Bellies and Bicycles

I knew fatherhood was going to be work. I was under no delusion that this was going to be a walk in the park. But even still, I was unprepared for just how all-consuming this business would be. Before Oliver came along, I had these grand plans to successfully juggle parenting, my day job, escape room design,  and the publishing and self-marketing of a handful of novels. It would be tough, but dammit, I would manage somehow. In reality, however, each day is a challenge to see if I can make a shower happen.

But, of course, it is also exceptionally rewarding. He isn’t doing anything particularly impressive, but it’s amazing to see what baby steps he is making each day (which, it should be noted, do not yet include actual baby steps). He has started smiling and laughing because he finds something amusing, and not just because his facial muscles are wigging out. He’s developing arm and leg rolls, which I hope he works off before high school, but for now are a fantastic indication that he’s healthy. When I sit him on my lap, he stretches and stiffens his legs as if in an attempt to stand, and he almost succeeds. He has been voted “Most Likely to Stand Erect” by his peers. (Note: his peers are the cats)

I’m also picking up some tricks of the trade, and already feel like an old pro in some departments. I can remove his diaper, apply a pee pee teepee, wipe his tuchus, apply Desitin, and stick him into a new diaper with the speed and precision of a NASCAR pit crew. Where once I was terrified of even holding any baby, now I can adjust, lower, rotate, or spin my child into the desired position with impressive dexterity. And I’m quickly figuring out what to put him in when I need him to chillax in a hurry. We have a mamaRoo - this thing should be absolutely required for all babies. It’s expensive (thank goodness for generous friends), but more essential than diapers. Let them stew in their own shit for four months, but by God, get them a mamaRoo.

Our favorite thing at this point is figuring out what entertains him. As of now, the most hilarious thing in the world to him is to have someone rub his stomach while saying, “belly...belly...” and then grab his feet, moving them quickly in a pedaling motion, while saying “bicycle bicycle bicycle bicycle!” It started as a doctor-recommended way of regulating his bowels, but he doesn’t know that. Or he does know that, and it’s what he finds so funny.

He is also still mystifyingly fascinated by our ceiling fan. It’s not even on. But for some reason, he’s obsessed with five nondescript wooden fan blades. Makes me feel more confident that he won’t find us totally boring.

Well, I hear him beginning to stir and grunt in his mamaRoo, so I should probably stop writing and attend to him. Infants and lengthy blog posts do not go hand-in-hand.

"One thing they don't mention in the parenting books:  

Your love for them grows the closer to dead they look." - Tim Minchin

The Night of Five Times

One month down. 218 more until he's out of the house.

I keed, I keed. Certainly, these first four weeks have been trying at times, but also wonderful. We have this super-adorable kid who appears to be mine; he makes the cutest cooing sounds, he doesn't roll his eyes when I make a pun, and he thinks the ceiling fan in our living room is the coolest thing ever (it's not even on). Even if he wasn't related to me, I think we'd be good friends.

BUT.

Several days ago, I volunteered to take the entire night shift, since Erin had been putting in the bulk of the time, what with me being back at work, and she seemed as if she could use a break. I came to this conclusion after I found her outside in her pajamas one morning watering the garage.

I figured I would be tired the following morning, but I did not realize until the wee hours of the next day how truly tired a human being can be. Oliver slept maybe a total of two hours; I slept less, since I was startled awake by every grunt and gasp and oddly timed giggle emanating from the bassinet. All told, he woke up five times during the night. Here's how that went.

WAKE-UP #1: 1:15 am

I wasn't actually asleep yet at this point, so it wasn't too bad. Once he started majorly fussing, I picked him up, fed him, changed his diaper, rocked him a bit, and put him back down at around 2. Within seconds, the little angel was slumbering soundly.

WAKE-UP #2: 2:30 am

I'll be honest - I was a little peeved. Who only sleeps for half an hour, other than someone crashing in their car in the parking garage during lunch? However, I couldn't be too upset, because it quickly became clear that he had not had enough to eat during his last wake-up. Hey, as long as there was a good reason. I gave him another ounce-and-a-half of milk (almond, because this is L.A.), walked around with him for about fifteen minutes to calm him down, and put him back to bed.

WAKE-UP #3: 3:30 am

At some point, you just have to start assuming that someone is fucking with you. There was something sinister in his crying now, almost as if he were saying, "Aw, boo hoo, you have to take care of me again. Isn't your life fuckin' hard? Change me, dick." Well, change him I did, and while it was not quite the catastrophic event I described in a prior post, it certainly put me off Thai food for a while.

We also began to play the game "Am I Hungry?" in which he pretends he's hungry, takes one suck of the bottle, and closes his eyes. Then, when I try putting him down, he opens his eyes wide as hell and starts screaming bloody murder as if he's trying to alert Child Protective Services to inform them of my pattern of neglect.

By now, I was pretty damn tired. I was in a bit of a fog, and had to worry a little about being conscious enough to hold my child and not drop him. Which is a scary feeling. Especially when you have bad carpal tunnel and need to keep switching arms.

Finally, however, at around 4:45 am, he mercifully fell back to sleep.

WAKE-UP #4: 4:48 am

JESUS HOLY MOTHER OF THE LORD OF FIRE. What happens in the space of three minutes that makes a newborn brain go from "the world is a soothing, relaxing place and I am eager to nourish my budding mind with repose" to "the goddamn sky is falling and sleep is the enemy and I need you to attend to all of my needs IMMEDIATELY"?

I know you're not supposed to let them cry it out at this stage of their development, but I'll admit that I did lie there for a good two minutes, listening to him wail, hoping that A) I was asleep and dreaming, B) he would soon wear himself out, or C) there had been a recent dingo sighting in the vicinity. When it became obvious that, instead, he despised me and would not relent, I stumbled, numb and confused, to the bassinet, and extricated him from what was seemingly a bed of burning coals. I fed him, and changed him, and stuck a pacifier in his mouth, and fed him again, and rocked him, and took him to look at the moon, and wiped a gunky thing out of his eye, and fed him again, and explained in scientific terms why the human body needs sleep, and put him back to bed. His eyes remained open for some time, as he taunted me with his alertness, but eventually he succumbed to nature, and started to snooze.

WAKE-UP #5: 5:50 am

There's an enhanced interrogation technique called "sleep deprivation," and it's used by many governments around the world, and it is a form of torture. It is frowned upon with good reason.

Who was I, where was I, and why was someone trying to murder me with awakeness? His crying by now had become just another setting on the sound machine - a prolonged, monotonous frequency of bedlam. Without even remembering getting out of bed or crossing to the bassinet, I somehow had him in my arms, and was swaying back and forth, unsure whether it was an attempt to comfort him, or to maintain my balance immediately after having been roofied.

I fed him, and changed him, and pleaded, and put him in a swing-y thing, and read him a book, and wept uncontrollably, and passed into an alternate state of being, and returned, and fed him again, and googled "orphanages," and put him back to bed. Somehow, he slept.

There was no way I could wait around for wake-up #6. I regretted failing in my well-intentioned effort, but I went to the guest room where Erin was sleeping, woke her up, and informed her that I was losing my shit. I apologized, and then asked if she could take over for the next hour or two before we got up. She thanked me for trying, and said that yes, of course she would help.

Because she has been tracking Oliver's eating patterns, she asked me if I remembered how much he had eaten, and when. I said that I had given him 300 ounces every four minutes for one year. She jotted it down.

He's starting to get on more of a schedule, and we've resorted to tag-teaming it a bit more, rather than either of us trying to take the reins for an entire night. Which is a good thing, because I don't ever again want to be tempted to feed my son to a cat.

He only sleeps during photo shoots.