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| Because I want to see Wrex's head asplode...   | | |
| This, that, and the other. Whatever "other" is.Yes, I'm still among the living. Thank you to you sweet folks who wished me a happy Mother's Day. It's funny, I guess I was technically a mother last M-Day, too--I just didn't know it yet.
Things are going well. Nate's turned into more of a little person instead of a screaming machine. It's nice to spend the day with someone who doesn't act like he hates your guts and yet needs you constantly.
We had fun scary blood tests to determine why Nate was so skinny. Right after they were done, we started supplementing with formula. The kid gained a pound and 6.5 ounces in a little over a week. Yeah. So now he's chunkier and growing out of things and the doctor's happier, and we know there's nothing wrong with him and he doesn't have cystic fibrosis and maybe now will not be labeled "failure to thrive" hallelujahandamen.
For all my "I'm not set on one thing or another" approach to parenting, I still had a hard time with the decision to supplement. I don't mean actually making the decision--apparently, my kid needed it, and that trumps my ego in a big way. But it was a little bit of a blow, knowing that I wasn't producing enough to feed him what he needed. He was growing, but not putting on much weight. My breast milk alone just wasn't enough to put him over the hump. Which sort of made me feel like a bit of a failure. It was kind of silly to feel that way, but I did, and in some ways, still do. But in the end, my kid is healthier and happier, and that makes me happier. Plus, I don't have enough time to wallow in self-pity or guilt. The kid probably needs to be changed.
It's funny; I've always been very diplomatic. It's easy for me to see both sides of almost any issue, and argue from either side. Now I straddle the fence between formula and breast milk, and feel the criticism leveled at both sides. And isn't it ridiculous, at the end of the day, to get all up in arms about what other people are feeding their children? Why do we make it so hard for ourselves and for other parents? Isn't it hard enough without the judgmental bullshit about things that have absolutely no bearing on our own lives?
Okay, I'm sure I was leading up to something somewhere, but Herr Grumpenfuhrer is calling. He's been watching Baby Crackstein and pooping. That's the only negative thing I'll say about formula--formula poop stinks, yo. Baaaaaad. And now I get to go wipe it off my kid's ass.
Bonus picture taken on Saturday:
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| Adventures in Parenting: Part 1 of, oh, a million.So I've been at this parenting thing for eleven weeks now. I think that qualifies me to have an opinion about it. The thing about parenting is this: it kinda sucks.
Don't get me wrong; I love the sprog. I do not regret having him. I do not wish to have my childless life back. And to be perfectly fair, if the boy could form coherent thoughts and type, I'm pretty sure his thoughts would be "So I've been at this life thing for eleven weeks now, and it pretty much sucks. It's way too bright and cold out here; people talk to me like I'm an idiot; and no one seems to know what I want, even though I think I'm being pretty clear about it."
But actual parenting? Shit, man. It's hard. Especially with an extremely fussy baby. Ninety percent of my time is spent calming the kid down and/or trying to keep him from crying. Everything pisses him off. I'm hoping this is just a phase and not indicative of his eventual personality. Because if this is just how he is, the kid's never getting laid and will be living at home until he's 40.
The thing that really sucks about parenting is all the worry. You worry when your kid does something unusual. You worry when your kid doesn't do anything unusual. You worry when they're skinny, worry when they're fat, worry that anything you're doing might warp the child, worry that poking around inside his diaper and/or cleaning his twig and berries is going to cause him to think, years later, that he's been molested. Parenting makes you stupid. Anything you wouldn't have batted an eye at doing before is now subject to hours, even days, of scrutiny and debate.
You spend the first few weeks (or at least I did) feeling sort of weirdly apathetic about this screaming little alien. You know you're supposed to care, and it's not that you wish any harm to come to it, but good lord, you're responsible for this thing? And it won't shut up, and it can't do anything, and it won't shut up, and will you ever sleep again, and DEAR GOD, WHY WON'T IT SHUT UP. Then, after a few more weeks, you care and love so much that you're terrified that something will happen to this creature who still won't shut up, but is a lot cuter while making noise. It's hard to tell whether this is an improvement over the first stage.
Now that I've developed all the caring and love and worry stuff, I've realized that I'm supposed to teach him things. This is worrying for all involved. What if I teach him wrong? Can I break his brain? Will I inadvertently create a little Ted Bundy? So far, this is my yardstick for parenting. If I don't create a sociopath, I've done all right. My standards are low. Unfortunately, I won't be able to gauge my rate of success for several years, during which time I could still really screw him up. See? Parenting is hard.
Right now, Nate knows how to smile, how to coo, how to roll over from front to back (that's a newly-acquired skill), how to cram his hand in his mouth, how to piss himself off by trying to cram both his hand and the boob in his mouth at the same time and failing, how to avoid naps, how to sleep well at night (it's the main reason I'm even partly sane), how to keep his parents from ever sleeping in the same bed, and how to ensure that he never sleeps alone by acting as though his crib were filled with lava. Things he has not mastered: how to gain weight. He's long and skinny, and freaking me out because he's still not even a pound above his birth weight, though he's 2 3/4" longer and his head's 4-5 cm larger than it was at birth. More worry, including wondering if I'm somehow making skim milk.
And of course, probably the biggest change parenting makes in your life is that you have nothing else to talk about anymore. If someone doesn't want to hear about your kid, you're screwed. You've got nothing. I think I used to have a name other than Mommy. It may have started with an R. Maybe an L? A K? The hilarious part is that it's your own fault that you've lost your name, because the kid sure as hell can't talk yet, so it's just you and your spouse who are referring to yourselves as Mommy and Daddy. You've developed the annoying habit of talking about yourself in the third person.
Now Mommy has to go, because the cat needs attention for three seconds before the baby wakes up and Mommy has to go change his diaper, yes she does! | | |
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