Monday Morning Confessions From The Mommyhood Underground

During the last month as we've adjusted to life with Baby S in our home, moved that home from a house with three bedrooms, three stories, two and half baths and a five minute commute to my husband's job to a two-bedroom, one and a half bath, townhouse apartment over an hour away from my husband's job, inquiring minds always want to know how my son is. At first I thought, how sweet, everyone wants to know how S's day is going. I'd give the latest update or anecdote, dirty diaper details and all. But after a while, I've come to realize or at least feel that what everyone really wants to know is what my son is like? What type of disposition does he have? Aside from the unique talent it takes to have a diaper blowout, spit up down the back of my shirt and pee on the chandelier all before 8:30am, what is a day in the life of S really like? I would casually respond to everyone--strangers at the grocery store, pediatricians, grandparents and relatives, friends, even my husband in the same way: with a glossed over cheerful depiction of my smooshy snoogly chubby cheeked bundle of joy who couldn't possibly be one of those "difficult" babies you so often hear about...

About two weeks into his life when S started to interrupt hours of smooshy snoogly chubby cheeked adorableness with moments, minutes and then longer stretches of fussiness, I made excuses. He didn't like his carseat. It was too hot. It was too cold. I hadn't paid enough attention to him. He was having a developmental leap and even my iPhone app could show you that, see?? Until one night my husband mused that he hoped S was having a developmental leap and not just developing his personality. I shrugged it off, eyes glazed over with that deer-in-the-headlights look of sleep deprivation only made possible by 40 weeks of pregnancy insomnia followed by a month of newborn induced sleepless nights. But as long as those nights were (or seemingly too short) the days were even longer. For the twelve hours of time between commuting and working that my equally exhausted and patient and optimistic husband is gone, my son would sleep in 20 minute increments. Only while being held, worn, carried, walked or otherwise attached to me. Sleep when the baby sleeps? Whose baby sleeps? I'd like to shake his hand! I'd like his autograph once he gets his fine motor skills under control!!

Thank G-d, my son does sleep while being put down at night for a good 4-6 hour stretch. Only remember those daylight hours of never being put down? Even with the amazing advent of being able to wear your baby and have access to both hands, there is only so much one can get done around the house that is still yet to be entirely unpacked and organized. Sleep when the baby sleeps? Ok, and I'll do laundry when he does laundry. Dishes when he does dishes. Heck, I'll shower and brush my teeth when he showers and brushes his, um, gums...

A quiet voice I so often hushed in my head spoke louder and louder until last night I could finally say it aloud to my husband: you know those "difficult babies" you hear about? We have one. But I can't call him "difficult." He doesn't get to decide what's easy and what's difficult, we do. And in one month how could we fairly expect him to live up to a standard of lifestyle we took 30 or so years to develop? He is a sensitive baby. He is a needy baby. All babies are sensitive and have needs and thank G-d, our son is very efficient and competent in conveying that to us. He doesn't hate life. He doesn't hate us. No, our son just hates...to poop!

Here's where I become one of those parents who discusses in far too much detail the difficulties and dilemmas of diapers and digestion. Feel free to scroll down to the bottom, I'll probably attach a smooshy snoogly chubby cheeked photo at the end of this post for all to see and love. But if you're willing to brave the Monday Morning Confessions from the Mommyhood Underground on this lovely day, here goes. Thanks for coming along for the ride! We have ourselves a Gassy Gus. He cries when he farts. He farts a lot. Who cries when they fart?? Most boys and even some middle aged men think farting is hilarious! Not S. It upsets him to the point of even crying through nursing sessions. That, to me, is the worst. The one thing I can do to comfort and help my son is no longer soothing for him. And his sobs and screams are the saddest ones I've ever heard. S is, thank G-d, a healthy baby boy who eats well and is growing and developing day by day, and like so many of his itty bitty peers, he has an immature digestive system. It's all brand spanking new, freshly minted, just out of the shop! It will get better, I am told. These days, these hours, and minutes and lifelong moments of exhaustion and frustration will be replaced by a time when my son makes jokes about going to the bathroom that will inevitably drive me so crazy I was wish he could find the subject to be more upsetting again! And they will also be filled with smooshy snoogly chubby cheeked cuddles that don't allow me to finish all the tasks I'd like to complete in a day but do allow me to be close to and bond with my baby boy.

And in the meantime, I will tell it like it is. Grin, and bear it. Laugh about it, gripe about it, occasionally possibly in the middle of the night cry just a tiny bit about it because how different am I really from this tiny little guy who is tired and frustrated and afraid and wants to be comforted? And my husband and I will have our senses of humor as always. A couple of weeks ago he played a YouTube video (which, I am sorry, but you'll have to look up for yourself if you're that curious) of actor Morgan Freeman reading the popular children's book, Everyone Poops. My son was not impressed. He fussed through most of it while I bicycled his legs and wriggled his hips and massaged his belly until he could finish filling his diaper. I, however, now hear the soothing sounds of Morgan Freeman's voice every time I enter the bathroom...