Posts from — April 2009

And so it begins…

I have enjoyed all the various comments and advice I’ve gotten about Rosie’s pooping and sleeping.  She is slowly getting better about the sleeping (No-Cry Sleep Solution is working, PRAISE JEEBUS) but we are still waiting for the nuclear colon bomb to explode. Construction on a fallout shelter begins tomorrow.  I also enjoy the fact that one day Rosie will be 13 and will TOTALLY WIG OUT about the fact that I discussed her poop or lack thereof on the internet.  At which point I’ll remind her that, no, it’s worse than that – her mom talked about her own boobs, too.  A lot.

It’s hard to imagine Rosie at thirteen, just like it’s hard to imagine me at 43 (OMG), but it will be reality one day.  Today though, she is just exactly one half of a year.  Six months ago I was holding a little papoose in my hospital bed, perusing the cafeteria menu with What Not to Wear on in the background, giddy on the after-delivery hormones that were still racing around in my bloodstream.  That was a total high, but also?  It was a total high NOT TO BE PREGNANT ANY MORE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.  I think I rode that wave for…well, six months.  Until tomorrow when it will be six months and one day.

Let me just confess something that sounds cuckoo when typed out in black and white, but it’s true: I was worried for a little while early on that my love for Rosie was tangled up in that unpregnant high.  I thought maybe that once it had been two, three, five, months, that I would come down off of the mountain and that the way I felt about her would be different, muted, dampened.  I felt sure that there would be some learning curve for our relationship, seeing as how the only object of my maternal affection to that point was of the XY persuasion.  Didn’t opposites attract?  How could my XXs come together with hers and forge a relationship that would be even remotely as strong as the bond I feel with Noah? How did one love a daughter?

This is the point at which your eyes should be a little sprained from all the rolling. Because when I look at her now, I can almost hear the Divine chuckling that must have gone on when she was created: “I Double Dog DARE you not to be head over heels, madly, crazy in love with this spunky, smiley, sweet, spectacular baby girl.”

And I have to choose the Physical Challenge, because that’s a dare I can’t complete.  It’s impossible. Unthinkable. Against the laws of nature.  This is my Rosie.  And my XXs will love her XXs until the end of all time.

Thank God Rosie has started sleeping in the evenings (uh, or she did last night.  I am a glass half full kind of girl! Or naive and stupid!) so that we have a good chunk of time free for this.  Maddening, illogical, nonsensical, awesome.  It’s The Impossible Quiz.

(We’ve made it to #64 so far…)

I’m at a coffee shop trying to write some blog posts so that when people type in this web address they aren’t greeted with a chorus of virtual crickets every day.  I’m not sure how successful this endeavor will be, seeing as how my sleep deprived brain can’t remember anything farther back than five sec- wait, what was I talking about?  Oh right.  Poop.

Rosie is on day three of an All Input No Output jag and understandably is not very happy about it.  Every time I go to feed her now I have this fear that she’ll explode.  I mean, there’s got to be a hull breach imminent, am I right?  There is only so much room in that tiny belly.  Things we’ve tried: bicycle legs, water, belly rubs, cutting out rice cereal, warm baths.  Things we’re close to trying: a bottle full of strong coffee with a prune juice shot and crushed up Ex-Lax, performing an enema on a Rosie voodoo doll, having a Shit Seance.  We won’t really do these things, obviously.  Probably.  Most likely.

In other news, I am getting very acquainted with the Godforsaken hours of 2am, 4am, and 5:45, as Rosie is waking up like clockwork at those times.  This is after waking up at 8:15pm and 10:30pm and sometimes 11:45 if she’s feeling kicky.  There is a plan for nipping this wakey-wakeyness in the bud that we are eager to implement, once her bowels are in order.  And I’ve now decided that that would be a great phrase to use when feeling out of sorts.  No, I’m sorry, I won’t be in today.  My bowels are not in order.  Maybe tomorrow.  Anyway, the plan is to finish reading “The No-Cry Sleep Solution” and then get into a huddle and draw out the plan with little xs and os and arrows and then yell BREAK! really loud and then run our plays over and over again until we get a touchdown, otherwise known as SLACKJAWED DROOL SLEEEEEEEEP.

Maybe then this blog will go back to being about interesting things, like bad TV and burritos.