I'd rather be running through the sprinkler

I am getting tired of resting.  I'm sick of having to lay down every time I have a free moment, sick of having to catch up on my sleep.  I especially hate going to bed at 7:00 pm when I can see daylight through the cracks of my shades and can hear the neighbor kids running through their sprinkler, enjoying the last moments of sunshine.  I love this time of day and it seems like a huge waste, a crime even, to be laying in bed.  Once I am actually asleep this does not bother me, and it certainly helps to be rested when both of my kids wake up at 5:45 am.  But still.  I'd much rather spending time with my husband, or almost anything else, than laying down.  

My pretend alone time

It's 6:30 on Friday morning, and both Veronica and Rex are in the bathroom with me.  All three of us are naked. I am showering, and the rule is that no kids are allowed in the actual shower with me unless it's a weekend.  I don't know where that rule came from other than it will maximize the days I can shower alone, and anyway it's my right as a parent to make up arbitrary rules.  It's what we do. The other rule is that Veronica may not touch Rex.  He's laying happily on a stack of blankets on the bathroom floor, staring at his left hand, which he recently discovered, but since he can't use it yet to defend himself against his sister we have the rule. The rule is important since I am on one side of the shower glass and my kids are on the other, and without me it's frontier justice out there.  

I am surprised that Veronica hasn't tried to touch Rex yet.  She absolutely loves him and wants to touch him day and night all over his body - kiss him, lick him, contort him, generally mess with him.  To her, he's a living doll, a cooing little boy toy.  But then Rex starts to scream for some reason, so I ask Veronica to find some toys for him.  I feel a little guilty asking her to be my errand girl, but she loves to help.  I am learning that big sisters can be quite helpful, and Veronica is pretty sophisticated.  She scampers, totally nude, out of the room and comes back with a potato masher, her cup of milk, and one of Rex's baby toys.  Something for everyone.

I stay in the shower as long as I can until it becomes clear I need to get out.  There is whining and fussing on the other side of the glass, which only bothers me because it's interrupted my pretend alone time.  I leave the water running, because Rex likes it and it usually buys me an extra five minutes to moisturize.  (Totally worth the water bill if you ask me.)  As I step out of the shower, my daughter looks at me and loudly says, "You have big boobitty breasts.  I call them boobitty because they flop around. Flop, flop, FLOP!"  Despite myself, I laugh out loud. She starts to laugh too and skips out of the room, shouting the whole way.  I can't wait until she has kids one day, and then we will see who is laughing.

I look down at Rex, and he's no longer fussing.  He's trying to put the potato masher into his mouth with his left hand.  

It's all going south

About a month ago, in the middle of a night feeding I made up a nickname for Rex:  G.L.B., short for Greedy Little Bastard.  Later that week I amended it to G.L.F., or Gassy Little Fucker.  While he is still both greedy and gassy, he has become so adorable and good-natured I can barely stand it, so I've decided G.L.B. really stands for Good Little Boy.  

So it's midnight, and I've just fed Rex, and my Good Little Boy has fallen asleep in his crib with his left index finger in his mouth.  It's really cute, and also very functional - I think he might believe I am still feeding him, because it looks like his index finger is just about the same circumference as one of my nipples.  His finger is definitely longer, at least I hope it is, but since he has been eating with the unrelenting suck of a Moray eel for nearly three months you never know.  Most of my anatomy, and specifically the two parts that feed my son, are going south. They are actually getting stretched.

My friend Carol has also had two children, and she is forever making up hilarious descriptions for what happens to your body.  When I was pregnant she told me that from the side, I looked like a filing cabinet with the middle drawer pulled all the way out.  Totally accurate. And now she says her body shape is not that of a pear, or an apple, but of a clogged straw: skinny on the top and bottom, with a thick bulge in the middle.  I for one think she looks fabulous; way more gorgeous than anyone can possibly look after having two kids.  

As I climb back into bed I start thinking about what my body shape is now, and I decide that what I most resemble is the Seattle Space Needle.  I have a little head on top, a skinny lower body stretching below, with two huge boobs in the middle that are visible for miles in all directions.  Instead of an observation deck I have an observation rack, and my rack is heading south at the same pace as the Space Needle observation deck descends. It's not pretty.  After Rex is weaned I will objectively assess the collateral damage to my figure, but for now, my bod belongs to the G.L.B.

A light at the end of the swaddle

I have decided not to swaddle Rex anymore.  As I've said, he's grown too big for it really, and swaddling him is like wrapping an Ace bandage around a seal - difficult, dangerous and not really that effective.  My friend Tricia never swaddled either of her kids and they are champion sleepers, so I figure I'll chance it and see how it goes.  And actually, it goes fine.  Now all I hear at night is the slurping, sucking sound of his fingers in his mouth, which is ok by me.  There's very little grunting, and now he's only getting up twice to eat.  I'll take it.

The trick is to get him to sleep until at least 6 am, which is when Veronica gets up. Actually, because my husband and I are wicked, shameless people, she stays in bed until 6:15 because we have set her clock fifteen minutes behind.  She is learning how to tell time but hasn't yet started to compare her clock with the clocks in the rest of the house, so we're in the clear for now.  Once she figures it out we are going to catch hell, because she is quite a piece of work and knows exactly how to torture us.  I'm not looking forward to it.

I'm pretty sure my daughter is a genius.  This is not because I am a genius (even though clearly I am) or because she is my daughter and I am biased.  It's really because of the questions she asks, things like, "Mommy, does everything in the world have seams?" or "Mommy, if you have two broken legs, do you have to hold your cane in the middle?"  These are things that I have never thought of, but they are really quite logical.  With her wonderfully creative brain, Veronica has also asked if Rex can poop out his belly button.  All kids are fascinated with poop, so I'll give her that question as a freebie. Anyway, if he tried, Rex probably could poop out of his belly button.  With very little effort.

Veronica's favorite breakfast game is to ask us to tell her stories about thunderstorms.  My husband and I are pretty sick of this game.  She is very, very specific about what we are to tell her, and there is usually no talk about the thunderstorm other than while the story is taking place, there is a thunderstorm outside.  And the characters, usually my husband or I when we were little, must absolutely be inside the house during the story.  (Being inside the garage or basement is apparently allowed.)  If we don't tell the story exactly the way she wants it, we get a stern reprimand, because my genius daughter is bossy.  We're both a little afraid of her, actually.  And after each story is finished, she will ask, "Can you tell me an even longer story about that?"  It's the kiss of death.  You don't want to hear that question first thing in the morning.

The stories are never totally true, but it doesn't matter.  The funniest stories involve my two childhood cats who tortured my father on a daily basis with their antics, like mixing up the dark and light laundry or sprinting across him as he napped on the couch.  Apocryphal, but still hilarious to Veronica.  Of all of us, my mom is the best storyteller because she never gets tired of the game, and she eventually gets to go home to a peaceful, child-free breakfast.  Her stories involve things like digging to China and not following the rules in the library, fun things that Veronica can do after Nana leaves.  

So it's now 5:45 am.  Rex is rumbling around in his crib, waking up, and Veronica is sweetly singing from her bed, something about rainbows and fire hydrants.  And I can't wait until my son can tell time, because then we can set his clock fifteen minutes behind, too.  Maybe even thirty.  Of course by then Veronica will be old enough to know better, so we'll have to come up with a new ruse to keep her in bed until six.  Something about a thunderstorm.  

Too much of the wrong kind of milk

It's the middle of the night and there is milk everywhere.  Rex doesn't mind but I don't like it at all.  His face is covered with milk and drool, and I've just discovered there is a huge blob of spit-up on my right shoulder.  It feels like a pelican just pooped on me and, worst of all, it's in my hair.  Gross.

The ironic thing is that with all this milk around, I seem to have developed an intolerance to cow's milk.  I could skip drinking milk entirely but now I'm not even eating ice cream, which has to be the greatest form of torture a lactating woman can endure.  I ate at least two quarts a week of the stuff when I was pregnant with Rex, and now it's all I dream about.  Really.  Last night I dreamed I was at the store and couldn't decide which flavor to buy.  I settled on Haagen Dazs Strawberry and ate it all right there in the store.  I only had five dollars on me so the counter lady got really pissed when I couldn't pay for it, and angry customers behind me shouted obscenities, but I digress.

Did I mention that Rex, too, gets fussy when I eat dairy?  Thanks a lot, pal.  It fed you in utero and now you've turned on it completely.  Just wait until you're older and want a chocolate ice cream cone.  Then we'll see who has the upper hand.

I'm going to hell for sure

It's 1:30 am, and I am up with Rex again.  He's screaming in my ear because he's full and doesn't want to eat any more.  He's not one of those magic babies that just falls asleep when they're finished eating, and I'm glad I'm wearing earplugs.  I try one more time to feed him and stick my boob into his mouth, which has the splattering sound effect of putting a whoopee cushion over an air-raid siren.  He screams even louder and I resort to the deep-knee bend method to shut him up.

While hopping up and down my thoughts begin to wander, as they usually do during these night feedings.  I think about a flamenco contest we saw when we were living in Spain where the runner-up was called the 'sub-champion', which I thought was just hysterical.  Super-duper funny, as Veronica would say.  Leave it to the Spanish to think of a name like that.  (The French simply call you a loser, which is just as funny.)  I smile in the dark.

Then I begin to think the kinds of thoughts that will send me to hell for sure.  I wonder about a Wheaties cereal box for sub-champions, the "Breakfast of Sub-Champions", where the box is smaller, the rejected-wheat flakes aren't as tasty and there is a Special Olympian featured on it. I picture all sorts of kooky, non-politically correct images for box front, and I get the giggles. Then I start to wonder what retarded people eat for breakfast, if the food looks different or something, and I lose it completely.  I am now laughing hysterically in the dark while my baby screams at the top of his lungs.  Tears are rolling down our cheeks, for different reasons.  

One time my brother and I cooked up a name for a female midget - midgette, which sent us both over the edge.  We laughed forever.  Somehow that didn't seem as mean as this.  I am a terrible, rotten person, I think in the dark, and I begin to wonder about the kind of karma that will come back to me for my horridness.  By now Rex has stopped screaming enough for me to change his diaper, so I try to focus on the task at hand and forget about the special people.

So I open up his diaper.  No poop.  This is not good.  It's actually worse than finding a shitstorm, because now he'll be huffing and grunting all night working on the Big One, keeping me up with his baby noises, while he somehow sleeps through it all.  I spread at least a half-cup of Desitin on his butt, just in case he blows out his britches in his sleep and I am too lazy to get up and change him, which is usually the case.  Probably more karma coming at me for that, too. (A note to Child Protective Services:  despite my nighttime laziness, my little boy has perfectly rash-free buttocks, thanks to the hours of naked time I give him during the day.  You can come after me for other things, CPS, but not for diaper rash.)

Rex is in a fine mood now, chirping and cooing on his changing table.  He loves this thing.  He's so happy I can barely stand it, and I start to laugh again, remembering my earlier thoughts.  I am instantly grateful that I have two healthy children, and I kick my slipper against the wooden moulding, a night version of knocking on wood.  I am lucky, I think.  And somehow, miraculously, Rex falls asleep on his changing table and I swaddle him and gently put him back into his crib.  I climb back into bed, thinking all is good and peaceful in my world, for exactly 30 seconds before Rex starts huffing and grunting in his sleep.  Crap.  My karma has come back sooner than I expected, and I am awake for a long, long time.

The Rex Files

It's 2 am, and Rex is getting restless in his crib.  Time to feed him again.  I hear him grunting, trying to break out of his swaddle, which he is probably too big for anyway.  I pick him up, trying not to look him directly in the eye because then he will want to play, or think I am happy about getting up at 2 am.  I've heard it's just as dangerous to look a night-waking baby in the eye as it is a shark or stampeding wild pig.  I believe it.  

After I feed him I put him on his changing table.  Now he really wants to play.  I can see him smiling, trying to catch my eye.  He is being very charming.  While I'm giving him a new diaper I hear the song "Back in the Swaddle Again" in my head, as I'm hoping to wrap him up in his straightjacket before he notices what I'm doing.  But wait - there is so much poop in his diaper that it will take forever to clean him up.  It's what my mom would call a three-wiper.  Shit, shit. 

There is so much poop that I have to change Rex's clothes.  I contemplate cutting them off of him, like they do in the emergency room for accident victims.  I think I've gotten the shirt up over his head without smearing poop on his face, but who can really tell in the dark?  Tomorrow morning I might find him covered in shit, or worse, someone else will find him.  They'll report me and I'll have to be sent away.  Where I could sleep without interruption.  Fantastic.

I manage to pull a fresh shirt down over Rex's head and arms, only to discover it barely covers his upper chest.  I actually mutter "Fuck me" out loud.  Rex is enormous and every day bursts out of another piece of clothing, like the Hulk probably did when he was a baby.  My dad calls Rex a behemoth.  While cursing I remember you are not supposed to talk to a night-waking baby, either, and because Rex thinks "Fuck me" means the same as every other thing I say to him, he gives me his best smile.  Then he sneezes in my face and my glasses cloud up, covered in baby snot.  He laughs out loud.  He thinks it's hilarious when he sneezes.  

While cleaning us both up, I realize I must look really attractive during these night episodes.   I am wearing not only my glasses but also my husband's strap-on headlamp and a stained gray nursing shirt that Veronica calls my feeding smock.  I'm sure I look like a deranged miner or painter.  (I stop for a minute to wonder which is worse, and decide that definitely the deranged painter is worse, because of the whole Van Gogh ear thing.)   Either way, what I'm wearing is an atrocious, almost frightening getup.  But then I look down and realize that to Rex, I just look like Mommy, and because he loves me more than anyone in the world right now and is smiling at me in the light of my miner's headlamp, I decide to play with him.