Things I Do, Now (i.e., I'd never do this stuff pre-baby, seriously!)

Since I've had R, I find myself doing things that surprise me, sadden me (as in, pathetic-sad), and even embarrass me. Like:

1. I get into the driver's seat of the car, look over, and find in the cup holder a stale cube of bread (in plastic wrap, I assure you), a leftover bribe for getting R into the car seat without too much back-arching and screeching. I snatch it up, thinking "Jackpot," and devour it, utterly indifferent to the number of days it's been sitting there.

2. I never am able to finish my morning cup of coffee uninterrupted, so whenever I return to it, it's cold. If I made myself a fresh cup each time this happened, I'd drink us right into the poorhouse. So throughout the day, I just keep topping up my coffee with hot water, whenever I have the chance, until by the end of the day, I'm drinking a very translucent brown water for reasons I don't even understand.

3. (a) I often find myself at home, feeling weak with hunger, but unable to do anything about it because the baby's sleeping and there's nothing in the house to eat. I'll occasionally stagger into the kitchen, open all the cupboards, stare into the fridge, confirm there's nothing to eat, and drink some more pale-brown water (see 2 above).

(b) I often find myself out of the house, rushing somewhere, feeling weak with hunger but unable to do anything about it because the baby's awake, but only for the next two hours, and there's just not enough time. There's never enough time.

(c) Alright, sometimes there is food to be had. But there's only so much peanut butter, cheese, and bread a person can eat. Why peanut butter, cheese, and bread? Because these are the things that can be taken out and gulped down in approximately 30 seconds or less. Mind you, gulping down peanut butter or cheese is extremely hazardous, and should never be done unless you have a baby standing at your feet, yanking at your pant leg and wailing. In which case, you'll put your life on the line, day after day. Also, a tip to new mothers: Eat standing. Don't waste those precious seconds on stupid things like carrying the food somewhere, pulling out a chair, sitting down--all that la-di-dah nonsense.

4. I come up with asinine fantasies, such as procuring skunk spray (I've never Googled it, but is there any doubt that somebody sells it online?) and leaking it down into my neighbor's balcony, which is right below our apartment and where she emerges every freakin' hour, from 5am in the morning until 1am at night (okay, there is a short reprieve some time in the middle of the day), to smoke cigarettes. The smoke rises up and for some reason gets sucked into our apartment, if our windows are open. Sometimes it's just too hot and stuffy to keep the windows closed all the time, though, and so I'll open them, the fumes inevitably come rushing in, and when I imagine R inhaling this second-hand smoke, that's when the juvenile ideas start churning.

5. The other day, I microwaved (get your pens out, everyone, this is an original recipe, from me to you) some leftover white rice, then stirred in a handful of frozen peas (thawed with hot water) and half a can of tuna. Ambrosia from the gods--is what you'd think too, after being on a steady diet of cheese, peanut butter, and bread for the past year. I might have even moaned a little, while eating this feast. Oh my god, my stomach just growled in recollection. I need to stop blogging and find something real to eat.

Cute vs. Loveable

I used to wonder all the time whether people with ugly babies realized their babies were ugly and loved them anyway, or were they completely blinded by love...or some biological mechanism that ensures people don't abandon their offspring. So, while I was pregnant, I was very curious to see what I'd think of my own baby.

Well. I can confidently say that my baby is very cute. I'm kidding--sort of. The truth is, sometimes my baby is adorable--like when she's bright-eyed and beaming first thing in the morning. But when she's crying and her face is all pinched, I can admit she's...less cute.

The fascinating thing though is that while I love my daughter every minute, it's when she's at her most awkward or less than photo-perfect--like when she's naked and you can really see how disproportionately huge her head is in comparison to her body (like a Pez dispenser) or the squinty, duck-lipped expression she has, accompanied by emissions of snorts, whinnies, and farts, when she's just woken from a deep sleep--that I feel equal parts overwhelming tenderness and ferocious protectiveness. I think it surely must be a biological safeguard.

Fight!

Had a small-largish fight with my husband this morning. Recently, our magical Fisher Price swing--the only thing my baby girl will sleep in for more than an hour, besides a set of warm arms connected to a walking body--has been deemed too-dangerous by the hubster because the baby's upper body is starting to flop over while seated in it. I think she's trying to sit up without having yet perfected the whole holding-your-own-head-up thing. Anyhow, this means she's back to waking up every two hours in her bassinet (I should be grateful she's sleeping that long in there, since she won't do that in the daylight hours) throughout the night and this left me weaving drunkenly about the room this morning, as I tried to rock her back to sleep after a feeding.

So when she woke up less than two hours later, I asked my husband to take her for a while. If it were me, I'd have picked her up and walked around with her a bit. My husband pretty much tucked her under his arm and tried to go back to sleep. No surprise that she continued fussing. Our daughter is not one of those babies easily placated merely by being close to a warm body. No, it has to be an upright, moving body.

So there I was, trying my best to sleep despite the little cries and sounds of struggle beside me. And then the inevitable words from him came: "Honey, I think she's hungry." My husband is overly enamored by the mighty power of the breast and its ability to instantly quieten our little girl. Unfortunately, this means any time she starts crying, he turns to me to fix it. I think he's terrified of the possibility that he could attempt to comfort her and fail. What I wish is that he would give it a go anyways. He rarely holds her in his arms, always turning to various "tricks"--toys, making loud silly noises, the mobile, and, until recently, the swing--to quieten her. I'm not one to begrudge my baby a little boob comfort, even if I know she's not really hungry. But this morning, I was so staggeringly exhausted, I just wanted 15 minutes more sleep.

If he had just taken her into the living room and tried walking with her a bit, or changing her diaper, or just talking to her (scarcely 11 weeks and she's already quite the chatterbox, especially first thing in the morning), just to give me a little more rest, I would have been so grateful. But in the end, I dragged myself up, the baby ended up back on my breast, and I ended up pissed off at hubby. And he gave me the usual defensive speech about how the problem wouldn't come up if I kept pumped breast milk in the fridge. While it isn't a bad idea, I worry that every time our daughter cries, he'll simply turn to the bottle as a quick fix.