Whatever Gets You Through The Night

10 Weeks, 5 Days

"Did you tell him I write plays?"

"Well, I don't know. I'm not sure it came up?"

"You didn't tell him your wife is a playwright?"

"I don't know, honey. Maybe? If I talk to him again I'll mention it. It didn't seem like a natural part of the conversation."

"But he told you what his wife did."

"Yes, but..."

"I'm sorry. Never mind. I just can't think of... I've not done anything but... I haven't been outside of the house in six days."

"I know, honey. I know."

"DAYS."

"I know."

Ren went through another growth spurt this week. We think. The Milk Monster suddenly needed boob every two hours to the point that it gave him terrible gas. One night we spent the entire evening trying to get him to burp. Tears, yelps. Poor little belly. We tried everything from baths to walking the stairs and eventually the three of us ended up laying in a huddle—Greg and I cheering Ren on as he gutturally and audibly pushed. Hours. It's amazing the things we take for granted as adults. Can you imagine a bunch of frat guys after a keg party trying to help each other get a good belch out? Crying, group massages, over the shoulder, bouncing carry-walks...

The first day after Ren's growing jag he slept through the night (and continues to do so, knock on wood). He woke up the next morning a new boy. I swear his hands and feet doubled in size. He is suddenly able to reach a focused arm out at books and toys, he can easily put his thumb in his mouth and grasp things, and he burps like a champ opening his mouth in preparation. He's literally growing up before our eyes.

Next week we introduce a bottle to Ren so Greg or a sitter will be able to feed him. I go back to work in a month and Ren will need sustenance from an apparatus not attached to my chest. I have such mixed feelings about it. On one hand, I'll have the freedom to be within a much wider radius from Ren and our house. Physically and mentally. On the other, we will experience a slight separation. Something we've been slowly doing since his cells started dividing inside of my body. It's a little bitter sweet and of course, a good thing. Ren will see that food can come from more than his mom and I won't have to vicariously remind myself that I write plays.

ante meridiem

9 Weeks

Somewhere deep inside I am pushed gently from a soft quiet to a thin wake
I hear a breath
I hear a whimper
I drag my feet between the sheet and mattress and find the rug
This happens before I'm alive
I find myself standing in a small panic, pulling off the wrist brace I wear to correct my new ache

In his room there is a layer of sound—nature uncovering
I feel my way to a soft light and turn it on
I hum
I hush
I say his name so he knows I'm near
He already knows

I go to him and lift
We are both relieved
I feel a rush fill my breasts
The right one mostly

I carry him across the room, holding him close to my shoulder
I notice he's over my heart
I lay his back in my arm and open my night dress while he whimpers
His eyes move from my face to my chest and he widens his little beak
I move him towards me
His lips hunt until they latch and I am overcome with comfort at his chomping chin
Somehow I am able to keep him alive this way

This magical way

In the dark
I doze
He does the same and I shift to nudge him into feeding again
The picture I look down upon burns into my brain

Milky circles
Glowing in the dim
Warm little circles
A bundle of survival and potential and honest, purest love 

Boca Boca Boca

8 Weeks

8 Weeks, 2 Days

8 Weeks, 3 Days

8 Weeks, 3.5 Days

This week, Ren held a toy: Sophie. He promptly got her in his mouth. (Thank you, cousin Lisa.) Ren also managed to get his thumb in there more often than not—a feat he's been battling since birth. He got his first round of vaccinations, which required an oral dose. It was cute to watch him swallow something without a boob attached. It wasn't so cute to watch him writhe and scream in horror from the shots. Greg and I choked on tears and heartache but his whimpers were over in minutes when we sat on a bench outside the doc's office and fed him. He was pretty cranky for three days after the shots. Especially that same night. Stewart and I sat on the couch with him while he cried. Ren also knows how to kiss. We've been practicing on stuffed animals, saying, "KISS!" bringing them to our mouths, then "KISS!" and to his. He puckers, then opens wide and smiles. When we read to him, Greg now introduces a "KISS!" to the book once the cover is closed. Sometimes Ren giggles about that. It's the most fulfilling sound on the planet.

Ren has BEAUTIFUL eyes. As they say—windows to his soul. You can almost read his thoughts swimming around in them. But this week, I'm especially keen on his sweet, slobbery, smiley, frowny, chatty, crying, happy mouth. He can't speak and has already said so much.

Don't Kill the Rabbit

7 Weeks

7 Weeks, 2 Days

7 Weeks, 5 Days

"...and once they are starving, they learn to kill the rabbit. That's why they chase them around the track."

"That's so sad."

"It's how they do it."

"So cruel."

I'm sitting in the wood-paneled waiting room at the Red Hook Vet holding a trembling Stewart. Greg is outside in the cold, bouncing a hungry Ren on his shoulder. I'm trying to do a life chore without obsessing about the comfort of my new son—impossible. As per the usual, someone asks, 'what kind of dog is that?' and then there is a story about Greyhounds and the cruelties of Greyhound racing. I am always baffled by the evils that humans can perpetrate on the weak. What do we gain? It must be about our egos. The ego needs a lift and it's easier to pull the ladder out from under someone else.

I get in the car, turn around to tell Ren a sing-song 'hello' and let Greg know that Stewart needs a few teeth pulled. Poor Stewart. He's now the second most important tiny creature in the house. We didn't even know he was having a tooth problem until he started bleeding on the new furniture. I wonder how long he's been suffering and think about the waiting room conversation. How would it feel to be the person whose job it is to starve a young, scared animal in a windowless room until they are forced to kill another young, scared animal. Is that trainer just as young and scared? Is his boss? What kind of fear and pain causes that kind of ripple effect? If I were that trainer, what kind of damage would I be doing to my soul? What about the dog? What if YOU were the dog? Would you kill to survive? And what kind of survival is that? To become what someone else wants you to be in order to stay alive. Would you think you had a choice? I see our egos as that human trainer. The ego can do twisted things to our souls in order to keep its agenda.

We have to be careful we don't let fear get out of hand. It isn't good for anyone, especially our children. I keep telling myself that in my sleep deprived, new-mother, new home-owner, new life transitions I must turn off that monster ego craving a 'thank you' or a 'good job' or a 'you're right'—not that I don't hear those things from people I care about, I do—but those things aren't fulfilling to the ego in the long run. Once you go down that road there isn't enough 'good jobs' in the world to make a difference. Let's not do something for the applause (says the actor). Let's do it for the journey, the experience, the good of another and the growing world around us.

Please remind me of this the next time someone criticizes my cooking.

I get by with a little help from my Zens...

6 Weeks

Five New Born Tips

1. Mozart calms babies and your household. Seriously, it works. When you play it, there is a reason it sounds familiar. (Thank you, Greg.)

2. If you ever doubted the swaddle sleeping technique and decide to let your baby go 'arms free' for a week—slap yourself. This woman who graciously shared her adaptation with the Internet should be sainted. (Thank you, Greg.)

3. Baby Wise feed/sleep schedule. It works. You won't realize it until Week 6 but the first time your little one sleeps in the crib for two hours in the middle of the day you will cry with joy and wander the living room wondering why your wrists feel loose. (Thank you drunk lady who told Greg.)

4. Stop freaking out your baby by pulling poopy onesies up over his head. The collar is designed to be pulled down. Yup. Not just a trend started in prison. Check it out. (Thank you Aunt Brittini and Facebook.)

5. Rake leaves. If you don't have a rake or leaves—find them. Go to Home Depot and hit Central Park. Return the rake after an hour. I don't mean 'get exercise' or 'go outside'. It has to be just that. Raking leaves. Do it for an hour and you'll love your self, your partner, and your new kid all over again. You'll see what I mean. (Thank you trees.)

Chiaroscuro

5 Weeks

Here's to future new moms. I wish you lots of luck, love, sleep, patience, good health, friendships, plentiful breast milk, uncomplicated deliveries, happy babies, generous family, and compassionate partners.

Know this:

YOU WILL SURVIVE WEEK FIVE

after...

...picking a fight with your mother.

...obsessing that you are going to be fired when you return to work.

...dealing with a new, unsuccessful afternoon of feeding you will start to worry. You will take baby's temperature, you will sing to him, dance for him, you will take your own temperature. You will Google symptoms and discover disturbing poop color meanings. You will realize it's too late to call the doctor. You will spend your precious and rare sleep time that evening wondering if it was Ebola, something you ate, accidentally rubbed on your body, washed with, or spontaneously oozed. You will spend every feeding after coaching your baby for the Milk Olympics. He will finally eat. He will EAT! All will be well! He will then spit everything up.

...finishing a half eaten apple you found in the living room, you chuckle to yourself recalling having started it the day before. Then you will remember that wasn't you.

...peeing on your own hand while attempting to balance your new born undisturbed, suckling a boob. You will have rolled out of bed at 2:30a and immediately attached him before realizing you should have gone to the bathroom first.

...figuring out how to sanitize one hand with one hand.

...picking a fight with a phone solicitor. 

...obsessing that your friends don't like you anymore.

...realizing you have not eaten a vegetable in three days.

...finally handing your baby to your partner for a few minutes so you can take care of things requiring two limbs, you will look at pictures of your baby on your phone.

...picking a fight with your hairbrush.

...shaving your own ankles for the first time in months you will cut yourself and laugh in a way that troubles you somewhere deep inside.

...cursing at the dog for misunderstanding your joke.

...beginning a sleepy sentence that enlists your partner to change a nighttime diaper, you will choke on the word "help" and repeatedly sob-slobber that word over and over again...

Here's to all mothers and their mothers. Especially single mothers. You ladies deserve a genie in a bottle for every day. And here's to remembering that it's OK to have a hard time. Enjoy the hard times. They're good too. You can't have the light without the [cue: blood-curdling, screaming infant].

What's a Little Air Guitar Between Friends?

4 Weeks

4 Weeks, 6 Days

4 Weeks, 6.5 Days

"Well look at that. He really likes his mother." A sweet, elderly gentleman leaves his cart and place in line to aim his bent over stature towards the thing to which I'm cooing. He's disheveled in a wrinkled, tan overcoat, but not in an alarming way—in an, I-have-bad-arthritis-this-is-the-best-I'm-ever-going-to-look-unless-someone-can-reach-my-hair-for-me, kind of way. He has a slight odor and catches his own drool after he speaks. It is not lost on me how a life is beginning and a life is ending all on line at Target's customer service counter.

I return yet another diaper rash cream that does not work and Ren starts to fuss. It's his first time under super-center fluorescent lights. His first ride in a grocery basket. His first errand with just his mom. We both cried a little when we got out of the car and back in it. I'm still not sure how I spent $75 on Purell.

The demographic of the typical Target shopper mid-day, mid-week takes place at each end of the life-spectrum. New moms and old fathers plus a few Robert Smith-a-like teenagers bleeding in from the mall. The perfect sampling of middle-American life on the grid.

"He's a MONSTER!" Ren's doctor tells us after he explains that Ren's weight (11lbs 1oz) is in the 80% and his height (23.75") is literally off the charts. So far, Ren likes to eat and Ren likes to grow. This week was full of milestones for our little guy: he turned one month old; he slept for five hours straight three nights in a row; he moved out of newborn diapers and into fantastic rock 'n roll seconds from his West coast friend, Mick; he went with mom on an adventure to the store and...

Ren.

Smiled.

I can die now. Except I'd like to be around to watch him do that for the next 100 years or so...