Goodness

Simon left for work about forty-five minutes ago, and my parents have yet to arrive from their hotel to begin the daily pampering (I'm just a scepter short of royalty around here these days), which means I've just spent my first morning alone with the boy. So far he's slept in bed on my chest, slept in the bouncy seat while I peed and put in my contacts, slept in the bouncy seat while I made and ate breakfast, slept in the bouncy seat while the cats inspected him with trepidation for the thousandth time, and slept in the bouncy seat while I got online to connect with the larger outside world. (I say "larger" outside world because we've already been out and about quite a bit in the smaller outside world since he was born: to the burrito shop, the coffee shop, to REI (on the Saturday before Christmas = not recommended), to the pediatrician (twice!), and to the parking lot of BevMo (we stayed in the car to feed while everyone else went in and stocked up on boozies.)

So, basically, the kid sleeps a lot, which I have to say is pretty freakin' awesome. The doctor actually told us we'd be wise to wake him at night if he sleeps longer than three hours (which he does, all the time, possibly because he knows mama needs her beauty rest) because regular, hearty feedings are the best way to get through the jaundice period that apparently all infants go through to some degree. (He was looking particularly yellow on Day 5, which is why we made the second visit to the pediatrician on Friday. There was a small possibility he might have ABO incompatibility-type jaundice, which Simon and I both panicked about a little mostly because everything has gone so amazingly well up to this point that we're kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop and for havoc and misery to rain down upon us. Considering that untreated jaundice can turn a baby's brain into undifferentiated goo, we were afraid that was our fate.)

But...nothing to worry about as far as the jaundice goes, and everything else about Wombat is absolutely perfect. He feeds like he'd been practicing for months beforehand, and he only seems to squawk when something is actually wrong--none of this "I cry therefore I am" baloney. Part of this cheery disposition might have to do with the small matter that between me, Simon, Grandma, and Grandpa, the kid hardly ever gets put down. There's always someone to rock him or kiss him or stick a pinky (or a boob) in his mouth, and there's usually even a spare person to take his photograph while any of the above are happening. There are already gigs of pictures and video. GIGS. And he's only a week old.

So, on this, the first morning of Week 2, my assessment is this: He's a very good baby, and we're counting our lucky stars for all the sleep we're getting, all the help and good meals we're receiving, and all the joy that has already come into our lives because of this seven-pound nugget. I say he's a "good baby" knowing that there are obviously no "bad" babies (except maybe this one), but I should also clarify for the record that he's the BEST baby, in the world, ever, and I'm saying that because it's true, not just because I'm his mom.

Holy crap, guys. I'm his mom.

And even though that's still a little hard to wrap my brain around sometimes, I think that the Motherhood part of this experience is going well too. Physically, I'm pretty much completely recovered, and my hormones, which stayed in check the entire pregnancy, have yet to go haywire, if you don't count the two or three crying jags that were the result of my worring that I don't have the constitution to handle every day being a milestone. Last night we lit a candle and played our Happy Birthday music box to celebrate Wombat's first week in the world, and I almost put the flame out with my tears. And yesterday morning I read through this book for the first time and cried so hard that when Simon went to open the book a few hours later he found that all the pages were stuck together. When you're a sentimental goon at heart, it's exceptionally hard to keep a dry eye when everything is a first--first car ride, first bath, first pair of socks (the ones we got from Sara and Ron that look like little Converse sneakers)--and it only makes it harder that Simon sings to the baby constantly and it's so sweet and so funny and so him ("Little baby loves his mom / He doesn't cry, he's nice and calm / He doesn't like random access memory but prefers ROM / his favorite brand of contact solution is Bausch and Lomb") that I want to commit all of it to video, in part because I hope to relive the moment later, when my vision isn't obscured by blubbering.

I guess you could say we're adjusting nicely. Before all this I wondered how, if everything was already so good, a complete change could be anything but uncomfortable, if not also mind-bendingly difficult, at least in the short term. Now that we're here and everything is indeed different, I realize how easy it is to redefine The Good Life when it looks like this.

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

A quick note from the fresh mama (and her boobs (as of early this morning when I woke up in a puddle of my own making, milk is IN, OMG)):

Everything is well and wonderful, and the reason I haven't posted is not because I'm delirious with exhaustion but because we're just having too much of a good time with the mancub to sit in front of the computer for even a second. (I haven't watched a lick of t.v. in five days, which is something I imagined wouldn't happen short of an apocalypse, although I guess that in some ways having a new baby is kind of like an apocalyse, just the kind without the fire and brimstone and Hieronymusian soul-eating ghouls.)

Wombat* is feeding well and sleeping well (I wake up in the middle of the night to poke him because I can't believe he's been so quiet for so many hours in a row) and he's just a good-natured and healthy and amazing little guy and I can't wait to tell all of you fantastic and supportive friends more about him in detail once things slow down a little. My mom is here until next week (and I'm having NO problem letting her cook and clean and take care of us as much as she wants to**; color me surprised and relieved), but until then I'll try to keep up with pictures on Flickr as best I can. (We load pictures through the computer in the attic, where it has been 54 degrees for the past week, which makes it an understandably less-than-desirable task right now. I didn't survive a twenty-six-hour labor*** to expire from hypothermia in my own home, thank you very much.) I've had enough people harrass me about posting, though, that I thought I should pop in and say hi. We've been reading comments and feeling all the love, and I only wish I had an extra two hands to type with so I could live-blog every little thing that happens in the new life of my new son.

Until then, thank you thank you thank you to everyone for being out there not just now and last week and throughout the pregnancy but for years and years and years before that. I know conventional wisdom says you can't prepare for this sort of thing, but I really feel like you gave me a headstart on enjoying this experience to its fullest; gold stars for everybody.

*Simon isn't comfortable sharing Wombat's real name in this forum, so all I can do is offer a colossal apology to those of you who are dying to know it. Just trust me that it's a really cool name for a really cool kid.

**Between Simon, my mom, and a team of the best nurses in the world, I haven't changed a single diaper in Wombat's first four days of life. Not a one. WTF. NOT THAT I'M COMPLAINING.

***By "survive a twenty-six-hour labor" I mean "hang out in bed with a magazine for a day while Simon charms the hot nurses in between live-blogging my cervical dilation." Seriously, everyone kept asking how I was doing, and most of the time I just answered with a smile and a shrug; I'd hate to incur the wrath of women who have had hard labors, but giving birth to this kid was a damn good time. Will recommend. Would repeat.

Simon Says - "Tired, But in a Good Way"

I am tired, but not that awful, miserable kind of tired when you get when you have to stay up all night to finish a paper that you should have done weeks before, and you were up the night before partying and are still fighting a hangover, plus you have a cold. NOT that kind of tired.

I'm the kind of tired where you get three patches of sleep over three days, each less than four hours, but it's because you're having so much fun that you don't want to take the time to lie down and close your eyes. THAT's the kind of tired I am.

Here are a few details;

24 hours of labor, 45 minutes of delivery. Leah performed what the nurses and doctor called "as perfect a delivery as it gets," thanks to her years of ballet training.

He was 7.2 lbs, 21.5 inches long, healthy, strong, and cute as hell.

Leah had a low placenta, and bled like a mutha for about a minute, but they got her stitched up in a jiffy, and she is healing perfectly, and in great shape. Leah and Wombat are the picture of health.

The delivery was fun. Epidural = no pain = happy joking and laughing with nurses and doctor through the whole thing.

I know Leah has a lot more to say, and I will let her do it in her elegant prose when the time is right. Needless to say, I am loving this. I have a son! He is cute and healthy! I have a rad chick! She is cute and healty! What else can one ask for?

For those of you who haven't seen, there are more pics on flickr.

Wombat!

wrote Leah at 09:18 PM | Comments (138)