Dream Feed

I pad down the narrow hallway and enter the dark bedroom. In the blackness, I feel for the sound machine. The patter of rain abruptly stops and the room falls silent. I reach into the bassinette and my hands find the swaddled baby with ease. I take him out of the room. His head angles back and his lips purse, but he is still fast asleep.

I walk down the hall to the nursery and place him on the carpet using the animal footprints as a marker so I know exactly where to put him when I'm finished. I unswaddle, careful to keep the fabric in the correct position for his return. There isn't enough room between the crib and the dresser for all the fabric. There is a lot of fabric. This baby, not yet five months old, is the size of a nine month baby. Two legs shoot up in the air, and he rolls to his left side. They shoot up again, and he rolls to his right. Over and over the baby gymnastics. I fire up the computer and watch him roll. This is my favourite part.

I heft the boy onto my left shoulder and grab the breastfeeding pillow. I sit down on the computer chair, unhook my bra and put the baby to the breast. I read blogs and try to comment. I can type with two hands if he's feeding well, one if he's not. He's usually not. I question the need to stay up late doing this if he going to barely eat. He shoves his hand in my shirt. He is one of two men who can get away with such a bold move. It's a lovely hand.

I burp him and a trickle of milk rolls down his chin. I switch sides and he starts to rub his left ear obsessively. Is it itchy? I sit him up to burp him again and he rubs his face against the receiving blanket, settling in. He is sleeping sitting up. A toe twitches. An eyebrow raises. A soft smile passes his lips.

I put him back on the swaddling fabric and his eyes fly open. Now he is awake. He squawks and struggles, but I swaddle on. No sleep for the unbound. I try to make sure it's tight enough to give Houdini pause. I shift him deftly to football position and sit back down at the computer. I read some more, the baby's head jiggling on my leg. If I want to comment on a post now, I must hunt and peck. I hate long verification codes.

Eyes are closing slowly and I hear a wail from the Boy's room. I pause, heart in throat. Silence. Was that the end, or the beginning?

I continue jiggling. I'm falling asleep myself. Soft, rhythmic breaths. I get up and walk down the hall. I turn the sound machine on. I fumble around till I find the rain setting. I tiptoe out. As I leave, I hope the lazy feed is enough to nourish.

And I hope the swaddle is tight, or it's going to be a long night.

The Kiss of Death

I've been accused in the past of being somewhat negative in my outlook. While it's not entirely untrue, I think this assessment gives you the wrong impression. I prefer the term "cautiously optimistic". But I can see how people could confuse the two.

For example, if you ask how my day is going, I will more than likely say "Not bad." or "Okay." I will never say "Fabulous!" or "This is the best day I've ever had!" (Unless, of course, something undeniably, life-changingly wonderful has actually occurred.) In part, because I find these Pollyanna answers to be somewhat annoying - like the people who smile all the time. I mean, I'm all for smiling when the occasion warrants it, but smiling 24/7? Not so much. It kind of creeps me out. But mostly it's because, in my experience, as soon as I say something is going well, it almost always starts to go downhill. I call it "the Kiss of Death".

Phrases you won't hear me say? "The Little Guy is a really good sleeper." Cause you know he won't be sleeping that night. "The Boy never misbehaves." Not unless I wan't him to throw his toys at me and scream "Mommy is a poo-poo head!" at the top of his lungs. "It's easy to manage two kids." Because total mayhem would ensue.

You also won't see me tattooing "Mr Earth - true love forever" anywhere on my personage. I don't really want to find my sorry husband-less self walking the streets. Or telling people that I'm smart and talented. They won't have to look hard for evidence to the contrary. Or buying clothes that are my pre-pregnancy size on the theory that I will fit into them soon enough. I invariably start eating all the chocolate in sight if I do.

But what do you do when someone asks you a question point-blank? At my post-partum appointment Monday, the doctor asked me if I had had any blocked milk ducts. Well, to be perfectly honest, I hadn't. So I was forced to answer no. And what do I have right now? A blocked milk duct. A painful, red, hard-as-a rock boob, and a baby who somehow manages to always hit or kick me in the chest. Thanks Doctor. Kiss of Death indeed.