Our little man changes every day, growing into his baggy pink skin like a puppy. We need to be patient. I feel sometimes like I'm nursing someone through a long sickness that makes him useless.
And he is absolutely useless! A beautiful little useless boy, whose arms and legs shoot out like a string puppet's and scare him awake, and who scratches his own face. We've carefully studied every inch of his body and pronounce him the most wonderful single word you can give to a newborn baby. He's normal.
Seven days in: three hourly feeds; nearly a hundred diapers; not enough naps; and a lot of miles walked around this house, bouncing, burping, coaxing, and whispering in every room, making deals with him for two hours of silence. I already owe him a lot of money. And when he finally sleeps, we perch over him and study his face vigilantly. We are always on high alert. I was just brewing a pot of coffee in the kitchen, while Emeline fed Max in the bedroom, and I panicked when the coffeemaker started to splutter water through the grounds. It sounded just like Max struggling with wind.
I nearly swaddled the coffeemaker. That would not have been good.
At 12:15am yesterday we celebrated his first week with us. He didn't join in. He was feeding. We've realized that most things on earth, small and large, happen while Max is feeding or hiccuping. The sun comes up over the peninsula, burning off the clouds in the valley. He hiccups. The sky behind the house gets dark again, as the clouds over the sea turn purple and violet. He hiccups. It rains. The wind blows. A car backfires. He's still hiccuping.
Our lives are brightly filled with wonder now, and the source of it lies swaddled, frowning and oblivious.
And hiccuping.
And he is absolutely useless! A beautiful little useless boy, whose arms and legs shoot out like a string puppet's and scare him awake, and who scratches his own face. We've carefully studied every inch of his body and pronounce him the most wonderful single word you can give to a newborn baby. He's normal.
Seven days in: three hourly feeds; nearly a hundred diapers; not enough naps; and a lot of miles walked around this house, bouncing, burping, coaxing, and whispering in every room, making deals with him for two hours of silence. I already owe him a lot of money. And when he finally sleeps, we perch over him and study his face vigilantly. We are always on high alert. I was just brewing a pot of coffee in the kitchen, while Emeline fed Max in the bedroom, and I panicked when the coffeemaker started to splutter water through the grounds. It sounded just like Max struggling with wind.
I nearly swaddled the coffeemaker. That would not have been good.
At 12:15am yesterday we celebrated his first week with us. He didn't join in. He was feeding. We've realized that most things on earth, small and large, happen while Max is feeding or hiccuping. The sun comes up over the peninsula, burning off the clouds in the valley. He hiccups. The sky behind the house gets dark again, as the clouds over the sea turn purple and violet. He hiccups. It rains. The wind blows. A car backfires. He's still hiccuping.
Our lives are brightly filled with wonder now, and the source of it lies swaddled, frowning and oblivious.
And hiccuping.
2 comments:
Lauren and Lily have declared that Max has my ears. I would like to know when I can have them back. Beautiful writing as always, you make me cry a lot. All my love, Deb.
At least your little guy suckles on your pinkies. My little one ONLY sucks on me. No pinkies, no pacies. Tried to have her suckle daddy. Funny moment, but it resulted in a super pissed off kid. haha. Keep bouncing away!
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