blogthecat

Blog the baby

So much for trying to avoid turning blogthecat into a mommy blog. I've just looked over the last six posts, and their subjects go like this: breastmilk, post-partum embarrassment, poo, breastbiting, baby swinging, poo. Oh well, at least I'm following one good writing guideline: write what you know. Maybe better to record my real experience, niche as it currently is, than pretend there's more going on. There isn't. There really isn't. But what's going on is so much. And poo is so funny.

Quagmire

So this aft Oliver and I are on a quick trip round the ‘hood to pick up various sundries. He’s in the Snugli carrier since he so prefers it to the stroller and my back and shoulders can withstand his 20 lbs for a short jaunt like this. We’re in Meinhardts, the horrendously expensive deli/grocery store on Granville, shopping among the snooty snooties. After picking out a restrained half dozen items we line up and wait our turn for the cashier. A till opens up, and we make our way up to the counter feeling quite pleased with ourselves for our cute and quiet performance in the store. Then Oliver erupts:

“EEE-uurgh!”
(Beat).
“Eeeeeehhhh-uurrgh!”
(Beat. Beat.)
“Uurrghh!!!”

A close, pungent smell slowly but devastatingly oozes out of the pure polyester Snugli. The cashier looks discreetly away. Her face is going red. She has to deal with us, but she’s trying hard to a) not vomit, b) remain expressionless. Oliver is turned outward as per Snugli protocol, but I know his face is a) as red as hers from the exertion, and b) expectant, since at home when he poos, we congratulate him or soothe him if it looks like it’s been a tough go. I, meanwhile, am grappling with the fact that a) my baby has just pooed on me in public and b) I don’t know what decorum and decency would have me do in our predicament.

We’re all confused—the cashier, Oliver, and me. We remain mute as she rings through each item as fast as she can yet not so fast as to let on her revulsion. I pay, pick up my bags, and walk to the door briskly but not so briskly that I acknowledge my mortification. Oliver’s the only one who has recovered: he babbles happily away, knowing that despite the lack of positive reinforcement, he’s pooed mightily and well.

Memory making

I don't know where I stand yet on family photography. On the one hand, my dad is a brilliant photographer, and he and my mom have some ridiculously good and beloved family albums as a result. On the other, I like most experiences to happen sans camera interruption or influence. There isn't much time to figure it out, as I was made ruefully aware of today.

Today, I put Oliver in the baby swing at the kids' park for the first time. His dad was in Frankfurt, and his grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles live far away. There was only me. Only me to witness his bemusement as I lifted him into the seat, his excitement at being airborne, his wide-eyed surprise upon being swung, and finally his laughter and wild joy at being caught and pushed again, and again, and again. I will never forget the soft fall sun, the darling wisps of fine, blond hair flopping about his face, his eyes crinkled in merriment, and his open-mouthed grin as he floated up and down, away from me, back to me, away, and back, both of us locked in a long, delicious moment of pure, mutual delight.

I may be lugging that camera around a bit more.

Etymological concerns

OMG it hurts when your baby bites your nipple! I’ve been waiting for Oliver to do it, having heard other mothers talk about it, but nothing prepares you for the clamping down of two razor-like teeth on intensely sensitive skin. Thankfully, I had read about what not to do: scream bloody murder at the top of your lungs and whack baby’s head until he lets go—which is precisely what it feels like you must do to stop the blinding pain. No, there is a better option: draw baby’s head in until your boob surrounds his nostrils and he must release to breathe. I don’t know if I can say I so much drew Oliver’s head in as buried it deep, fast, and with feeling into my boob.

He did release. Then he did it again. This time after I smothered him, he actually looked up at me and grinned. A new game. Oh no!

p.s. Is that where the word "nip" comes from? I don't doubt the action could have prompted a new word.