Hi, little one. Daddy is typing one-handed with you laying asleep across my forearm, a hold I’ve been practicing for years on the cats. It’s nice to know they’ve been handy for something, because other than the simple-minded one, they want nothing to do with you. You’ve been crashed out in my arms like a starlet after a five-day coke binge, and it’s a beautiful, wondrous thing, because Daddy needs to get a little work done, and Mama is sleeping alone for the first time since labor started.
Today was your first visit to the pediatrician, at the tender hour of 9:15, and you seemed to tolerate the exam pretty well until we had to take you out of the sleep sack. Instead of doing the bundle thing with blankets like they showed us at the hospital, you have a green fleece sack with velcro wings which are supposed to contain your arms, which you like to flap around your head like a wounded bat. You’re actually getting skilled at getting out of the sack on your own, which is why I’ve started calling you Finley Houdini; every time I turn around you’re wiggling around like the DJ told you to wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care. Ordinarily that would be fine, but your nails are long and you keep scratching your own pretty face. I’m terrified to do it, but tomorrow I have to bust out the file and remove your talons before you slice open Mama’s boob. So cool it with the jazz hands until I screw up my courage, OK?
Last night was pretty rough on us three because the milk fairy hasn’t arrived yet, and you’re getting frustrated. Bless your mama, though; she keeps at it, even though your suction is powerful enough to swallow tables, chairs, and large household appliances. She’s tired and sore but continues to offer up the tap, chewing her lip when you latch on like a feral wolf. Finn, when you’re fifteen and she won’t let you wear makeup and she just doesn’t understand and she’s the worst mother ever, I’m going to remind you of all this before I make you go apologize to her.
We have found, though, that there’s a reason “pinky” rhymes with “binky”. In the hospital, when we needed to give Mama a break, I plugged in and that seemed to comfort you; you’d happily suck the little finger on my right hand down to a nubbin. That worked great until last night, when you suddenly realized, THIS IS NOT BOOB. No amount of talking, singing, rocking, or pacing would make it better, and child, we can’t have that. I now fully understand the visceral, primal reaction parents have to a crying infant, and you didn’t even come out of my stomach.
Knowing we would spend another sleepless night unless other arrangements were made, a newborn binky was procured, boiled, and offered, and lo, the gods did weep with joy: the offer was accepted with a sigh, a yawn, and a couple hours of blessed silence.
Hang tight, kid, milk is coming.