Maternal aphasia: Week Thirteen

Last night when my swaddled baby boy was brought to bed by Josh, I couldn't bear it and may have wept a little. I told Josh that I don't know if Abe will ever sleep in his own crib, because the joy of that moment, when he is brought in, wrapped and sweetly sleeping with the most pure expression of relaxation on his face, is something that will be very, very hard to give up. That, and the fact that he's probably the last of a series. Between the cost of living where we do, and the fact that pregnancy is hard on the body, and perhaps that I can't fathom keeping good track of three kids, even though my parents did, I think we're probably done reproducing. Which makes me sad, naturally, as the weeks of Abe's short life start piling up behind us. My body is capable of such an incredible feat, and I'm not going to do it again? I am going to need to mourn this for a while.

But not on Abe's watch. This baby is one of the happiest I have ever encountered. My cousin's second son was also similarly smiley last time we saw him, and I remember wondering how it was possible. It is possible. Abe can be screaming his head off when he's about to get a diaper changed, but as soon as the dirty diaper comes off, and he feels the cool air on his bottom, he calms immediately and starts smiling, cooing, provoking us to smile. I'm a junkie for it, and when I'm with both kids I guiltily prolong diaper changes just to soak up more of those smiles. He's got what can now be called the family smile, the one that comes from Daddy, and starts in the eyes.

Jonah is being "very three," but occasionally, like yesterday, we have days that are good through and through, when whining and screaming is at a minimum and the cooperative, easygoing, fun to be with kid that he is never leaves the building. Yes, he did slap his brother earlier this week, and he ran across a street without stopping when I asked him to today, but the angel on his shoulder protected him from the latter, and Mama Bear scolded him for the former, and we still love each other. In fact, we have a new thing we say, which he starts: "I love you ONE." "I love you TWO." And so on until he gets tired of it (we never get to ten). Earlier this week we were invited to a dinner that didn't start until quite late, and other kids from his school were there. I peeped in to the kids' room at one point late in the evening (we didn't get home until 11) and found two six-year-olds sitting on the bed and interrogating Jonah thus: "What do you LOVE? What do you like TO DO?" Poor kid was so tired and confused that he didn't answer. When I repeated the question for him, he looked up, blinking, and said in a tiny voice, "I love... bagels?" Moments like that, and when I watch Jonah holding Abe's hand and becoming a loving and sweet big brother in front of my very eyes, make me feel idiotic for mourning the fact we aren't having more kids.

Maternal aphasia: Week Eleven

I knew the blog would start to lag. Apparently even a once-a-week check-in is a tall order these days. I get to the end of the day grateful for nightfall, for Jonah's bedtime, for Abe's big sleep, but wondering when the thank you notes will get written, when the laundry mountain will start eroding, when I will have time to plan my next move.

Abe is the best little sleeper this side of the Mississippi. He starts his night in the swing (tonight I didn't even have to switch it on), and then between 11 and midnight, Josh makes the daring attempt to transfer him to our bed. Last night, his virtuosity shone through, as he needed to CHANGE SWADDLE BLANKETS while attempting not to wake Abe, who had already started fussing. The operation was a success. Though I was smug in the knowledge that if it hadn't been, there was a bottle of milk I'd just pumped in the fridge, and I would have been able to go to sleep while my milk filled Abe's little belly in another room.

When he's awake, Abe likes staring intently at the ceiling fan, gesturing at it with wild hands and legs. He is sure it is sending him a message.

Jonah has been challenging us on a daily basis. Today I had to cancel another planned outing, to the library, due to insubordination in the ranks (he jumped down each step of our crumbling, treacherous outside stoop, despite my warning him at each step not to). But I tried really hard to keep calm, and even though he initially went ballistic and I thought he'd hurt himself bashing into walls or a door, he finally did settle down and we had a quiet talk about what happened, followed by some very sweet time reading together (while I nursed Abe) and then working on a new jigsaw puzzle.

It really helps when I don't lose perspective. It helps even more when I don't feel 100% invested in the plans that get canceled. Last week, when we were supposed to go to IKEA for apple cake and then take Jonah's scooter out on the Red Hook piers, I was much more disappointed when I had to cancel it, and this made me less patient and less loving.

In other news, it seems that ten weeks postpartum was the charm this time around. I haven't bled in almost two weeks. I wish this meant that my old clothes suddenly fit, that I had some semblance of a libido, and that the heavens opened and the angels sang. But not having to wear pantiliners or pads anymore? I'll take it.