Hi, little one. I haven’t written anything in a few days because, well, we’re still getting used to your schedule. Or, actually, to your stomach’s schedule. Your first night at home was a bit of a struggle, because we don’t know how you like to do things and neither do you. So there was a lot of crying, pacing, holding, feeding, and napping, and we were left exhausted the next morning while you slept in like a drunk after a bender.
Thursday evening was better, because the dairy delivery arrived, much to your mother’s relief. So you fed for shorter periods of time and passed out for longer periods, meaning we were all able to get a little more sleep. I did have to get up and rock you for about an hour and a half Friday morning while we both watched the early version of Headline News, just to give Mama a rest. You like the rocking. Actually, you like the walking. Last night I paced the upstairs rooms for about fifteen minutes until I got you to close your big blue eyes, and then I watched a preview of Clone Wars while you were passed out on my lap like a warm loaf of dough. You have this hilarious tic during sleep where you’ve been still for a long while, and suddenly throw your hands up in the air like your team just scored a touchdown. You also like to start with your head up in the crook of my elbow, and after an hour or so you’ve wiggled your way down to the other side of my lap, all fast asleep.
We still haven’t graduated to mechanically-assisted devices yet, even though we have a garage full of them. You simply don’t like to not be held. I know Mama smells good, and when I wear my fleece, I’m at least above room temperature, but this may not work out for us three down the road, girl. At some point you’re going to have to be cool with the crib or the co-sleeper, because Mama and I need our rest. I’m going to keep trying, and I guess we’ll have to settle you into things.
Grandpa also stopped by to visit yesterday, something he’s been chomping at the bit to do since, well, a month before you were born. You obliged him by passing out cold, and he held you in his lap like a piece of the finest, most delicate china he’d ever seen. I think he likes you, even if he’s afraid you will suddenly shatter into a million pieces.
Finn, I have to apologize in advance for the whole diaper thing. You and I have at least three years ahead of us, which means my icy hands will be wiping your bare bottom approximately 4,350 times before you’re potty trained. Daddy has low, low blood pressure, which means his hands are always cold. The thing is, though, you lose your freaking mind when anybody changes you. When the drawers come off, the world comes to an end, and as soon as we button you back up, it’s all sunshine and roses. Laying in bed with you napping between us after a particularly stressful changing, Mama reflected, “She doesn’t like having her clothes taken off.” Which, in retrospect, might be a good thing. It means I may get to spend less time chasing boys off with a shotgun after you hit puberty.