Sunday, June 29, 2008

Time flies when you're being held hostage

Punk turned six months old this last week.
Hardly seems possible that only six months ago, she was a blobbish lump in my belly, causing me to beg for mercy and meds from perfect strangers on the street.
Now she's here, and it's as though we've never not had this little child.
We've always been held hostage by her infantile demands for food, clean swaddling, and attention. We've been without sleep long enough that the days and nights are a muddle of spit up, feedings, and longing gazes at my husband still sleeping in the bed.
I step away from the pillows. Barely. Otherwise I might smother him.
It seems as though I've always known her smile, or how her chubby baby thighs dimple just so, or how she smells and sounds.
She is the child I was meant to have.
I just didn't know it.
I've discovered that when we're pregnant, we have all of these dreams and illusions about what our baby will look like, be like, and be.
And when they arrive, all of that fades away, because we've always known that they would just be them, and isn't that perfect? (Delirium helps with these thoughts. So do the post delivery pain meds. Trust me.)
Punk is just what she was supposed to be, all 25 inches of infant terrorist that she is. And she has me wrapped around her fat little baby finger.
She knows it.
I'm so screwed.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Saying goodbye

A very sweet man passed away Friday.
My husband's grandpa, Marvin.
He was a good man, working hard his entire life to provide for a very large family. And, even though I loathe my husband's family, I will miss his grandpa. He was always exceptionally good to my husband, maybe because he saw things that others missed, such as a little boy who was very much alone and wasn't loved the way all children should be.
Blessed be, sweet man. Don't worry about your boy. I'll take good care of him. I promise.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Things to think on

"Mommy, my pee pee likes to go in the potty--it goes swimming!"

My baby's growing up!

Not only can Punk roll, grab her fat little feet, and almost sit up, she's now reaching for things, scooching to get where she wants to go and . . .
My last little baby heathen is growing up much too fast. And she's happy to do it.
I feel myself agin every second, growing more and more decrepit because my baby's are pushing their way out of the nest, one toe at a time.
Bug will be four this year.
Boo is potty training.
Bug is finally finishing potty training.
Punk is just looking less like a cuddly newborn and more like a baby hell's angel.
I'm going to go lay down.
I just can't face this now.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Baby Bloodsucker

Punk has recently begun giving any Anne Rice vampire a run for their money.
You guessed it. She's teething.
We'll be semi happily nursing along (see a prior blog about wrestling and nursing) and all of a sudden she attacks.
(The next reality show: When Babies Attack!)
My poor, defenseless nip, who is sacrificing herself for the greater good, is the unsuspecting victim of the frenzied, shark like fury of a biting baby.
I've only been through the beginninG stages of teething. By this time, the boys had moved on to bottle, sippie cups, and the greener pastures--and poops-- caused by baby food. Not Punk. She's clinging to the breast with all the ferocity of a mollusk.
No one is taking away her nip.
So now I'm stuck with the jaws of life clamped into my breast and I have no clue what to do. Squealing makes her laugh, which results in another taste. I don't want to scream and scare her, although she scares me to death when she gets that look in her eye!
So where does that leave a woman, other than sacrificing a pound of flesh to a baby barracuda who loves little meat with her milk.

Think on it

"Mommy, the poopie wants to come out, so we gotta let him out!"

Have you ever noticed

That when someone has an injury, like, I don't know, the loss of parts of two fingers, everything you say seems to have a double meaning?
For example:
"I can't quite put my finger on it."
"Let's deal with the problem at hand."
"Do you need a hand?"
"Can you give me a hand with this?"
I'm sure you can think of more.
I'm just tired enough, punchy enough, and still semi panicked enough that my deranged, sleep deprived mind finds these sayings sickly funny.
I checking myself into my padded room right now, don't worry.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

The call

There are certain calls you never want to get. The collection agency calls, the loss of a loved one calls, your child has been injured calls.

All very bad.

This past Friday, the ringing phone woke me out of a dead sleep. Answering it, I expected to hear my husband telling me that there was a tornado in tow and to take cover.

I was all ready to gripe at him for waking me up for a measly tornado.

Instead, it was his work.

"There's been an accident."

And all I could ask was the horrible question, so afraid of the answer, "Is he all right."

"He just cut off the tip of one finger."

One semi panicked call to my mom to watch the kids and I was on my way to the hospital, telling myself that it couldn't have been that bad. But if it wasn't bad, why the ambulance ride?

Turns out it was not just the tip of one finger, it was two fingers all the way to the first knuckle.

One surgery and a hospital stay later and we're discovering everything you need two hands to do. (He still has two hands. One is just heavily swaddled.)

How do you tie your shoes with one hand?

Wash your back?

Button your pants?

Pick up a dropped bit of candy while your good hand is holding the bar?

Think about it.