we take turns dandling baby and manipulating chopsticks.
About an hour later, Baby A looses three brief blasts, which cause all eyes at the table to turn but which we hear as three cheers for prunce juice: Poop poop, hurray! (Can juice metabolize so fast?) Diaper change, Part II. That we're in mid-meal causes us mild consternation, and bending over the chairs is a pain. But either no one cares or they're too polite to object. (Later, M wonders why we didn't commandeer the lazy susan: "Just move those soup spoons, will you?") Besides, it's true that the shit of breastfed babies doesn't stink.
M and I agree that the teamwork forced upon couples by a baby cannot compare to anything that life has yet required. OK, we planned our wedding together, and that took some cooperation. But it was little more than a series of discussions and a couple of editing sessions where we hashed out our vows. And we've traveled together, which means picking itineraries and navigating airports and maneuvering rental cars in foreign cities.
But helping helpless Baby A requires cooperation of a different order of magnitude: dozens of tiny decisions and maneuverings to negotiate, every new environment a different set of variables. And almost from the start we've plunged Baby A into lots of new environments. At Day 6, less than four days after M and Baby A returned from the hospital, we rode trains (Long Island Railroad, Amtrak) from New York to Washington, D.C., then hired a car to enable M to attend a vital work event. It proved harder on M than on Baby A, who mostly slept (let's hear it for gently rocking trains) and took every bump with equanimity. A colleague of M commented at how smooth the two of us seemed in feeding and changing her. It hadn't felt smooth; primarily it had felt terrifying, trying to anticipate all the potential mishaps. But by now, four cross-country flights and another D.C. trip and several parties and meals and whatnot later, it's no longer terrifying. And indeed, I feel a new closeness with M, similar to that of a valued double-play partner who one knows will be in the perfect spot to receive the throw, and who will bail you out if the toss is errant.
By 9 p.m., though the dinner and speeches are continuing, we three have had enough and get in the car for home. Another night navigated.
Baby A is a remarkably good-natured baby. Last night we took her to an M-work-related function at a crowded Chinatown restaurant. (Given that I've only visited the Lower East Side by subway, I've never seen Manhattan from the Williamsburg Bridge. Nice.)
I've taken Baby A for a neighborhood stroll around 4:30 p.m., and she's still enjoying her post-perambulation slumber when we put her in the car at 5:45. Given her inclination toward the unconscious in any mode of transport, she remains conked out until we walk off an elevator into a cacophany of clattering plates and clinking bottles and shouted conversations.
We coat-check the car seat and transfer her to the Baby Bjorn, which she's ridden in just once. She wakes up as we navigate the room, face against my chest, blinking into bright lights and a dozen curious faces. (She's hardly immune to the Law of Baby Attraction.) She's actively curious -- what is all this? Only when she realizes she's peed, about 10 minutes later, does she fuss and send M and me into action.
M and I have created a functional babycare team, which is put to the test in social situations. Tonight has unique challenges. Baby A hasn't pooped since Wednesday and is clearly uncomfortable by now (Poopless Day 3), so before leaving for Chinatown we followed my sister's advice and had M drink prune juice. Now we discover the restaurant bathrooms have no diaper-changing areas, so we find an empty table in the back corner, line up a couple of chairs, and conduct a quick change: M handles baby while I unzip diaper bag, grab changing pad and waterproof lining and covering cloth and lay them all down; M lays down Baby A and unsnaps garments while I unzip front compartment and grab wipes and new diaper; M rips open offending garment (still only pee -- sigh) and wipes while I rip open new diaper; I place offending garment in ziplock bag while M arranges new diaper; I reorder diaper bag while M rearranges clothes. Voila: the smiling child is ready to greet her public.
But, no -- now she realizes she's starving. More fussy-child transfers as I take Baby A while M unfastens one side of her undergarment and removes a breast pad and tentatively arranges a modesty scarf, then takes and turns Baby A sideways while I fumble to keep the scarf between inquiring eyes and a nippled breast while trying not to occlude M's view of the baby.
By now dinner is about to be served, and people have begun to join our table. M used to worry about public breastfeeding, but she's become more comfortable blowing off the occasional gaze of moral condemnation, and this crowd evidences nothing but admiration for the madonna-and-child tableau. Feeding over, we take turns dandling baby and manipulating chopsticks.
About an hour later, Baby A looses three brief blasts, which cause all eyes at the table to turn but which we hear as three cheers for prunce juice: Poop poop, hurray! (Can juice metabolize so fast?) Diaper change, Part II. That we're in mid-meal causes us mild consternation, and bending over the chairs is a pain. But either no one cares or they're too polite to object. (Later, M wonders why we didn't commandeer the lazy susan: "Just move those soup spoons, will you?") Besides, it's true that the shit of breastfed babies doesn't stink.
M and I agree that the teamwork forced upon couples by a baby cannot compare to anything that life has yet required. OK, we planned our wedding together, and that took some cooperation. But it was little more than a series of discussions and a couple of editing sessions where we hashed out our vows. And we've traveled together, which means picking itineraries and navigating airports and maneuvering rental cars in foreign cities.
But helping helpless Baby A requires cooperation of a different order of magnitude: dozens of tiny decisions and maneuverings to negotiate, every new environment a different set of variables. And almost from the start we've plunged Baby A into lots of new environments. At Day 6, less than four days after M and Baby A returned from the hospital, we rode trains (Long Island Railroad, Amtrak) from New York to Washington, D.C., then hired a car to enable M to attend a vital work event. It proved harder on M than on Baby A, who mostly slept (let's hear it for gently rocking trains) and took every bump with equanimity. A colleague of M commented at how smooth the two of us seemed in feeding and changing her. It hadn't felt smooth; primarily it had felt terrifying, trying to anticipate all the potential mishaps. But by now, four cross-country flights and another D.C. trip and several parties and meals and whatnot later, it's no longer terrifying. And indeed, I feel a new closeness with M, similar to that of a valued double-play partner who one knows will be in the perfect spot to receive the throw, and who will bail you out if the toss is errant.
By 9 p.m., though the dinner and speeches are continuing, we three have had enough and get in the car for home. Another night navigated.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Mommy Works While Daddy Tends Baby
3 mos., 5 days old
4:07 a.m.Up after changing Baby A at 3:30 a.m. A good night for her, having last received a new diaper around 10:30 p.m. Five hours ties her personal record for sleep between changes. Came up with a new song that I'll try to remember: a slow, wave-like melody to lift her from the soggy dreams that leave her thrashing. ("Oh Baby A, it's time to wake up and change your diaper, then come back to bed and get some loving, from mother and father, who love you so, who love you so.") Unambitious lyrics, but she seemed to like the tune. For a while I was trying "Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me" (or is it "waken to me"?), but I don't know many more of the words, and too often it left her squawling throughout the change, uncertain of her surroundings. I don't take well to being the cause of her distress. This tune seemed to wake her gently and left her smiling and kicking calmly on the diaper pad before being returned to M's breast -- the best of possible nighttime changing outcomes.
Yeah, she sleeps in our bed. It's a point of some debate in (and out of) our household. Much more about that at some point. I get up to change diapers, a modest trade for M doing all the feedings.
5:03 a.m.
Diaper Change #2. Cluster peeing often happens after long stretches without urination. The little song received a blustery welcome this time, but she soon settled down and smiled at me during the second or third Repeat Chorus (i.e., the entire song).
Yesterday, the first test of our eight-month, Mommy Works While Daddy Tends Baby experiment, was rough. We'd just returned from a week of family visiting on the West Coast, and after a hard day's flight no one had slept well, least of all Baby A. Well, no: least of all M, who wakes (at least a little) at the slightest infant stirring. So M, who'd wanted an early start, instead got a couple of catch-up hours between 7-9 a.m., and then awoke discombobulated and overwhelmed by considerable work duties (which, with a couple of exceptions, had been ignored for a week, in an unprecedented relaxation of her typical vacation practice). Then she started answering emails in bed, and between feedings and phone calls and whatnot, she didn't even get up to pee until about 11 and was still in her robe at 1:30 p.m. The "whatnot" included at least a couple of snippy exchanges with me, including over control of the menu for a work-related dinner we're hosting Friday night. I offered to ease her burden by assuming all responsibility for the dinner -- planning, shopping, cooking, the works. She responded by worrying that I'd experiment and avoid well-trodden recipe ground, which I often do (that is, experiment) and which she dislikes when guests loom and her priority is to minimize potential culinary disaster. I responded by calling her in so many words a control freak, which in retrospect was not only a moment of Pot Calling Kettle Black but also a poor Conflict Avoidance Strategy. When she finally left the house at 2:15, having departed abruptly after calling down to me in the basement (I responded with a snotty "Give me one minute, I'm putting things in the dryer" -- then, "Hey, she's pulling out of the driveway at a speed that indicates ill-repressed rage"), I was glad she was gone.
Post-departure, things don't improve. I buckle Baby A into her car seat, attach it to the stroller and head out on our usual 30-minute route around the neighborhood, a sure-fire way to induce sleep. But for the first time in my stroller experience she cries for 10 solid minutes, despite (because of?) my repeated efforts to return her pacifier to her mouth. I've forgotten my gloves, and my hands are stiff. She has on a onesie and a beanie and a hooded snowsuit and her warmest blanket, but the wind is up and the temperature is about freezing, and maybe she's just cold. I give up and turn toward home when she falls asleep; I veer back toward our usual route along Shore Drive, but the wind is whipping up whitecaps on the Sound and she stirs under her blanket, so I scurry leeward and, shortly, home.
I keep her in the car seat, and she sleeps for more than an hour while I catch up on a week's worth of email and scan the Times online. She awakes bawling, and after a change of diapers fails to stop the cries, I defrost a 2-ounce baggie of pumped mother's milk by running it under hot water for a couple of long minutes, bouncing her in my left arm and singing nonsense to keep her fussing to a minimum. With an occasional assist from my pinioned left hand, I uncap her bottle, untie the twist tie, unfold the baggie, pour the defrosted milk into the bottle, rescrew the bottle top, grab the boppie pillow from its perch atop the playpen, pull out a chair, scooch up to the kitchen table, wrench the boppie around my waist, lay her down, tip the bottle into her mouth, and pour a good half-ounce of milk onto her chest. That "rescrew the bottle top" step needs work. Now she's really crying, and she wants no part of the bottle. Well, she wants some part of it. But she's offended, outraged even, whether from the presence of the plastic nipple or the absence of M or the presence of a milk-sodden onesie or the presence of an increasingly addled and unreassuring father.
Baby A has developed a habit of continuing to complain after we have taken seconds or minutes too long to meet her needs. A nurse at our pediatrician's office witnessed 6-week-old Baby A griping at M's breast, alternating long sucks with furious cries. The nurse seemed stunned. "How old is she? Is that all? And she's talking back to you like that? Has she always done that? Ooo-ooo." Her voice rose on the second "ooo," like someone calling "soo-ey!" She shook her head, staring as Baby A continued to suckle and squawk. "That girl, she's, she's a..." The nurse rifled her internal thesaurus, searching for something that wouldn't sound as pejorative as "she-devil" or "hellcat" or "bitch." Finally she said, "She's going to be a leader!"
Now our leader is whipped up, and while she takes an occasional suck at the nipple, she's putting more energy into her cries. Every time she catches my eye she's stirred into a new frenzy of rage. For a while I try to avoid her gaze, keeping my eye pinned to the clock whose second-hand drags unaccountably. This confuses her into silence, but only for about 45 seconds. Then I try to shield her eyes from looking at anything at all. (I'm recalling M's description of Baby A's "private nursing" when she brings her tiny hand up to M's nipple, as if to shield her suckling from the world's gaze.) This only refuels her outrage. Finally, less than one ounce downed, I decide to head upstairs to change the wet onesie and endure more long minutes of screeching while I put on a new outfit and a vest to warm her up. By this time her cries have taken on the shuddering aspect that says her grief is unassauageable. We return downstairs and again wrestle with the bottle -- she's not having it. Finally, I resort to the "5 S" routine known to followers of pediatrician Harvey Karp as a way to calm the most perturbed baby. In this crisis I don't take the time to swaddle (S No. 1), but I put her on her side (2), give her a pacifier to suckle (3), jiggle my legs and "shake" (4), and intone loudly, directly into her ear, over and over, "Shhhhh" (5). The goal is to recreate conditions of the womb, where the ambient noise is as loud as a vacuum cleaner. Baby A resists mightily. Trying to keep her unswaddled hands at bay and her pacifier in place requires a minimum of three parental hands, or creative use of one's thighs and forearms. After 10 minutes of rassling, Baby A gives up and falls into fitful sleep, her brow creased into the look we call "Consternation Girl."
M returns from work early, apparently in a better mood, and we go out to dinner with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew, whose visit to NYC ends tomorrow and who've spent the day in ignorant bliss watching Kevin Kline play Cyrano de Bergerac. We sit down at our nice neighborhood Italian place, and as we listen to the waiter run through the specials I can feel M's anger rise. In the wake of Baby A's birth she's become allergic to a raft of foods -- wheat, nightshades like tomatoes, peppers, potatoes, and eggplant, any cheese with a rind, red wine, pistachios, more. I'm pretty sure she can eat the fish special without breaking into a throat-closing rash, but she apparently disagrees. These days, almost every time she eats she gets cranky -- quite a change for a woman who's always loved food. What with her job in an unusual pressure-filled state, her days are often filled with angst and unhappiness. Then Baby A poops for the first time all day, and it stains both her onesie and vest. No one's remembered to bring the diaper bag. So I grab a piece of sourdough, wipe up some olive oil, grab the car seat with Baby A in place, uncheck my coat, pay the parking attendant, and drive home, venting the entire time to my child about her mother ("When is she finally going to resign herself to her limited food options? I know it sucks, but, shit, I can't take the sighing and the silent moping every fricking time we sit down to a meal. I'm telling you, Baby A, my patience has about run out.") When I pull up to the house four minutes later, Baby A's fast asleep. For some reason, this brightens my mood. I change her and return to the restaurant, and we have a lovely meal. M enjoys the fish without reaction. Baby A sleeps peacefully right through to her pre-bedtime feeding. Later, in bed, over her sleeping body, I tell M about our baby's response to my car rant, and we laugh.
6:14 a.m.
Diaper Change #3. Cluster peeing, indeed. Nothing but coos to the new song. A keeper.
4:07 a.m.Up after changing Baby A at 3:30 a.m. A good night for her, having last received a new diaper around 10:30 p.m. Five hours ties her personal record for sleep between changes. Came up with a new song that I'll try to remember: a slow, wave-like melody to lift her from the soggy dreams that leave her thrashing. ("Oh Baby A, it's time to wake up and change your diaper, then come back to bed and get some loving, from mother and father, who love you so, who love you so.") Unambitious lyrics, but she seemed to like the tune. For a while I was trying "Beautiful Dreamer, wake unto me" (or is it "waken to me"?), but I don't know many more of the words, and too often it left her squawling throughout the change, uncertain of her surroundings. I don't take well to being the cause of her distress. This tune seemed to wake her gently and left her smiling and kicking calmly on the diaper pad before being returned to M's breast -- the best of possible nighttime changing outcomes.
Yeah, she sleeps in our bed. It's a point of some debate in (and out of) our household. Much more about that at some point. I get up to change diapers, a modest trade for M doing all the feedings.
5:03 a.m.
Diaper Change #2. Cluster peeing often happens after long stretches without urination. The little song received a blustery welcome this time, but she soon settled down and smiled at me during the second or third Repeat Chorus (i.e., the entire song).
Yesterday, the first test of our eight-month, Mommy Works While Daddy Tends Baby experiment, was rough. We'd just returned from a week of family visiting on the West Coast, and after a hard day's flight no one had slept well, least of all Baby A. Well, no: least of all M, who wakes (at least a little) at the slightest infant stirring. So M, who'd wanted an early start, instead got a couple of catch-up hours between 7-9 a.m., and then awoke discombobulated and overwhelmed by considerable work duties (which, with a couple of exceptions, had been ignored for a week, in an unprecedented relaxation of her typical vacation practice). Then she started answering emails in bed, and between feedings and phone calls and whatnot, she didn't even get up to pee until about 11 and was still in her robe at 1:30 p.m. The "whatnot" included at least a couple of snippy exchanges with me, including over control of the menu for a work-related dinner we're hosting Friday night. I offered to ease her burden by assuming all responsibility for the dinner -- planning, shopping, cooking, the works. She responded by worrying that I'd experiment and avoid well-trodden recipe ground, which I often do (that is, experiment) and which she dislikes when guests loom and her priority is to minimize potential culinary disaster. I responded by calling her in so many words a control freak, which in retrospect was not only a moment of Pot Calling Kettle Black but also a poor Conflict Avoidance Strategy. When she finally left the house at 2:15, having departed abruptly after calling down to me in the basement (I responded with a snotty "Give me one minute, I'm putting things in the dryer" -- then, "Hey, she's pulling out of the driveway at a speed that indicates ill-repressed rage"), I was glad she was gone.
Post-departure, things don't improve. I buckle Baby A into her car seat, attach it to the stroller and head out on our usual 30-minute route around the neighborhood, a sure-fire way to induce sleep. But for the first time in my stroller experience she cries for 10 solid minutes, despite (because of?) my repeated efforts to return her pacifier to her mouth. I've forgotten my gloves, and my hands are stiff. She has on a onesie and a beanie and a hooded snowsuit and her warmest blanket, but the wind is up and the temperature is about freezing, and maybe she's just cold. I give up and turn toward home when she falls asleep; I veer back toward our usual route along Shore Drive, but the wind is whipping up whitecaps on the Sound and she stirs under her blanket, so I scurry leeward and, shortly, home.
I keep her in the car seat, and she sleeps for more than an hour while I catch up on a week's worth of email and scan the Times online. She awakes bawling, and after a change of diapers fails to stop the cries, I defrost a 2-ounce baggie of pumped mother's milk by running it under hot water for a couple of long minutes, bouncing her in my left arm and singing nonsense to keep her fussing to a minimum. With an occasional assist from my pinioned left hand, I uncap her bottle, untie the twist tie, unfold the baggie, pour the defrosted milk into the bottle, rescrew the bottle top, grab the boppie pillow from its perch atop the playpen, pull out a chair, scooch up to the kitchen table, wrench the boppie around my waist, lay her down, tip the bottle into her mouth, and pour a good half-ounce of milk onto her chest. That "rescrew the bottle top" step needs work. Now she's really crying, and she wants no part of the bottle. Well, she wants some part of it. But she's offended, outraged even, whether from the presence of the plastic nipple or the absence of M or the presence of a milk-sodden onesie or the presence of an increasingly addled and unreassuring father.
Baby A has developed a habit of continuing to complain after we have taken seconds or minutes too long to meet her needs. A nurse at our pediatrician's office witnessed 6-week-old Baby A griping at M's breast, alternating long sucks with furious cries. The nurse seemed stunned. "How old is she? Is that all? And she's talking back to you like that? Has she always done that? Ooo-ooo." Her voice rose on the second "ooo," like someone calling "soo-ey!" She shook her head, staring as Baby A continued to suckle and squawk. "That girl, she's, she's a..." The nurse rifled her internal thesaurus, searching for something that wouldn't sound as pejorative as "she-devil" or "hellcat" or "bitch." Finally she said, "She's going to be a leader!"
Now our leader is whipped up, and while she takes an occasional suck at the nipple, she's putting more energy into her cries. Every time she catches my eye she's stirred into a new frenzy of rage. For a while I try to avoid her gaze, keeping my eye pinned to the clock whose second-hand drags unaccountably. This confuses her into silence, but only for about 45 seconds. Then I try to shield her eyes from looking at anything at all. (I'm recalling M's description of Baby A's "private nursing" when she brings her tiny hand up to M's nipple, as if to shield her suckling from the world's gaze.) This only refuels her outrage. Finally, less than one ounce downed, I decide to head upstairs to change the wet onesie and endure more long minutes of screeching while I put on a new outfit and a vest to warm her up. By this time her cries have taken on the shuddering aspect that says her grief is unassauageable. We return downstairs and again wrestle with the bottle -- she's not having it. Finally, I resort to the "5 S" routine known to followers of pediatrician Harvey Karp as a way to calm the most perturbed baby. In this crisis I don't take the time to swaddle (S No. 1), but I put her on her side (2), give her a pacifier to suckle (3), jiggle my legs and "shake" (4), and intone loudly, directly into her ear, over and over, "Shhhhh" (5). The goal is to recreate conditions of the womb, where the ambient noise is as loud as a vacuum cleaner. Baby A resists mightily. Trying to keep her unswaddled hands at bay and her pacifier in place requires a minimum of three parental hands, or creative use of one's thighs and forearms. After 10 minutes of rassling, Baby A gives up and falls into fitful sleep, her brow creased into the look we call "Consternation Girl."
M returns from work early, apparently in a better mood, and we go out to dinner with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew, whose visit to NYC ends tomorrow and who've spent the day in ignorant bliss watching Kevin Kline play Cyrano de Bergerac. We sit down at our nice neighborhood Italian place, and as we listen to the waiter run through the specials I can feel M's anger rise. In the wake of Baby A's birth she's become allergic to a raft of foods -- wheat, nightshades like tomatoes, peppers, potatoes, and eggplant, any cheese with a rind, red wine, pistachios, more. I'm pretty sure she can eat the fish special without breaking into a throat-closing rash, but she apparently disagrees. These days, almost every time she eats she gets cranky -- quite a change for a woman who's always loved food. What with her job in an unusual pressure-filled state, her days are often filled with angst and unhappiness. Then Baby A poops for the first time all day, and it stains both her onesie and vest. No one's remembered to bring the diaper bag. So I grab a piece of sourdough, wipe up some olive oil, grab the car seat with Baby A in place, uncheck my coat, pay the parking attendant, and drive home, venting the entire time to my child about her mother ("When is she finally going to resign herself to her limited food options? I know it sucks, but, shit, I can't take the sighing and the silent moping every fricking time we sit down to a meal. I'm telling you, Baby A, my patience has about run out.") When I pull up to the house four minutes later, Baby A's fast asleep. For some reason, this brightens my mood. I change her and return to the restaurant, and we have a lovely meal. M enjoys the fish without reaction. Baby A sleeps peacefully right through to her pre-bedtime feeding. Later, in bed, over her sleeping body, I tell M about our baby's response to my car rant, and we laugh.
6:14 a.m.
Diaper Change #3. Cluster peeing, indeed. Nothing but coos to the new song. A keeper.
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