kdiddy.org

This post is part of the Mo’ Babies Shower Extravaganza. Catherine put a call out for posts reminiscing about the first days that people had with their babies as a gift for a few mamas who have new little ones getting ready to make their debut.

The first night that the baby and I were home from the hospital was probably one of the toughest nights of my life. I’d had a c-section and I was still in a lot of pain and somewhat immobile. The baby had slept for a long time in the days leading up to that and I vaguely hoped that we would have a smooth night as we adjusted to feedings and whatnot.

Nothing seemed to go right. He wouldn’t stay asleep no matter what we did. He was fussy and didn’t want to nurse. I thought my breasts might explode.

I can remember hobbling into our bedroom with him and plopping onto the bed. I finally sobbed and confessed to the husband (then the boyfriend) the thought that had been whispering in the back of my brain for nine months but that I was too ashamed to utter: “I don’t think I can do this.” I was sure that the night would never end, that I would never get any of the rest that I so desperately needed, and that I had made a grave mistake.

The husband looked at me and bluntly said, “You have to. You have to do this.” It wasn’t gentle and it didn’t necessarily make me feel any better. But I did it. I nursed him and soothed him and finally, as the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, we fell asleep.

The husband woke me up hours later. My eyelids creaked open and I squinted at him through the pale sunlight. It was almost noon and he had to go to class. He asked me if I wanted him to put the baby in his crib. My brain was still scrambled from exhaustion and pain and I worked to interpret his question. “Baby? Crib. I was asleep.”

My eyes finally drifted from the husband’s face to the tiny boy curled up next to my chest. I think I forgot that he was real, that he was actually here with me and would be my son every morning when I woke up and every night when I fell asleep, forever. He was so small. He’d rejected his sleeper during the night and was dressed only in a diaper and an undershirt. His arms were only an inch or two around and his hospital bracelet worked to cling to him still until we relieved it of its duty. His hands were curled into fists the size of marbles and his chest rose and fell with his satisfied breaths.

“No, he’s okay,” I finally replied. The husband and I smiled at the baby. He finally headed to class. I pulled my child closer and went back to sleep.

*As a special bonus gift, I present to you the Pittsburghese pronunciation of “showers.”

Last night, I twittered: “on second glass of wine. Have ditched pants entirely. Onto the dishes.” Reviewing that now, I realized that it sounds like I ditched my pants physically onto the dishes, which is just not what happened. I poured myself my second glass of wine, removed my pants, and then started to do the dishes. I just really wanted to clear that up. I am a lady, after all.

Anyway, Jwan was over last night and we watched Platoon, crossing another movie off of my Fundamental 80s Movies list…which doesn’t really exist in any physical format and we should really write these things down before we forget and I go another 20 years without seeing Risky Business.

Afterward, I went to bed and fell asleep HARD and slept through three events:

– The husband woke up at 3 a.m. because he smelled something strange and realized that our house was filled with some kind of smoky fog (smog, I guess). He scurried around for a few minutes, trying to determine if we were on fire, before noticing some emergency vehicles a street away and realizing that there was some fire over there or something and that we were okay, fire-wise.

– The baby got up some time later and came into our room to tell us that he needed to go to the bathroom and started farting. I do recall hearing the husband say, “Do NOT poop your pants,” but apparently was not alarmed enough to see to any impending (literal) shitstorms.

– My alarm clock going off.

I told the husband that this obviously means that he, alone, is on save-the-family detail since I can’t really be bothered.

To be fair to myself, and it’s my blog so I get to do that, it’s a dreary, rainy day and I really think I should get an award for getting up at all. I also fed my child, dressed him, put him on the bus, showered and dressed myself all in under an hour. Actually, now that I think of it, I’m going to walk to Starbucks and reward myself with a Pumpkin Spice Latte. ‘Tis the season and I need to get started on my pumpkin-flavored-junk addiction.

If you’re a parent or a caregiver for a child, does your kid have a schoolmate or friend that you just CAN’T STAND?

I ask because, oh my god, the baby has this school friend that he’s just apeshit over and I really do not like the kid (henceforth: That Kid). I feel bad saying this for a number of reasons. That Kid is only six years old; it’s probably too soon to pass judgment on his character, but it’s really not looking good. That Kid has older siblings who are tweens/teenish and I’m sure that they’re infusing him with all of their assholish behaviors right at this very moment. That Kid’s mom is pretty nice. And I know that many women marry and/or breed with total dickwads, so it’s possible That Kid’s dad just sucks.

In other words, life is like that. I just don’t understand why MY kid has to associate with THAT Kid. They were friends last year and I vaguely remember the mom telling me that That Kid was moving to a different school. And we said, “Awww,” when we really meant, “See ya!” But, lo and behold, That Kid was there on the first day and (&#%*(&%(#()#@)*(!!!!

Since last year, my kid has picked up a number of really shitty behaviors from That Kid, including such gems as:

– making fun of the way Chinese (Chinese being, I’m sure, a generic term for all Asian people) speak, resulting in this totally charming My Little Racist routine full of really offensive shit that I probably don’t need to, and will not, spell out for you. This was especially awesome when we were on vacation and the Beijing Olympics were on. The baby, in front of my dad’s friends, would whip this out and I would just die right there. Shit. Just call him Tom Cruise and make him the Last Samurai.

– hating the Indian kid in their class FOR NO GOOD REASON. I know this is starting to sound like White Guilt Hour on kdiddy.org, but seriously, racism is never cute, especially not in little kids, and I’m really pissed that this pint-sized bigot is hanging around mine.

– Earlier this evening, the baby said, “Today, That Kid was doing this *gives me the finger*.” Dude, seriously? SERIOUSLY? Look, I know that I have a mouth but the baby KNOWS that he’s not allowed to swear yet. As far as I’m concerned, he has not yet earned the right to toss fuck yous around.

– The baby thinks That Kid is awesome. I don’t want to tell him who his friends should be, but the baby knows that I don’t really care for That Kid and I’ve encouraged (though not demanded) him to play with other kids more often.

Argh, I don’t know what to do. What I want to do is talk to That Kid’s mom, but like I said she seems pretty nice, which makes the whole, “The fruit of your loins is rotten,” conversation THAT much more awkward. And also, why can’t she just raise a non-sucky kid? BLARGH.

Please tell me that I’m not the only one with this problem…

(L to R: first day of pre-K 2006, first day of kindergarten 2007, first day of first grade 2008)

First grade. The baby’s never been too traumatized by starting school. On his first day of preschool, waaaay back in 2004, I cried the whole day. How could I not?

Last year, when he got on the bus to go to kindergarten, I cried. I was used to the whole school thing, but that was the first time I had, you know, put my kid on a big vehicle with a stranger.

This year, all systems go. No tears. No anxiety. We’re old pros. The only hiccup was that we have a new bus company and a new bus driver this year and they apparently do not believe in the dry run. They were a half hour late and apologized profusely but dude, you could have scoped this all out yesterday don’t you think?

So, I was late for work and the husband was late for class AND we had to swing back past the bus stop because I left my coffee mug there. Which is funny because as I was setting it down I thought, “I’m going to forget this here. NO! I won’t. I will force myself to remember it.” Which I did. When we got back home. I would have been distraught if it was lost forever since my dad brought it home for me from Caffe Ladro in Seattle and he made a big deal about it.

But all is well.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about the first day of school that I had back in 2001, when I was about 6 months pregnant. It was rough. I was 22, grappling with a lot of emotional difficulty, on top of feeling not very cute. I remember walking past the clothing stores and lamenting all of the cute fall clothes that I was missing out on in favor of some barfy selections from JC Penney’s lackluster maternity line.

I stuck out like a sore thumb at school, squeezing myself into writing desks and letting my professors know that I was due right around finals. I huffed and puffed up and down the steep stairs of the Cathedral of Learning. The other students stared or ignored me.

The next semester I could be spotted toting my baby with me to my advising appointments or frantically trying to stop my milk from soaking my entire shirt.

Obviously, the baby can’t remember any of this. But I think that in some unconscious way he remembers me sucking up my usual fears and social anxiety in the face of a really awkward situation. I hope that that courage will stick with him through many more first days of school.

Husband’s classes started yesterday. Mine started today. The baby starts first grade (the FUCK?!??!) on Thursday. So far, so good.

I’d forgotten how relatively awesome it is to only take one class per semester. I looked at my syllabus today and didn’t have a total breakdown. That seems like a step in a healthier direction. I felt so relatively unstressed about the whole thing that I got all cavalier, like, “Pssshhh! I’m practically AUDITING this shiz!” and then realized that the prof had asked a question and I am, in fact, taking this for a GRADE for my MASTER’S and daydreaming should mayhaps cease for a few hours a week.

We went to the baby’s school tonight for their “welcome back” thingy that they stupidly scheduled to begin at 5 (hello? jobs?) and met his teacher. Weirdly enough we went to high school with her. She is actually two years younger than me which is a little wild. And she has a gigantic engagement ring.

This is pretty much all I know about the woman who will be educating my son this year. I win.

With all of this stuff going on this week, I’ve been a little more frazzled than usual. I’ve had to go to these interviews for candidates for this upper-level admin position at my job and today I successfully made an ass of myself in front of the candidate by a) showing up at 3:45 when I was scheduled for 3:15 b) busting into his previous meeting thinking I was a few minutes late and startling the woman he was speaking to c) smugly asking a question about something on his CV and then realizing that I had grabbed the wrong CV.

I should have just rolled with it. Been like, “Tell me about this initiative that you started…What do you mean ‘what initiative?’ You don’t have an initiative? Aw, man. That’s a problem. You should really have an initiative.”

I shall perfect my mind games.

Well, I think I can officially say that I am homesick. I mean, I really like it here. We get to sleep in a king-sized bed and I know that the wheels are now turning in my head to try to figure out to make that a reality in our daily life even though those suckers are expensive. Then, of course, there is the beach and all its glory. We’ve had near perfect weather everyday. The sand is incredibly soft (but HOT in the middle of the day), the water is nearly clear and the waves aren’t harsh at all.

But I miss relaxing on our ugly couch at the end of the day. I miss our cat. But I know that I need to shake this off since before we know it, we’ll be home. And really un-fun things like school and work will start bearing down on us.

I’m sure part of it is the aforementioned snarky menses. But I think there’s something else eating at me. Our last few summer vacations have been spent with Tracey and her family. They were supposed to come with us on this trip, too, but couldn’t. I think they’re definitely my “beach buddies” and I’m really noticing their absence. Perhaps I’m “homesick” for the long tequila-and-Fresca-fueled chats that Tracey and I have and the companionship between M and the baby that prevents both of them from getting beach dementia.

For instance, I don’t think the baby would have tried to pick up that gigantic table lamp just now if M were here. Ahem.

After yesterday’s episode of bank drama, I needed a release. The husband and the baby and I had had plans to go to Kennywood for a little bit. Originally, I was going to leave work a little early so we could get some decent hours in, but since I had to spend nearly two hours at the bank, that wouldn’t work.

So they picked me up, we debated whether or not it was worth it since it was nearly 5:30 at that point, had an argument, and I cried again, all in the space of about five minutes. Then the husband got all alpha male and declared, “FUCK IT, WE’RE GOING,” and I replied, “OH YAY I CAN’T WAIT TO SPEND TIME WITH MY ‘LOVELY’ FAMILY! CAN WE SCREAM AT EACH OTHER THE WHOLE WAY THERE?”

We all eventually settled down and when we got there, the excitement over the fact that it was the baby’s first time there took over. As far as he knows, it’s the greatest place on Earth. And really, I’m not inclined to disagree. Summer really isn’t summer if it doesn’t include a trip to Kennywood.

The baby is obviously still pretty little, so our four-hour trip was from a small person’s perspective. We didn’t ride the Thunderbolt or the Phantom’s Revenge, etc. But we did take him on the Pirate Ship, which I think he found both thrilling and terrifying. I looked at him when the ride hit top speed and thought, “Man, it would really suck to find out right now that he barfs on thrill rides.” But he held it together, even if he wasn’t clamoring to ride again.

We did get to take him on the Jack Rabbit a few times, because everyone should experience the feeling of “Oh my god, I could actually die while on this rickety, wooden thing from 1921.”

It’s too bad it was such a short visit, but I found that some fries, some ice cream, and screaming my lungs out helped me get over my crappy day. And seeing the baby experience such an integral part of childhood was just…awesome.

So, I went to Conneaut last week…

There were bugs, including this beetle and a flying ant that I inadvertently ate while celebrating my cousin’s birthday. Said ant landed on my chocolate ice cream which I inserted into my gaping maw. I felt a little pinch, which I guess was the ant’s way of saying, “WTF ARE YOU DOING?” I spit him out, but it was too late. He was dead. I mourned him by eating more chocolate ice cream.

There were also bug parts, like this wing that landed on my towel and captivated me so.

You recognize my kid, of course, but the short, drunk-looking guy in the foreground is my baby cousin. He is very cute and likes to cuddle, but he drools a lot. He is the youngest of seven (SEVEN) boys.

I’m kind of over babies at this point in my life, which isn’t to say that I don’t like them, but before I had one I would always go apeshit over them and want to hold them and change them and blah blah blah. Then I had a baby and let me tell you, the novelty of all of that wears off somewhere around 3 a.m. the first night. Now I hold a baby for about 30 seconds and I’m like, “Yeah, I’m good. Here, take this. Is there more beer?”

But this little guy had me quite captivated. It might have something to do with the huge (moist) hug that he gave me. My heart might have melted a little.

Ring Pops for lunch…because we were on vacation and I just couldn’t care.

I scored 100% on “My Name Is Jonas” on the medium level of Guitar Hero III. This may not be an astonishing accomplishment, but the husband and I have been trying to best each other at this song for awhile. I took a picture because he was not around when it happened and I knew he wouldn’t believe me. We have a healthy relationship.

My kid and another of the seven brothers (who will need seven brides at some point, I guess). They look all sweet and precious here, but they were actually in the middle of an epic whinefest that included the longest recitation of, “STOP IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT” ever.

Ain’t it quaint?

I don’t know this guy, but he sat on this bench for the longest time, just quietly taking everything in. I like to think that he stared at those clouds and watched the kids play and reflected deeply on his life.

Or maybe he was just taking note of how hot the lifeguard was.

On our last night we went to dinner at the Stable Pit and Pub, which is this Western-themed restaurant and bar smack dab in the middle of Pennsylvania. It’s very corny and I love it. They have one cottage that they rent out and you can get a romantic getaway package that features champagne service, a Jacuzzi and a mirrored ceiling. I reminded the husband that we never went on a honeymoon, so maybe he’ll surprise me for my birthday. Because what better way is there to turn 30 than in the countryside of Pennsyltucky with cowboy paraphernalia a few feet away? Fingers crossed!

Anyway, they arrange their creamers in this little flower formation and I just thought that was the cutest thing ever.

As soon as we got home from Conneaut, the husband and I headed to Alto Lounge to hear our friend Tony play records. He was headed back to the Navy on Sunday and it was his birthday, so it was all kinds of bittersweet.

Yeah.

This French guy was there and told everyone that he had traveled to Pittsburgh, “in ze canoe,” and demonstrated his rowing technique through some interpretive dance. The sister-in-law found his antics hilarious, but then realized that she probably sounded exactly like that dude during her time in Argentina. “Me llamo Bolt. Yo me gusto Pittsburgh. N’at.”

After we left the club, we saw the French dude approaching random people sitting on their porches. The husband, who had heard all about ze canoe at length, hissed at us to cross the street. Luckily, Shadyside has plenty of alleys that one can sneak through when escaping odd French men. And I think Pittsburgh needs to promote that aspect of our fair city much more.

Earmark of a good Saturday: Your son calls from the bathroom, “Mum! I have diarrhea. Come wipe my butt.”

Oh, gee, can I?

Our 4th of July was alright. I spent most of the first part of the day rolling around and moaning. I had a horrible headache and allergies, but once I got my act together we went to a picnic/graduation party for a cousin of mine. The baby joined a game of wiffle ball and I got pretty happy about the fact that he felt comfortable just playing with some kids he didn’t know. I could never do that when I was a kid. Hell, I can’t do that now.

We stopped by the mother-in-law’s house and tried to figure out where to go to see fireworks. The sister-in-law got a text message from her friend, Maria, and we remembered that she lives on the South Side Slopes with an amazing view of downtown. We sped over there and when we stepped onto one of her THREE decks we saw:

Pretty, no?

The fireworks themselves were kind of meh. I kept trying to take pictures but my little digital camera really isn’t up for low-light and long exposures. I got a few alright shots, though:

When we got home, the husband and I watched Assassin of Youth. When Incredibly Strange Video was going out of business, I bought a bunch of campy old drive-in movies about young women with loose morals and a few movies about the devil reefers. They’re kind of entertaining, but they get tedious after awhile. Plus, it’s just downright infuriating that people still kind of think that way.

And obviously the depiction of high school life in the late 30s, before the word “teenager” really existed to describe people of that age group, is somewhat exaggerated. But imagining a life where listening to 78s and doing the Charleston was the general idea of a wild Saturday night was kind of depressing.

Also, these movies were made purely for the propaganda/shock factor, so there wasn’t a whole lot of time to worry about the plot making sense.

In a similar vein, we watched most of Brazil on Thursday night. I really, really wish I could psychotically love that movie the way everyone else does. But it’s just SO weird. Everyone and everything in that movie makes me feel vaguely sick and it reminds of some long not-quite-terrifying nightmare I would have had as a kid. The soundtrack does kick ass, though.

Ahhhhh….tee-ball is over. And I finally got a shower for the first time in, uh, a few days. This day is shaping up to be a success, provided I can kick this writer’s block for the paying gig to the curb. And if the husband can rouse himself from this epic nap that he’s taking, we can go to see Wall-E.

Speaking of my husband (the charming guy making that interesting face in the picture above), he almost got into it with one of the moms this morning. We were watching the baby’s team practice, and the coach tossed the ball at a kid who held his glove out all weird and nearly got his block knocked off. The husband commented that it was a lousy throw, but that the kid needed to hold his glove up better. Just observations, not, “Oh my god! That kid needs to step it up or we’re going to lose the championship and then I’ll have to berate my kid to ease my insecurities about my failures in life.” Like, TOTALLY NOT being one of those parents. But apparently, the coach’s wife was sitting next to us and said, “Hey! That’s my husband and my kid out there! Thanks a lot! You know, everyone has a bad throw from time to time.” The husband and I just kind of stared at her. We all sat there uncomfortably for a few minutes until she finally huffed off.

Yeah. I’m really glad that tee-ball is over. Even if it means that I have to wait a whole year to see the baby in those huge helmets.