Ramblings of a New Dad: Month One

Tomorrow is February 22^nd, meaning my daughter will be a month old already. But, if you measure her in Celsius, or, you know, with the Canadian exchange rate, she's already four weeks old as of this past Monday.

 

(I… wait, what???)

 

Yeah, me too.

 

(Not getting much sleep yet, huh?)

 

Oh holy fudge nuggets, no.

 

(Fudge nug… I'm gonna need more coffee for this.)

 

So how exactly do we age babies? I mean, you hear most people talk about their infants in terms of weeks, but then there are those that describe their child's age in months. Which measure am I supposed to use? What happens at two months when your baby is born in January, and, you know, February isn't a real month? Will she not be two months old until March 24^th, if you use a thirty day month? Or the 25^th? It's like they use Common Core to describe your baby's age.

 

(Please have some more coffee.)

 

I'm working on it. In any event, my daughter is now four weeks to a month old.

 

Holy. Crap.

 

I cannot believe how fast the past sort-of-month has gone already. So here are some take-aways from my first month-ish of parenting:

 

1.         Hats are not snacks.

 

(Um…Lucy, you gots some 'splainin to do on this one….)

 

Let's just say that the local canine has reverted to some of her stress behaviors. Bringing an infant home is a huge change, for everyone involved. For the parents, who now have to keep another human being alive; for the infant, who now has to be alive on the outside; and for the dog. I do have to say though, my dog is a trooper. In the last five years, she's gone from living in a small cage and being forced to breed, to having to learn how to climb stairs, to then moving into a house, then having another human and another dog move in, then losing said other dog to old age, to now having to deal with a screeching mini-person. She's stressed, confused, upset about having to share attention… and has dealt with all of this by once again consuming clothing. For those playing the home game, when I first got her, she handled her initial separation anxiety by eating my socks and then unceremoniously depositing them somewhere in the apartment via regurgitative relocation.

 

(Regurgi… I need to start writing these down.)

 

Anywhoos… This time around, canine has decided to ease her stress by getting into the baby's laundry hamper. So far she's consumed one knit hat and we think three mittens. I've only been able to recover the hat and one mitten…. I'll spare you the details.

 

*sigh*

 

We've had to have a little talk in which I stared her in the eyes and said "repeat after me: If it goes ON the body, it does not go IN the body". Of course, she just stared back and me and burped. I’ll take that as an acknowledgement.

 

(*facepalm*)

 

2.         Babies go through a lot of diapers in the first month of life. Like… wait for it… a shit-ton of diapers. If I had a dollar for every diaper this kid has gone through in the last thirty days, well, I could afford more diapers. Currently we are exclusively breasting feeding.

 

("We", huh?)

 

Of course I mean that in the royal "We" sense. My nipples are for decorative purposes only. Yes, I mean my beloved child is currently subsisting solely on momma's boob juice.

 

(Please get help.)

 

Grrrr. For those that don't know, when a child is breast feeding, they pee and poop a lot. Like, a lot a lot. As in pretty much every time she feeds, she lets loose. And considering at times this kid wants to nosh upwards of every hour and a half during the day? Let's just say the diaper genie is right about now regretting the fact that it granted our wish for someplace to deposit my child's soiled sundries. And remember that whole getting peed on thing? Still a thing. A frequent thing. It's a game now, I think, even though she doesn't know what a game is. Or what her feet are. Or that she shouldn't squirm and stick her feet in her dirty diaper as I'm trying to remove it. That's a game we play, too. I don't think I fancy these games, honestly.

 

3.         There is no greater experience than holding my child in my arms and have her stare up at me with the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I admit, it has moved me to tears on more than one occasion. This tiny, fragile child is my child. I helped make this. My blood type literally flows through her veins. And she's here, in my lap, wiggling, cooing, and staring up at me with wide-eyed amazement, and I can't find enough or adequate words to describe the feeling. Wait, did she just smile???

 

*poot*

 

Nope. Just gas. Wait, was that just gas?

 

*Checks diaper*

 

[Narrator: It was not just gas.]

 

Dear sweet bejeebus child what the hell just came out of you???

 

(Wait till she starts on solid food….)

 

I'll wait. Oh yes, I'll patiently wait for that.

 

3.         Back to the breast feeding thing…. I think we've been watching too much of the Olympics, as this child seems to think that dismounting from the breast after feeding is an Olympic event. Seriously. When this kid finishes a meal, she takes one last slurp, then thrusts her head backwards like a fainting woman in some 50's film noir feature, tosses her arms back… and passes out cold. You have to witness the flair and drama of the event to truly appreciate it. But you won't, because those are my love's breasts I'm talkin' about here, and you do not get to see them. So you'll just have to imagine.

 

WAIT.

 

DO NOT IMAGINE MY FIANCÉES LADY PARTS.

 

Just, you know, picture the kid.

 

4.         Working sucks. I mean, working generally sucks, but it especially sucks when you have an infant at home. That whole baby-staring-in-my-eyes thing I mentioned earlier? Yeah, that. This morning after feeding, momma brought her back into our bed and we propped her up on a pillow between us. She stared, and I was done. It takes a great deal of fortitude to tear yourself away from that just to even to go shower. Adding insult to injury, my betrothed apparently likes to cleanse herself on the sun, because she showered last, and when I stepped in into the shower I was scalded with eleventeen-hundred degree water. I'm pretty sure I need a skin graft now.

 

(*ahem*)

 

Right. Point being… It's been very difficult to go to work each morning and leave my family at home.

 

My family.

 

Which brings me to the last point….

 

5.         I have a family now. An honest-to-goodness, partner and kid and dog and two car garage in the suburbs family.

 

*grins uncontrollably*

 

And you know what? Things that would otherwise be stressful… aren't. We've discussed finances, insurance, child care, buying a new vehicle, and everything else that goes along with family life. Yes, having a child is going to drastically alter our financial situation. America's archaic parental leave system certainly doesn't help and will put a short-term strain on our income while mom is out on maternity leave. And I think I need to take out a second mortgage for diapers alone, but…. It's all good. Really. I make a decent buck a at my day job. We're not wealthy, but we're certainly not wanting. It will all work out, and I'm not worried about it.

 

(Wait, you're not worried?? There is something wrong with you, isn't there?)

 

I know, I know. Generally I'm anxious and a worrier. Sticking with the Olympic theme, if worrying was an Olympic sport, I'd probably make it to the medal round, but lose in a shoot-out.

 

(Dude. That's cold. You know the US men just lost….)

 

I know. And I'm bummed, because I actually know one of the men's Olympic hockey players. The point is that if worrying was a sport, I could certainly compete. But this parenting thing? This family thing? This incredibly stressful occurrence that should be kicking my anxiety in maximum overdrive like Emilio Estevez? It's not.

 

(That… was probably one of the most random movie references you've ever made here.)

 

You're welcome.

 

Dad is my default mode. I know that for certain now, and I think it always has been; I can say with certainty that a good deal of my prior anxiety rested with the fact that I wasn't one. And now…

 

I'm a dad.

 

*grins again*

 

I'll leave you with this: Last night Baby G was a little fussy after dinner. I sat at the dining room table with her in my arms, opened up my iPad, and called up a Disney tune on ye olde YouTube. I won't name it so as not to ear-worm you, but it rhymes with A Whole New World.

 

(I can show you the worl- DAMMIT!!!!)

 

*snicker* you always fall for that.

 

Well, I hit play, stared into my daughter's eyes, and sang along. She looked up at me, mesmerized. I cried. Mom cried. And when the song was over, I swear my daughter smiled.

 

Is it too early for even reflex smiling? Perhaps.

 

Was it just gas? Likely.

 

Did it look like a smile nonetheless?  Yes.

 

I'll take it.

 

 

 

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