Definitely better than reality TV
The New York Times tackles “mommy blogs” today in an article called “Mommy (and Me)”.
The world’s most thankless occupation, parenthood, has never inspired so much copy. For the generation that begat reality television it seems that there is not a tale from the crib (no matter how mundane or scatological) that is unworthy of narration. Approximately 8,500 people are writing Web logs about their children, said David L. Sifry, the chief executive of Technorati, a San Francisco company that tracks Web logs. That’s more than twice as many baby blogs as last year. …
What is remarkable is that being a parent has inspired so much text and that so many people seem eager to read it.
Wow. Remarkable? I may be biased [just a little bit], but my kid is the most fascinating topic I can think of to write about. And other people are “strangely obsessed,” too, so there must be something to it. I know, I know, Supafine has become even more mundane and scatological than it was when I was writing about my ass and the Back Porch Ritual, but it’s the quotidian details that hook people into blogs anyway, isn’t it? I know y’all aren’t reading for deep insight into foreign policy or anything. You just want to know if Owen pooped.
Boy howdy, did he ever.
Happy Suburban Life
So Carole and Tom and baby Cassie came over for dinner last night, and it was truly bizarre. These are the people we used to go out and get plastered with, drinking Yuengling and shooting pool, and here we all were, drinking Warsteiner and discussing baby farts.
Maybe it wasn’t quite so weird. But still. We actually went so far as to lay the babies side by side on a blanket on the floor so that we could photograph them: The First Meeting. Owen kept slapping Cassie in the head with his fist, but neither really seemed to notice. And since she’s two months older than Owen, Cassie looked like a giant diesel dyke baby next to his puny newborn self, like she could totally crush his hopes and his dreams and his femur if she so desired, which luckily for us, she didn’t.
We’ve all decided that when it comes to be prom time, the kids are going to make their finery out of duct tape so they can win that 3M duct tape scholarship. They might be dorky and dressed in tape, but that scholarship should cover whatever is leftover after they score National Merit Finalist money, which they’ll totally do because they come from very smart stock, trust me.
The kids will have more time to get to know each other when we all get together for genteel, beery playdates over summer vacation.
Ooh, the naughty stool! The good thing about Owen’s sleeping/feeding schedule is that it leaves open the important 10 p.m. time slot so I can watch “Supernanny,” my new favorite show. God, I could listen to Jo Frost talk all day long. Say “naughty” again! Say it again!
What a face: In addition to his extraordinarily advanced neck muscles, he has the most expressive face ever. And he’s just so damned cute. How did we make something so damned cute?
Slowly normalizing
So I’ve lost more than 25 pounds in the last three weeks. Technically, I’m back to my pre-pregnancy weight — well, one of my pre-pregnancy weights, the one where I was unemployed and wearing fat pants. And technically I can button a couple pairs of pre-pregnancy jeans, but I can’t wear them — on top of cutting off my circulation, they display my new poochbelly far too well. So I’m still wearing maternity clothes, but they’re gloriously loose and roomy now.
I wore makeup for the first time in many many weeks yesterday, and took the time to blow-dry my hair and make some sort of attempt at looking presentable. I think I need my hair cut, but I don’t know where to go or what to have done. And lord, it really needs dyed again; the wiry grays are spreading rapidly, converting more and more of the rational brown strands. Yowsa.
Owen’s sleep patterns are much more predictable these days, with the exception of last night, when he was up every two hours again. Iain took over the night feedings last night to try to give me a least a little chance to catch up on sleep, but I think the end result is that now we’re both exhausted. I just can’t sleep if I hear Owen fussing, so instead of only one of us waking up, both of us do, and that doesn’t do us any good. On the other hand, though, it doesn’t seem fair that I can never get more than three hours at a time, but I suppose depriving him of sleep doesn’t earn me any more.
Owen’s skin is looking much clearer and much less red, although it’s still in that peely stage. His eyes are a slightly lighter blue than the indigo they were when he was born, but it’s still a toss-up whether he’ll go ice-blue, like Iain, or muddy green-hazel-grey, like me. He’s outgrown several sleepers already, and yesterday he wore his first pair of pants! His mysterious hangnails, which he had when he was born, are gone and his hands are now beautiful and smooth on the backs, though now they’re bumpy on the palms. He’s pooping again, though not with any regularity. In fact, I think he’s doing it right now. Woo hoo.
The house is still a mess, but I’m not that concerned. We’ve ordered a recliner [which I think would have been great to have at the end of pregnancy, but who’s counting] which should arrive on Tuesday. I haven’t seen what it looks like yet, so that’ll be a nice surprise. We just have to figure out where to put it.
And tonight Carole and Tom are coming over for dinner, and bringing Baby Cassidy, who’s two months older than Owen. It’ll be Baby’s First Date. I mean, first Play Date. I’m not totally planning their senior prom or anything.
Quiet again
Mandy went home this morning. I hate goodbyes; we have to go so long between visits that it’s always extra depressing. But I should count myself lucky that I got her for a whole week, and that we can still spend hours at a time talking about everything and nothing. Iain invited her to move in with us, but considering she’d have to leave her husband and move 8 hours to do so, I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Nice thought, though.
The other option would be for her and her husband and our fam to move to the lush green hills of Athens, Ohio, home to OU and “broccoli trees” and good old-fashioned Ohio values. We could have a happy little house right next door to their happy little house and when they have kids their kids could play with our kids and all would be awesome.
That’s not likely anytime soon, either, considering we just bought our house here. So we’ll just have to keep making do with phone calls and occasional visits. You take what you can get, right?
Sighs of relief
He pooped! Just thought you’d like to know.
In other news, there’s a Crablogs meetup tonight at 6:30 pm at the Thirsty Dog Pub, 20 E Cross St.
NOTE: This actually happened Tuesday. I am way too out of it to be advertising meetups, I think.
One of these days I’ll have to start going to blogger meetups again, especially since I can drink now. … Hey! I can drink now!!
My Constipated Baby
Great title for a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, huh?
So apparently the formula I put Owen on has caused his insides to jam up harder than 95 at rush hour. He grunts and groans and cries and turns red, but nothing will bring on the poop. This is a very sad thing.
So I called the doc and she gave me a few remedies, including “rectal stimulation” by means of inserting a thermometer up the bum, kid-size suppositories, and apple juice as a laxative.
Obviously, we went with the A.J. first. Didn’t work. So I found myself, at 6 a.m., trying to gently and lovingly put a vaseline-coated glycerin suppository up my three-week-old infant’s butt.
Thank God it worked; the little thing shot right out again, along with two days of baby poo. I’ve never been so happy to see a dirty diaper.
You know, nobody ever told me I would have to put things up my baby’s butt. That was not in the job description. But that’s motherhood, I’m learning: loving somebody so much that you’d stick something up their bumside to make them more comfortable. Wow.
Unfortunately, Owen’s been grunting and groaning and turning red again today, even though I switched formulas, and it’s been 25 hours since his last poop. I really, really hope he brings one on naturally, because as much as I love him, I do not want to have another Suppository Experience. I don’t really think he does, either.
Succor
Whew. Mandy, the old college roommate/BFF, arrived safely from Ohio last night, despite the quarter-inch of snow and resulting logjam on the Beltway. She’s been an absolute doll, helping me clean the house and feed the baby and generally stay not-crazy. Even better is when Owen is sleeping, and we’re sitting around in our PJ’s, reading ‘Parenting’ and dishing about stuff. I miss her so much. Since we live so far apart, it’s nice being able to just hang like we did in college.
Sometimes I kind of miss having a roommate, y’know? Someone to swap clothes with and paint nails with and talk about girly stuff. Iain is perfectly willing to oblige, but there’s something missing there. Plus, he looks awful silly in my jeans.
Anyway. Owen slept pretty well last night, so I feel good this morning. We’re gonna fry us up some catfish for dinner [it was free] and see where the night takes us.
I’m a slave 4 U
Jesus Christ, I’m tired.
Though Owen was sleeping for 4 hours at a time at night during Week One and part of Week Two, he’s now waking up hungry every two or three hours, which means I get one or two hours of sleep at a time.
Here’s 24 hours in the life of Owen James, aged two weeks and 5 days.
12:45 a.m. Wake up, Mama! I’m hungry! Change the didie, make a bottle, feed him with the lights low in the nursery.
1:30 a.m. Put him in his cradle in our room, try to go back to sleep.
3:45 a.m. Hungry! Diaper, bottle, cradle, sleep.
5:15 a.m. Iain wakes up, prepares for work.
6:45 a.m. Owen wakes up. Try to pretend he’s just fussing. Not happening. Try not to cry. Diaper, bottle, cradle. Sleep.
9:05 a.m. Telemarketing phone call. Tell salesperson to fuck off. Baby’s awake, anyhow. Change diaper. Realize can’t make a bottle because have no sterile bottles, and he’s going to scream his head off for the next 20 minutes as I boil a set of bottles, rings, nipples and lids, then try to figure out the powdered-formula directions. Stomach growls — both of ours.
10:45 a.m. Baby kind of quiet. If I don’t eat now I’m going to pass out. He falls asleep right after I finish my Coco Puffs one-handed [he’s in the other].
11:45 a.m. He’s hungry. Kind of. Time to eat, anyway. Feed him a bottle, and he passes out after an ounce. I ain’t havin’ that, so try to wake him up for the other two ounces. He finally complies, sleepily.
Noon. Baby asleep! I GET TO SHOWER NOW! Put him in his carseat in the bathroom so I can keep an eye on him.
12:30-2 p.m. Dress, sweep kitchen, tidy living room, vacuum back room, make bed, put clothes away, eat lunch, try to update web site … oh, he’s awake now.
***
3 p.m. Baby’s sleeping. Dr. Phil.
4 p.m. Ooh, still sleeping. Oprah.
4:30 p.m. Iain comes home. Baby wakes up. I pass him over to dad, consider napping. Finish Oprah instead. Iain enthusiastically takes the baby, feeds him, stares at him for a while, awed by his cuteness. Tries to explain to him Steelers football.
6 p.m. Realize we need to figure out what’s for dinner and who’s cooking. Ugh.
7 p.m. Cook pasta [again] and eat it in front of The Simpsons. Feed the baby, too. But not pasta, obviously.
8 p.m. Carefully scope out prime-time TV. [No-TV lifestyle has gone laughingly out the window. Can’t read while holding baby, no attention span for movies, so network TV it is. Plus, am hoping the constant noise will enable baby to be a sound sleeper later. Cross fingers.] Get sucked into 5-year-old movie on WB, or American Idol.
10 p.m. Bedtime.
10:05 p.m. Baby wakes up. Diaper, bottle, cradle. He cries, wants to be held. I hold him. He stares right back at me. His eyes start closing, opening, more and more slowly until he’s asleep. I stare at him for a few minutes … he’s so amazing. Lay him in his cradle. He wakes up. Sheesh.
11:15 p.m. Baby is finally asleep, though making noises. I try to sleep, but my head is filled with things that need to be done, things I should have done, guilt over being a bad mother, wondering how to build a reasonable sleep schedule for him, panic that I may not sleep at all tonight. Finally, I fall asleep, for an hour and a half, until Sweetie wakes me up again.
The schedule isn’t too bad until about 6 a.m. That’s when it’s the hardest to wake up and take care of him. Mostly, though, taking care of him — fulfilling all his little baby needs — is strangely calming and comforting. And usually I believe that I’m doing a good job, but boy, that 6 a.m. feeding is a bitch.
Nonetheless, Owen! Mommers loves you! Time to eat!
They spinnin’! They spinnin’!
Dang. It’s still snowing. Looks to be about four inches so far, several more expected.
About two hours ago I drove to the ever-popular CVS to buy formula and snacks, and the going was treacherous. There were two inches on the ground, and my little car couldn’t get any traction. The county does not appear to salt, sand or plow our street, and nobody drives in his own lane anymore, and now we live on a hill, so things could have been disastrous, but as a veteran Ohio driver I am confident of my abilities behind the wheel in a snowstorm, so this was cake.
And now we get to hole up in our happy little house with Tato Skins, the gas fireplace and Julia Child, and relish being snowed in. Woo hoo!
Comments are fixed!
If you’ve tried to comment on this site any time in the last couple of weeks you were disappointed, because comments were broken. And the birth of my baby is like the last time I wanted the comments feature to be busted!
Well, turns out I had made a mistake in installing MT Blacklist [the thing that stops all the penis drug people from leaving comment spam on my site]. My brain is finally rested enough to think computers and I was able to debug successfully today, and now comments work again! Hurrah!
So feel free to, you know, comment. Or not. Or just bask in the knowledge that you could if you wanted to. I feel relieved, at any rate.
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