Three
Happy birthday, Squeaker.
Time has that peculiar slipstream effect that leaves me feeling that my pre-baby life was so long ago that it’s become kind of hazy and indistinct, and yet it seems like just moments ago that you and I were snuggled in that hospital bed, with me marveling at your tiny fingers and wondering how an earth I was going to know when to bathe you, change you, and nurse you. I remember having to call the nurse to have my bedding changed because when I tried to change your diaper for the first time, you peed all over me and all over the bed, while screaming bloody murder.
And when I think back to those first few weeks, I mostly remember both of us crying on the couch, you because you couldn’t figure out how to nurse, and me because I didn’t know babies could be that clueless about nursing, and then you’d fall asleep in hungry exhaustion and I’d have to wake you up. That sounds like it would be easy, but you were a determined sleeper, and I remember resorting to cool washcloths and other methods that you didn’t like at all, only to have you sink back into sleep when confronted with the impossible task of nursing.
I remember setting my alarm for midnight and then 3 am and then 6 am to feed you. (What was I thinking? Why didn’t I listen to my mom about letting sleeping babies lie?) I remember wondering if I was going to be tired forever.
I remember wondering how I was ever going to have time to shower or eat or use the bathroom. Still haven’t figured some of that out, but at least I’m less frantic about it.
But despite my anxiety and my amateur mama status, you got bigger and bigger. You smiled, though you never cooed or babbled. You always seemed too focused for that. You crawled, scooting around the house with that determined expression. You became an expert nursling, able to nurse anywhere anytime.
You talked. All animals were “woof woofs,” and then just four-legged animals, and then just dog-like animals. You learned to stand, falling backwards spectacularly, with no effort to catch yourself and with mama or papa scrambling to get there before you smacked your head on the floor. Then you walked, surprising even yourself with your new mobility.
Now you tell me stories and sing songs. You think things are funny or sad or silly. You know every toy in your toy box – and where you got it. You ask questions that amaze me. And you are, like your papa, full of solutions. You are never at a loss for some idea of how to fix something or resolve a problem – “We could take a helicopter to Australia. Is that a good idea?” When I think back to us crying on the couch together, I wonder if it would have helped if I had known then how much fun you’d become. Or what it would feel like when you gave me a big “mooch” and said while you loved papa a lot, you loved me a SUPER LOT. Or what it would be like when we were snuggled in the bed together, your little blond head tucked under my chin and your expression utterly peaceful.
Three seems so BIG to me, even though I know you are still very little. I guess that’s because I know how very little you once were. Happy birthday, weetpea.
Time has that peculiar slipstream effect that leaves me feeling that my pre-baby life was so long ago that it’s become kind of hazy and indistinct, and yet it seems like just moments ago that you and I were snuggled in that hospital bed, with me marveling at your tiny fingers and wondering how an earth I was going to know when to bathe you, change you, and nurse you. I remember having to call the nurse to have my bedding changed because when I tried to change your diaper for the first time, you peed all over me and all over the bed, while screaming bloody murder.
And when I think back to those first few weeks, I mostly remember both of us crying on the couch, you because you couldn’t figure out how to nurse, and me because I didn’t know babies could be that clueless about nursing, and then you’d fall asleep in hungry exhaustion and I’d have to wake you up. That sounds like it would be easy, but you were a determined sleeper, and I remember resorting to cool washcloths and other methods that you didn’t like at all, only to have you sink back into sleep when confronted with the impossible task of nursing.
I remember setting my alarm for midnight and then 3 am and then 6 am to feed you. (What was I thinking? Why didn’t I listen to my mom about letting sleeping babies lie?) I remember wondering if I was going to be tired forever.
I remember wondering how I was ever going to have time to shower or eat or use the bathroom. Still haven’t figured some of that out, but at least I’m less frantic about it.
But despite my anxiety and my amateur mama status, you got bigger and bigger. You smiled, though you never cooed or babbled. You always seemed too focused for that. You crawled, scooting around the house with that determined expression. You became an expert nursling, able to nurse anywhere anytime.
You talked. All animals were “woof woofs,” and then just four-legged animals, and then just dog-like animals. You learned to stand, falling backwards spectacularly, with no effort to catch yourself and with mama or papa scrambling to get there before you smacked your head on the floor. Then you walked, surprising even yourself with your new mobility.
Now you tell me stories and sing songs. You think things are funny or sad or silly. You know every toy in your toy box – and where you got it. You ask questions that amaze me. And you are, like your papa, full of solutions. You are never at a loss for some idea of how to fix something or resolve a problem – “We could take a helicopter to Australia. Is that a good idea?” When I think back to us crying on the couch together, I wonder if it would have helped if I had known then how much fun you’d become. Or what it would feel like when you gave me a big “mooch” and said while you loved papa a lot, you loved me a SUPER LOT. Or what it would be like when we were snuggled in the bed together, your little blond head tucked under my chin and your expression utterly peaceful.
Three seems so BIG to me, even though I know you are still very little. I guess that’s because I know how very little you once were. Happy birthday, weetpea.
posted by Blue Moon Mama at 7:56 AM
5 comments
