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.