Ramblings of a New Dad: Daylight Savings Edition

*YAWN*

 

Daylight Savings with a baby is some serious bullsh*t.

 

(Oh dear….)

 

Oh dear is right. So, you have this tiny, seven-week old human who has not yet developed any recognizable circadian rhythm. Let's add in an artificial construct of time! That will help the child's eating and sleeping schedule immensely!

 

(I'm sensing… sarcasm.)

 

You're damn skippy sensing sarcasm. This child was up all night long last night. It's amazing what a difference losing one hour can make for us adults, and we're prepared, though reluctantly so, for the change. The baby? HAHAHAHAHAno. Feeding schedule thrown off-kilter. Sleeping schedule thrown off-kilter. Mom thrown off-kilter. Dad thrown off-kilter. Everything thrown off-kilter! Dogs and cats, living together, mass hysteria!!!

 

(Okay, settle down there, Dr. Venkman.)

 

Hey man, the struggle is real. Because *we* are breastfeeding. I don't think people realize just how easily a breastfeeding schedule can be flummoxed. Of course, that's assuming you can even get into a schedule. We'd being doing pretty well, settling into to a little routine: Morning feeding sometime around 8:00, then some intermittent pumping, then feed every couple of hours or thereabouts throughout the day; cluster-feeding every hour, give or take, from about 7:00-11:30 pm, a wee hours feeding sometime in the 1:30 to 2:30 am hour, and them mom gets a solid five hour break or so to sleep as I take the early 5:00 am feeding with the bottle. Sounds, well, exhausting, but not bad, right? Right??

 

Enter Daylight Savings.

 

Enter exhausted parents thrusting clenched fists in the air, cursing moose and squirrel!!!

 

(Uh, what do Rocky and Bullwinkle have to do with this??)

 

Nothing, it was just amusing imagery. Admit it, you perfectly pictures us shaking our fists in the air.

 

(I… dammit. Touché, pussycat.)

 

Yes, when it comes to an infant, you can pretty much throw the word "schedule" out the window, together with the words "sleep", "rest", "normal", "Keanu Reeves", and "new Jeep Cherokee."

 

(OMFG with the Keanu Reeves and Cherokee stuff!!!)

 

Even in a sleep-deprived state I do not, will not and cannot forget that Keanu Reeves is a terrible actor and that new Cherokee is an abomination on the Jeep name. Although… I did see a 2019 model for which they minimally squared off the headlights, so it's not as bad, but still… not a Cherokee. XJ forever!!!!

 

(Please get help.)

 

I know, I know. I digress with frivolous eccentricity. Where was I? Right, schedules. Yeah you don’t have those anymore. At least not yet. See, we have the added issue of our dear sweet one being a little low on the percentile curve for weight. Again, you cannot underestimate how the littlest of things can have such a great effect on an infant's life. Being down just a couple of ounces makes a ginormous difference in her ability to self-regulate her body rhythms and systems, and sleep. Then there's the effect it has on you as a parent.

 

Nothing creates a weigh-obsessive parent more than a doctor telling you that your barely-born child is on the low end of the weight-development curve. Are we feeding her enough? Often enough? Is she healthy? Are we starving her by not introducing formula? Is mom producing enough milk? Do we have to go to get green space milk from of those weird space llamas from Luke Skywalker's hermit island? What do we do???

 

The short answer: do what you've been doing. You're not doing anything wrong.

 

Which brings me to the next point – find a pediatrician with whom you're comfortable. Talk to him/her. Get to know them, professionally and yes, personally. Know what makes them tick so you can be sure you can tick together.

 

(You come up with the weirdest analogies, but… I get it.)

 

We love our pediatrician. He's not clinical, he's practical. He took the time to explain the charts and curves and graphs. Lower percentile does not mean unhealthy. It means she's progressing a little differently. If there was a danger, he'd tell us. And in the last two weeks this little nugget put on about nine ounces. Considering the docs like to see about a half an ounce of weight gain a day, well, do the math, carry the two, and there you go. She's fine. Catching up. Growing. Happy and healthy.

 

*phew*

 

Of course those moments of fear and anxiety are still ever-present, and no joke when they happen. You get through them. And if you have any question about whether your child is feeding enough, look no further than the inordinate amount of diapers your child's nether regions destroy in the course of a week.

 

Dear sweet cripes. The matter isn't helped by the fact that little-miss grouchy-britches really doesn't like to have a wet diaper against her tiny-heinie…. Diapers. Lots of 'em.

 

What "they" don't adequately explain to new parents is that parenting is learning. Always, and constantly. Believe you me, I can tell you at least two, significant things I've learned through this whole rearing of offspring thing we've got going on when it comes to dressing an infant:

 

1) The person who invented onesies with the neck opening with the fold-over flappy things so you can pull it down instead of up over the baby's head? Pure, unadulterated genius. Imagine if you kid has a bit of a blow-out. No one wants poopy snoot. The "pull down" is clutch.

 

2) The person who invented onesies with three snaps across the crotch instead of two can eat hot death, you sadistic son of a bitch!!!

 

(Whoa. Tell us how you really feel.)

 

Hot. Death. Everything associated with infant clothing is proportionately smaller, from the size, to the stitching, to the buttons, to the God-forsaken, microscopic, only-secures-if-you-get-it-at-the-perfect-angle-and-Jupiter-is-in-retrograde-of-Venus, little snap bastards. Even the one snap at the top of some zip-up jumpers with the flap at the collar is hard to snap tight. The three enclosures at the bottom of a snap-tight onesie? Well….

 

Here's how I envision the invention of these miniature monstrosities: Sir Edgar Longsnot the Fourth, a British aristocrat, because, you know, the accent, is on a fishing trip on his yacht with the peasant-folk doing the fishing for him, and his man-servant makes an interesting catch:

 

ELF:    I say, Nigel, what's that you have there?

Nigel:  I daresay it's an octopus, sir.

ELF:    *contemplates*

ELF:    Octopus you say? You know what would be a lark? That creature in a cardigan. Yes, Nigel, do be a sport and put a jumper on the octopus. Chop chop.

Nigel:  *curses Longsnot with the fire of a thousand suns*

Nigel: *spends two and a half hours trying to get the cephalopod into a sweater before buttoning it, getting inked three times and receiving eighteen suction-cup hickeys in the process*

Nigel:  *fraught with the demise of his dignity*

Nigel:  There you are, sir.

ELF:    Golly good show, old chap! Jolly good! You're endeavor was quite amusing. In fact, everyone should experience this. I have an inkling. Oh! Ha ha, so sorry for the pun, my dear fellow. Yes, I have an idea – Let's put three snaps across the closure of infant garments, and watch sleep-deprived parents try to dress agitated children. What a hoot!

Nigel:  *blink blink* What a wonderful notion, sir. You should implement that post-haste.

 

(Where in the dark shadows of hell do you come up with stuff?)

 

Have you ever tried to close three snaps across the crotch of a weeks-old child whose limbs are flailing like on one of those stupid inflatable hydra things at a used car lot in a hurricane? Have you? HAVE YOU??? Well, it's not easy. I had to use my stern words. Of course, that didn't work, since my daughter doesn't understand words. Or sternness.

 

(I take it back. Don't get help. You blogging your parenting experience just might be one of the amusingest things ever.)

 

Thanks. And you just used a made-up word.

 

(DAMMIT! You're rubbing off on us!)

 

You're welcome.

 

Look, I have to find the humor in this. If I don't I will go insane with worry, anxiety, or worse. I have to laugh it off, because honestly, what else can I do? It's life. It's parenting. And for every anxious moment there's one in which my daughter lifts her head and looks around during tummy-time. There are those first smiles as she looks in my eyes. There are those moments when her teenie tiny fingers close around one of mine and she holds on tight. And then there are those times when she falls asleep across my chest and I feel her heart and lungs. And through it all I know I have the partner I was meant to have. Not only can we co-parent, and do so as a team, we've done it with little ire directed at one another. I know, it's early. All new parents fight. Maybe that will happen, maybe not. But us? We're doin' alright so far.

 

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go invent a new form of infant clothing closure. Or get a Nigel. I'm really on the fence as to which one. I might need to win Lotto to get a Nigel though. If I had a –

 

(DON'T. Don't do it.)

 

…million dollars….

 

(I would buy you a hous…. I hate you.)

 

You don't. You love this blog. This blog reminds you that all the craziness in your life ain't really that crazy. There's at least one guy, this guy, who makes your crazy look like tea and biscuits with Aunt Janet on Sunday after church by comparison.

 

Dammit. Now I want biscuits.

 

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