Young Offender

Oh MAN, you guys. First of all, my dad and stepmom are here pretty much waiting on us hand and foot, and it’s EMBARRASSING, but also really fabulous, because we’re eating food that doesn’t come from a package or the freezer. When they asked what we typically did for dinner since Sam’s been home, I had to admit that to date, our culinary adventures involved previously frozen lasagna and Hot Pockets. Last night’s dinner involved pork chops of Flintstone proportions and by the time they leave, we’re going to need to be rolled around our house like Weebles, barely able to care for our wee sprout.

I have managed thus far to shower every other day which I feel is a tremendous accomplishment, but did you know that brushing your teeth is bizarrely challenging? I know! SO GROSS. AND I DO NOT KNOW WHY THIS IS, especially because until last Friday, I’ve flossed every day of my entire life. Perhaps it’s that my hair is CLEARLY messy and in need of washing, whereas my mossy teeth are only noticeable by me. I don’t know, but we are in dire need of an oral hygiene intervention, stat.

We interrupt this tirade for a moment of baby cheeks:

Dude, this kid looks JUST LIKE her father and as I mused on Flickr, if I didn’t push her out myself, I’d wonder if she was mine.

I’ll tell you though, I don’t know if I’m still on a hormonal high or what, but I’m still enjoying this far more than I expected. So much so that I almost cried this morning when I noticed that her hands have already gotten bigger and that she’s growing and becoming more alert every day. HOW DARE SHE.

Also? She’s close to rolling over on her belly already. SHE IS NOT EVEN TWO WEEKS OLD, WTF.

This is … well, this is the best, most fun thing I’ve ever done, and I’m shocked that I feel that way. I mean, yes, it’s relentless, and when I change her diaper for the 4,567,950th time at 4 a.m., it feels like I am never, ever going to be able to sleep again, much less get my hair cut or leave the house alone, but the trade-offs have made those feelings seem hilariously minor when I look at the big picture. The only time I felt remotely trapped was when I saw the panic in my husband’s eyes when I told him I was running across the street (seriously, like two-hundred feet) to the store for some, uh, maxi pads, so he didn’t have to. I was gone fifteen minutes, but you’d think I was gearing up for a LIFETIME AWAY, such was his terror — not that he’s afraid to be alone with her, but because he can’t feed her … more on that later.

Anyway, the fact that I love it already makes me feel guilty, like by saying it’s enjoyable for me, I’m discounting the experiences of those it isn’t easy for, which, OMFG no. This shit is HARD, yo, and I think a lot of it is that I have an exceptionally easy baby by some stroke of dumbass luck. (Seriously, WTF? I AM NEVER LUCKY.)

(Please don’t get colic, Sam, and ruin this miraculous thing we’re rocking here. PLEASE. THANKS.)

Sigh. I am a guilt-machine, what can I say.

I am breastfeeding, as a few have asked, and I didn’t know it was possible to feel guilty for that, too, but I do, especially since it’s been relatively easy for me, because by saying that I don’t want to imply that I think it should be/would be easy for EVERYONE, but that there are a select group of lucky biological factors at work here that make it easier, and that if those factors weren’t at play, I could see how it could be a massive suckfest of epic proportions.

I mean, to be clear. I have not and will not turn into one of those breastfeeding zealots who insists not on whipping out her boob on the floor of Target and makes a daily political statement by boycotting Denny’s and screeching about it every chance she gets.

Not that there’s anything, uh, wrong with that, but this is one area where there seems to be absolutely no public middle ground and it makes me INSANE. I … I cover up when out in public, and even at home with my parents, because really, I don’t care how “natural” it is, it’s still MY BOOB, you know? I enjoy it (I KNOW WTF WHO AM I) and am surprised by that fact, but I still don’t give the slightest rip what anyone else does, because I don’t think it matters in the long run. And if nothing else, I have even less tolerance for those who are intolerant, if only because I can now at least say I’ve been on one side of the whole shebang.

In other words, my feelings on all of the big stuff haven’t changed, no matter what my personal experiences are. I’m still me, and thank God.

Speaking of, have I sung the praises of this product yet? I think I’d have lost my mind ages ago if not for the awesomeness that is the original Bebe Au Lait nursing cover. I can be social without having to flash my boob to my father. Miraculous!

At any rate, my head is pounding, the kid is sleeping and I should go join her, however brief the respite may be. Lately she’s had these moments at 3 a.m. where she is WIDE AWAKE and SO HAPPY TO BE UP AND AT ‘EM, and I … well, dude, I’m sorry, but YOU try to ignore an alert, happy newborn with chipmunk cheeks at any hour, no matter how wrong the books tell you it is to indulge her that late. We’re watching plenty of TiVo’d West Wing reruns and the occasional Millionaire Matchmaker, and I think she has a girlcrush on Patti Stanger. I’m trying in vain to talk her out of it.

Happy Wednesday!

*New Order

43 comments March 17th, 2009