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Two weeks into this thing May 12, 2010

Posted by Erin F. Wasinger in Being a mama, Kind of unreasonable.

Two weeks: Right on time, she’s become a real infant with needs and a fine set of lungs with which to express those needs. I’ve become the overwhelmed, hormonal mess — alternating with the briefly appearing happy, hormonal state — that Dave’s come to know and love.

Violet just wants to be held — no, that’s not true. She doesn’t “just” want to be held. She wants to be held at a 45 degree or 90 degree angle. She wants to be slightly bounced, and she wants the binky. No, she doesn’t. Yes, wait, give it here, Mama. No, never mind. Gagging sounds, cry, repeat. Give me the binky, Mama. GAG.

I’m excruciatingly patient from about 5:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. Then I panic — because if Alice taught me anything at all it’s that infancy can be the longest 12 months of your life — because it’s 10 p.m., I’m tired, my neck hurts from carrying her all day (seriously, my neck? I am that out of shape?), and DAMMIT WHY CAN’T IT BE MIDNIGHT so Dave would be home and I could hand him to her with the same fanfare that I would hand over a sack of flour. BABIES ARE SO NEEDY. (And so are post-partum women, are you catching on to that?)

Yet then I think in a few weeks I’ll have to go back to work and my baby will only remember me quietly tearing up and sniffling over not being able to soothe her, and that’ll cost her a fortune in therapy bills a few decades from now. Oh, Violet.

I didn’t forget how difficult the first few weeks are with a new baby, but I’d underestimated just how much it would suck when I had a crying baby in my arms and it was Alice’s bedtime, and Alice needs the world’s longest children’s book about dinosaurs read to her (WHEN IS THIS BOOK DUE AT THE LIBRARY AGAIN?), and the dog’s dragging its butt on the carpet and suddenly I’m shouting to no one, because he’s at work, “DEAR DAVE: DO NOT TOUCH ME EVER AGAIN.”

As I said, Dave’s really loving this, too.



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