Week Six

The peak of fussiness is nigh. Last night, Milo was awake from 3:30 to 5:30 a.m. Not crying, just awake, and threatening to cry if I put him down. So I didn't. I just held him and rocked him and enjoyed his company.

This morning, Granny came over, and Milo was a little less happy, but not screaming his head off. He did sleep in the afternoon and evening, but right now, he is screaming his head off while Jason walks him around the house singing to him.

Good times.

Still, I can't complain. At this same stage of the game with Lucy, I was was locked in the bathroom sobbing, "We've ruined our lives." This time around, I am calmly blogging, curious which combination of TV theme song, bouncing motion and pacifier position will settle him down. If I hear right, Jason found the right formula: Mary Tyler Moore wins again.

Even at his worst, the kid is all right.

One Month with Milo

It's been a month now, and we're still getting to know each other, but I've compiled some notes on the newest member of the family.

What I know so far is that Milo...
...is a little animal. We moved him to his own room, despite my motherly desire to have him nearby, because even in his sleep he makes the grunts, groans, toots and snorts of a baby bison. He is working on being the Second Noisiest Person in America.
...has questionable taste. His favorite night-night music is pop rock/power ballads between 1982 and 1986 (minus Sammy Hagar-era Van Halen and Heart, which redeems him somewhat).
...likes to toga. He hates to be swaddled unless he has one arm free. Am thinking of dressing him as Caesar for Halloween.
...is fat. I mean this in the nicest, proudest way. He is a satisfying snack of a baby. I bite him all the time. He's delicious.
...likes his sister. Smack in the middle of this evening's witching hour (which, in Week 5, has accelerated to 1.5 hours of not happy anywhere from 7:30 to 10 p.m. Come over. It's fun.), he stopped his fussing to gaze at Lu as he sat on her lap during storytime.

So far, he's a keeper.

Sssh

Poor Lu. I feel like all I have done for 4 weeks is tell her to be quiet. I never realized until Milo came that she is the Noisiest Person in America. Her whisper is a scream. She sings constantly. She has been forbidden to close any door in the house because she can't close one without slamming it. And making me yell at her. And waking her brother. It is unclear at this point if it's her yelling or mine that is actually waking Milo.

I was trying to explain "inside voice" as in "the kind of voice you use in your classroom." She said, "Mom, I'm pretty loud in the classroom." Indeed.

Hired Hit...Er, Bit

Yesterday at Crenshaw's, there was a boy who "wasn't doing what I wanted him to do," according to Lucy. This is a constant theme with her: if people would just freaking do what she wanted, all the trouble could be avoided. Well, in response to this boy's disobedience, she ordered another boy to bite him. The would-be biter thought better of it and told on her.

Jason relayed this story to me, saying, "She put a HIT out on another kid." I had a hard time keeping a straight face. But it's not funny. Not at all. Not one bit.

Meditations with Milo

Like most women, I am a champion multitasker. I am almost NEVER do just one thing at a time (with the exception of a handful of really enjoyable activities like reading, writing and sleeping). Once while buying makeup, I asked if the saleslady thought I could effectively apply it while driving, because otherwise, I really shouldn't buy it.

A Buddhist monk explained to me at a meditation workshop that the key to peace is to do what you are doing. Do not walk and eat: you either walk, or you eat. Be present by concentrating fully on one task at a time. Despite all my Zen aspirations, this struck me as a huge waste of time (unsurprisingly, I suck at meditation).

Milo has interrupted my multitasking in the sweetest way. He is a task that demands focus. When it's time to feed him or hold him or walk him to sleep, I find myself doing what I am doing and nothing else. And it doesn't seem like a waste of time at all.

Animal!

When Lucy was born, she weighed 6 lbs. 13 oz., was jaundiced, uncoordinated and dependent on a pathetic noob (me) for nourishment. She suffered what I call the Mandatory Starvation Period — the desperate weight loss between birth and two weeks, where you're both figuring out breastfeeding. You know, the most natural thing in the world (once described by Pie as trying to drive a standard with one person operating the clutch and another person operating the gas). The goal: get baby back to birth weight by the two-week doctor visit. Make your weight, kid!

Um, Milo made his weight on his two-day doctor visit. Today, at his two-week, he had gained 1.5 lbs!! The kid weighs 9 lbs., 14 oz. (and he was HUNGRY when they weighed him, so I bet after I fed him he'd have weighed a solid 10). DUDE. For all my bitching about being pregnant so long, his championship eating is one great benefit of his being more developed when he was born.

Oh, and the poor kid's head was 20th percentile at his two-day and 80th percentile at his two-week, which should give you an idea of how nicely his cone-shaped noggin has expanded. I knew that was no 20th percentile head...

There's a Lucy in the Library

Yesterday, I volunteered in the library for Lucy's class. No, I really have no business committing to that, but she has gotten so little of me in the past month, that I figured I should do something just for her (plus, I LOVE the library, and I want her to as well). And the pride on her face yesterday when we were in there totally made up for the fact that I was out in public wearing the same shirt I'd slept in the night before and maternity pants.

When they arrived in the library, the kids sat down in front of the librarian for story time. Before the librarian could even start reading, Lucy's hand shot up. "Ms. M., aren't you going to introduce the mothers who are here to help?" she asked pertly. I did not actually see Ms. M. roll her eyes, but I could sense that she wanted to. She introduced me and the other mother helper, who I am pretty sure was wearing clean clothes. Lucy beamed.

Then, as Ms. M. read the non-fiction book about tree frogs, she asked if anyone knew the word for animals who sleep during the day and are awake at night. Lucy's hand shot up. Again. She said, "Nocturnal!" (I had half-expected her to say "Milo!")

She raised her hand several more times to ask questions, and the librarian finally had to tell her to please just listen to the rest of the story and the instructions for checking out books. Oh, and at some point, she was hugging the boy next to her, while he tried to squirm away.

Seeing her in action at school has shown me that a) she's bright, confident and friendly to a fault and b) she has the potential to annoy the hell out of her teachers and classmates. If I could give her advice that she would understand it'd go like this: Dear Apple, Settle down a little. Trust me on this. Love, the Tree.

Smug

For the first two weeks of Lucy's life, she was an angel. I smugly thought, "Man, I am good at this. All these people griping about newborns are just wimps." Then, on the 14th day, she realized she'd been born. We spent the next 6 weeks in some state of motion: rocking, swaying, swinging, driving. Or occasionally, sitting still on the front lawn, staring the baby monitor, volume turned down (us), but lights flashing red from the screaming (her). It was during this newborn time that I began to think of Lucy as The Beast. As in, "Do not awaken The Beast" or "The Beast is stirring" or "The Beast must eat."

Today's is Milo's 13th day. So far, he has been an angel: a far more organized, calm creature than Lucy was at this stage (could this be the benefit of three more weeks gestation?). And I am just saying, for the record, for all the powers that be, that I am GRATEFUL. Not to be confused with smug.

Humbly,
Kate