Ramblings of a New Dad, Part 4: Easter Fools

So, the baby asked for the car keys this morning. I resolutely said no, but the pleading look in her eyes almost got to me.

 

(Um, isn't she like two months old?)

 

Ten weeks to the day, to be precise. So no, she didn't actually ask for the car keys. My point is that holy crap on a cracker time flies when you're raisin' babies!  

 

(Get used to it, sport.)

 

*sigh*

 

Ten weeks, and already it's hard to remember life without her. I wouldn't have it any other waDEAR LORD CHILD WHAT JUST CAME OUT OF YOU????

 

(*phew* we thought you were gonna get all sappy there for a minute.)

 

I was, but dear sweet hoppin' hollerin' hell hades on a hamster, the substance coming out of my child lately could melt the paint off of a battleship.

 

(Sweet hoppin'… I can't even with you right now.)

 

Sure you can. Let me back up….

 

*Scooby Doo squiggly scene*

 

Rewind a couple weeks and, as you're aware, the baby is trending in the lower percentiles for weight. Well, here's the thing about breast feeding. Some women produce just enough milk. Some ladies produce so much they change their names to Bessy, have to freeze the stuff, and are putting pictures of missing children on the freezer bags. And, well, sometimes, some women's bodies can't keep up with the demand. Unfortunately *we* have fallen into the latter category.

 

I try to remind my beloved that it's just the way it is, that it's perfectly normal, and that she's doing absolutely nothing wrong. And fellow new dads, please heed these words:

 

BE SUPPORTIVE.

 

Because it's not mom's fault, it doesn't make her an inadequate mom, and it certainly doesn't mean she's doing anything wrong. And while she knows that, she might not feel it. I may use the royal "We" when I refer to breastfeeding, though obviously mom is the one feeding, but to some extent breastfeeding really is a we-endeavor.

 

Let's face it, everything about child-rearing should be a we-endeavor. A WEndeavor, if you will. You can bottle feed breastmilk to give mom a break. You can, and must be supportive if things don't go according to plan, i.e. if the baby doesn't latch, mom doesn't produce enough milk, or whatever the case may be. So do your part! [End public service announcement about collaborative parenting.]

 

All that being said, we've collectively, with our pediatrician, made the decision to begin supplementing her feedings with formula to ensure she's nourishing adequately.

 

Boy. Howdy.

 

Do you know what happens when you introduce formula into an infant's diet?

 

(Yes, actual–)

 

That was rhetorical! What happens is your child begins to produce bowel movements like a 47 year old drunk man that had nothing but nachos for dinner. Awww she's so cute and peaceful there in your arms… and then she makes sounds like an over-revved outboard motor and your eyes are watering and plants are dying and the dog is whimpering in the corner and Canada's biological warfare alert system just went to Def Con 2 and you need a wipe the size of a beach towel to clean up the unholy haz-mat disaster with which your child just filled her diaper.

 

(If your child ever reads this, she's going to need therapy. You know that, right?)

 

I'm already saving for that.

 

Put it this way, the Diaper Genie wants its wishes back. And I know, I know, just wait until she starts eating solid food. I get it. It gets worse. But if I wasn't writing silly things about what's happening now, what fun would that be?

 

(Touché, pussycat.)

 

I jest. You know I jest. It's actually not that bad, and it's all just part of parenting an infant. Like taking her to her two-month appointment at which she was to receive her first set of immunizations. As in shots. As in a nurse was going to stick my kid with needles.

 

Now, I'm not squeamish, except for the whole Asphyxiating Diaper Debacle referenced above. Needles don't bother me. But this is my daughter we're talking about. A colleague of mine at work had a baby just a week and half before we did, and she warned of how heartbreaking it would be when the baby gets her shots. There would be traumatic crying, tears, and as a parent there would be nothing you could do but watch.

 

Okay, great. That's gonna suck.

 

Enter my child.

 

[Scene: Nurse comes in, prepares injections.]

 

Nurse: Okay, I'm going to need you to hold her arms so she doesn't flail. This is going to hurt her.

 

Me:      *holds child's arms, prepares for worst while mom watches on with concern*

 

Nurse: *injects child*

 

Child: *Face turns red, let's out angry wail for all of about five seconds, hyperventilates, and stares at nurse with contempt fired by the heat of a thousand suns*

 

Me:      *blink blink*

 

Me:      Shit. We're screwed.

 

There was no self-pity-pain there. There was, instead, "OW! What the fuck did you do that for??? If I knew how to use my hands I'd slap you silly, bitch!!!"

 

Only, you know, in baby.

 

(Yeah, you're totally screwed.)

 

Annnnd we now know that we don't have a *princess* on our hands. We've got one tough little warrior-woman in the making.

 

Blessing, meet curse.

 

Honestly, I prefer it this way. Now. Ask me again when I really don't let her have the car keys and she calls me the worst dad ever in the history of dads, and I might give you a different answer.

 

And then, five minutes later, she's in her car seat snoozing away. Such is parenting an infant. So too is putting your daughter in a cute outfit for her first Easter. And yes, for the record, she was adorable. She had this little blue jumper with white hearts and pink snaps and a white bib with little bunnies on it and a white knit hat with bunny ears, bunny eyes, and a bunny nose.

 

Let's just say that, in the first picture we took, the look on her face resulted in us captioning the photo "The baby is having none of daddy's shenanigans." She warmed up to it and began to smile though, because she's a good sport. Or because her parents were making silly faces and tickling her. Six one way, half-dozen the other.

 

First Easter was a rousing success, and evidenced just how blessed we are with the family we have. Those on both sides came by first for an open house brunch in the morning, and then for dinner, and I honestly don't think that child was put down for anything other than diaper changes all day long. The love and support we have, for us individually, for us as parents, for us as a family, and for our daughter, are overwhelming. I use the word "blessed" to describe it, but even that doesn't capture just how grateful we truly are.

 

The day was exhausting, but no, I wouldn't change a thing. Except the diapers. I have to change those.

 

(*smacks head*)

 

And I'll gladly change them. Because they're my daughter's diapers.

 

Did I mention I'm a dad?

 

Did I mention I have a daughter?

 

*Grins uncontrollably*

 

Ten weeks. Holy crap. My daughter is ten weeks old.

 

My daughter.

 

*grins some more*

 

 

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