Said a frizzled old lady in perfect Bawlmerese behind me in line today at the grocery store when Charlotte wanted her binky. She ignored the adorable baby the whole time we were waiting in line, which I thought was strange — because in an empty grocery store, everyone wants to chat with the baby, and we’re glad for it. I sure don’t want Charlotte to be as anti-social as I am. (Hell, I don’t want to be as antisocial as I am.) Anyway, snarky, “That’s why your baby’s fussing a tiny bit,” comments are unwelcome at best. I wanted to point out the sweater Charlotte had on, remind her that a baby’s parents usually know her best or to tell her to mind her own business. But I can’t control how people act. I just ignored her, which I thought was a silent, “Shut up,” and I walked home with veggies, bread and my daughter.
I love being a father; I really do. But I also love getting a coffee and shooting the shit with my pal. Tonight I got to do both. Even though it was hot, we enjoyed nice coffee standing around a NO LOITERING sign. It was fantastic. Charlotte had a short walk with Mama and got to hang out, since Mama worked very late last night.
I’ve had a rough couple of weeks at work (etc.), and I thought aloud tonight to the Mrs. that I would love a cigarette tonight but that I wouldn’t smoke one. I did smoke in the past. Not that far past. The last time I smoked was June 2009 at a party, and I don’t, uh, remember smoking it very well. So, to indulge my desire to smoke, I ask if I can light my pal’s cigarette (my brother seldom lets me, you punk!). It’s fun.
I got a thousand bug bites on my feet and ankles.
And, in the weird light tonight, I noticed that I’m more tan than I’ve been since, well, my early teens. At my age, that’s probably not the brightest idea. But, well, whatever.
I am officially between pairs of glasses. My ultra bullet-proof lenses cracked, from going in and out of the heat and AC this summer, I think. Turns out that our improved health insurance means my glasses, whatever I want, are $25 (+$50 if I want Transition, and I do). Awesome. Only I don’t have time to go to the eye doctor this week or next or last week. So I’m squinting a lot.
I’m officially finished my AmeriCorps time in two weeks. My office becomes a library after tomorrow. I think I might be off-campus the week after, my last week. Bizarre. I didn’t accomplish much this year, after a great year last year. I think I might actually take my Dell Mini outside of my apartment, after owning it for almost six months. That might be exciting.
I have been drinking more coffee than usual, being online less than usual and reading more than usual lately, though. That is excellent.
I am in my underwear on my couch now, since Charlotte’s asleep, enjoying the AC and wet hair from a shower.
And now I will stop revealing things for the evening.
Charlotte can hold herself up enough to sit in her high chair now, which she prefers because of its viewpoint. Wow.
We took Charlotte for a walk this evening because she’s been fussy from when we get home until she goes to bed all week. We passed a man who said something about her pretty blue eyes. I looked at my wife and joked that there will come a time that I would punch someone in the face for that. Oh, the teenage years will be fun.
But, yes, her eyes really are this blue.
Before Charlotte was born, we bought her a new Moleskine (sized A4) for a first-year journal, and I bought a new camera with the cash I was planning on buying an acoustic bass with. My better half is a talented historian, and I’m a little obsessive and compulsive. We planned on recording everything. Everything.
I didn’t mean to, but I’ve found myself watching important moments through my camera’s LCD screen, and I’m so behind in journaling (and I haven’t cracked Charlotte’s volume open) that I can’t stand to sit down and begin to write anything at all. Today, I noticed a nice red stuck pixel in the middle of my camera’s pictures. Great. I know that bad pixels are a fact of digital photography, but a red one right in the middle is disconcerting. I spent the night trying out CHDK, but their website and download pages have been down all night. And the firmware version is conflicting with what it’s supposed to be. Canon said to send it back to them. Okay, that’s like $15-$20 in shipping and a week or two (or three) without my camera.
In itself, that’s not the end of the world. I could do something scummy, like buy my camera over again and return the one I have now, since my return period is over. Aside from being scummy, I’m sentimental, and I don’t want to do that. This camera took Charlotte’s first picture ever. But I find myself hoping that she doesn’t do anything too memorable in the meantime. And this is stupid.
For another thing, if it were me, I’d rather hear the story from my parents than see the photos. My parents took tons and tons of photos of their boys as children. But my own memory and hearing my parents tell me things that I don’t remember serve me better for my nostalgic needs than photo albums. In fact, there are some I’ve probably never even bothered to look through.
I’ve developed a strange “I’m getting older” and “important things are happening now” penchant for writing everything down and recording everything (that sounds like it’s own blog post) over the last few years. I worked all day and spent half the time Charlotte was awake messing with my camera like her childhood depended on it. But worrying more about some photos and posting them on Facebook seems like a waste of energy to me these days.
But, you know. Tell me that.
Charlotte has two playgyms, both from Ikea, and she loves both. Both bear being written about so that you can enjoy them, too, if you’re in the market for one (or two).
Without raving about either, she’d like to wish everyone a Happy Memorial Day weekend. Today, we’re going to see Grandpa off for his camping trip (on which Daddy has to sit out this year); going to her first campfire Saturday; and celebrating Uncle Joey’s birthday Sunday with a small family cook-out.
Mommy and Daddy both go back to work next week, and we’re not happy about it.
Charlotte and I took a walk early this morning. We exchanged many “Good Mornings,” enjoyed a nice breeze and savoured the smell of honeysuckles and freshly-cut grass. If she ever manages to stay awake in the baby carrier, she now insists on being able to look around at her leisure. This requires not only her usual sun-hat, but also sunglasses. Usually though, like today, she is asleep before I even hit the elevator, rocked by the nice warmth and softness of Daddy’s belly.
During The Big Ultrasound in November (the one wherein we found out Baby’s gender), GE was there selling 3D machines. So we were able to view (but not record) a 3D ultrasound of Charlotte. We could see her cute little face but were having trouble getting a steady shot. Because. She loves to put her hands to her face.
Even in the low-res, 2D versions, you can see her hands up to her face.
As soon as she came into the world, she was putting those arms up.
When she came back from the nursery, right after she was born, her face was red and raw from scratching herself up.
Whether playing, fussing or sleeping, she loves having those hands up on her cheeks and chin.
It’s no secret that I write more when I’m sad, mad or stressed out. It follows that those are the times that I blog more, too. But it does seem that all of my blogging and journal writing over the last five weeks or so is negative, even angry. I have been blissed out over being a father, over watching my wife become a mother and over cuddling, playing and walking with my adorable daughter.
But I’ve also spent a lot of time being really, genuinely, deeply pissed off. A shortened list:
1) People who put their issues over what is best for our child, even over what’s best for us as parents and as individuals. This started mere hours after Charlotte was born when someone thought their own issues were more important than, you know, the birth of a child. And our parenting instincts reared themselves in a flash, showing us both to be not only intensely protective of our daughter, but also violently so — if words and feelings can be violent in their own way (which I think is so).
2) People who feel entitled to our daughter. This includes demanding that we let whoever wants to hold her do so whenever and for as long as people want, despite not contributing to her welfare in any way (that is, people who just want to hold babies and think that they are entitled to it, like babies are fashion accessories to get your picture taken with and uploaded to Facebook); expecting that we not only arrange our schedule around when they demand a visit but also that we should arrange the needs and comfort of a newborn to their availability; people who, for some reason, think they deserve our time and attention when we have a newborn who actually does deserve it and need it.
3) People judging our parenting, whether they’ve done it before or not. This has ranged from two people exchanging “knowing” looks when we said that Charlotte does not like her formula heated up, to people telling us what to do, to people assuming they know our kid better than we do — even after spending five minutes with her. All kids are different, and it’s insulting to assume that anyone knows our kid better than we do. She likes some weird stuff, and some things that would drive a lot of kids crazy don’t bother her one lick. She’s also moving very quickly, in some ways, developmentally.
4) People not thinking. This includes being more rough than we like, blowing cigarette smoke, being too loud, coming to our home and getting our week-old daughter sick, etc. I’m sure this is a universal symptom of parenthood. But so is watching your child get sick, falling down, moving out — and knowing that you’ll miss a good chunk of his or her life because you’ll be dead. I don’t like those, either. Who does?
The worst is the effect it has on me as a father and as an overly-reflective person in general. I see unwelcome and unfounded criticisms and questioning of our parenting as a personal attack on my intelligence and worldly wisdom. I want to smack people who want us to arrange our child’s life around their schedule and availability and then get mad and passive-aggressive when we don’t (because we can’t). I walk around in the grocery store with our sweet little baby strapped on, plotting with my wife how to avoid situations that just make us mad, when I should be enjoying Charlotte, or, at least, getting the shopping over with so we can go play. I get mad when people do things I don’t like and don’t think are good for my daughter, and then I get mad at them for the fact that I don’t have the stones to set people straight unless I’m closely related to them. I get mad when people don’t respect our (really mine – everyone respects mothers’ “authority” more than fathers’ in my experience) position as The Boss[es] because we’re new parents, but I don’t really do anything about it other than get mad – and then I get mad about that.
But I have to get over it. Some of this is just a case of jerks who have found new ways to be bungholes and a general state of people being lazy and selfish (not that I’m immune, certainly). Some is just new. I’m sure that people are not going to stop judging and criticizing our parenting anytime soon, and we’re upset about it because it’s so new. Sheesh, wait until she grows up an unbaptized vegetarian riding the bus! We need and I need to assert our authority when people do things we don’t like or demand things they have no right to. People are always going to offer her things we don’t think are good for her, teach her things we want to teach her ourselves or don’t want her taught, bring things (smoke, judgments, sickness) around her despite our best efforts. I suppose that, if I want people to remember that we are in charge, they need to reminded it when they over-step themselves.
One thing we try to judge things by is what effect this or that will have on Charlotte. Someone is demanding our time. What have they done/will they do to benefit Charlotte?
My parents do a lot for us and a lot for Charlotte (Hi, Grandma!), and she already looks at them differently than she does other people. They have an open invitation to visit whenever they want, and I’m glad that they take us up on it regularly. On the other hand, someone who never expressed interest in Mama being pregnant, who never called or emailed or anything – well, we’re not going to break ourselves arranging our lives around a visit with people who don’t care about Charlotte but are just curious or bored. No one is entitled to Charlotte in any way, not even her parents. Someone demands our time as individuals (as opposed to as parents). That takes away from time with Charlotte, and I don’t know anyone I like that much. My patience is reserved for my child who can only express herself by crying and screaming and flailing her limbs.
When we relate everything back to Charlotte, the right course of action or thought is clear. What makes us better parents and what benefits Charlotte wins. Period. Her parents having the final say without being subject to constant judgment, without thoughtless people making demands on their time, without having grudges held against them because we don’t schedule our child’s life and needs around their free time – these are good for Charlotte. They win. Everything else is poo, and I know a lot more about poo since becoming a father.
Then I marvel that love can be the source of anger and frustration – and even hate – when it’s protective love for a child. It seems that loving my child intensely precludes loving certain people and things that are bad for her or bad for her parents in a way that affects her.
In the end, the being who makes all of this mean anything comes to the front again, and I just sit and stare at my daughter and feel like a sillybutt for letting myself get upset over such diddlypoop.
She cries. Her tear ducts work now; so it’s terrible to see. Especially if it’s because you’re administering nose drops and sucking out boogies with an aspirator because some jackass knowingly came to visit with a cold. And if you’re at the ER when she’s less than two weeks old because she’s breathing funny because of said cold, tears are that much worse.
Three weeks old, and we have a revenge list! (kidding)
The consensus is that we have created the cutest kid ever.
I’m tempted to do a play-by-play. But, for one, I barely had the energy and time to journal about it. For another, there was a lot of gore and fear and terror and love, and I don’t think I’m a good enough writer to do it justice. In the end, though, I think it’s not my place. Yes, I was there. I was scared and shouting and crying and smiling and gasping along with Charlotte’s mother. But I didn’t get sewn back together and almost give birth without medication. I feel like it’s Mama’s to write about, and she’s not a blogger. So these are just the facts, Jack.
Mama’s contractions got so bad that she cried, screamed, dropped to all fours. The jokes she told me to remember to tell her when the time came didn’t help at all. Neither did a walk, a movie, etc. The midwife on call at the hospital told her, No, don’t come in. We tried to go to sleep at midnight, but apparently I passed out on my own.Mama woke me up at 1am telling me that it was time to go. In my stupor, I begged her to come back to bed.
At the hospital, I had to keep running around to get guest passes and had to leave her twice. I hated that.
By the time we got to Labor and Delivery, Mama was beside herself with pain. She was also 7cm dilated. The epidural was ordered, and we were admitted to a room. I had to get another pass from security, and the guard was not at his post and was a jerk when he got back.
We got to the room, and two young residents were discussing how dilated Mama was, where the on-call doctor was and whether there was time for the epidural. Sparing scary and TMI details, it was almost too late for the epidural because the midwife let us stay home too long (confirmed verbally by three doctors — I have no beef with midwives, just that one) and because the anaesthesiologist was taking too long to show up. My wife screamed, “Please!” to give her the damned epidural and even begged at one point, “Why can’t I have it?!” In retrospect, this melts my freakin heart and makes me feel like a wanker for not jacking up whoever I had to in order to get her the drugs she was begging for. The mean anaesthesiologist finally came, complained that my wife’s back was sweaty and then left the room without turning on the drip (luckily, the nurse noticed). Once the drugs were in, Mama was her old self again.
We didn’t wait long before it was time to break the water and PUSH. Geez. I had to hold a leg, while a room full of people encouraged Mama. In the end, Baby needed a little help from the vacuum, and Mama had a pretty large episiotomy. Very large. Baby was stuck on her way out, and the vacuum and cutting were necessary. Plus, she’s our kid and has a big head.
Baby came out like a starfish with a tube in her belly, screaming. My wife’s joy cries and terror cries are the same, and I thought for a second that something was wrong. But they asked, “Does Dad wanna cut the cord?” and I was handed this instrument that looked fit for cutting off my own hands. Once the cord was cut, they gave Charlotte to Mama, then to me, as they had to bring in another doctor to sew Mama back up again.
Yeah, there was blood and poop everywhere. Baby pooped on everyone but me because she’d become stressed by being stuck. And Mama was really torn up. The man who they had to bring in was oozing with competence somehow, and that made me feel better. I also felt, well, happier than I’d been in my thirty years that I got to hold Charlotte for the better part of an hour, while Mama was getting repaired by a room full of people while she was completely awake.
Charlotte was looking around, blinking slowly, taking us all in. She seemed to recognize her parents by our voices (and her grandparents later in the same way). I’d never had a better hug in my entire life than the cuddles we had while Mama was getting repaired.
And, to back up the three pieces of identification that they put onto her before she left the room, she has my family’s butt-chin! She looks like all the men with my last name, that is, the four of us still alive from my Dad’s side of the family.
They took Charlotte to the nursery, and I walked as far as they’d let me. Once Mama was put back together, Grandma and Grandpa came in, and we all watched the morning unfold in downtown Baltimore. Uncle Tom and Uncle Joey were on the way with coffee and donuts.
All was right with the world.
Only for pictures, skin-to-skin when she freaks out about an after poopy-bath and tummy-time. Look at that butt-chin!
With my ladies.
I have to say this. Life has been little else but pure joy since last Friday, when Charlotte was born. Life would be nothing but pure joy if dingdongs and poopyheads would do a few things for me/us:
1) Keep their issues to themselves.
2) Keep their issues to themselves.
3) Stop demanding things of either of us. Unless you live under a rock, you know that new parents don’t sleep, don’t have any time and are more than a little consumed with taking care of and admiring their new child.
4) Respect our decisions.
I’ve found that a lot of the same people who make a show of sympathy, empathy and understanding also get pissed when there is no patience and no “consideration” left for them. My immediate family is not, thankfully, pulling any of this crap. The opposite, actually. But my immediate family is pretty small, and the slew of other people that demand attention for themselves in favor of my newborn child is a larger list of people. Passive-aggressiveness over perceived slights at the lack of returned phone calls, meet-ups, emails, etc.? Seriously?
Fortunately, we have — or, at least, I have — resolved to just not care about other people’s feelings right now. Easier said than done, I know. But on nights like tonight, where the poop’s flying, and Charlotte’s not sleeping, and I find myself with less patience left for her because of some fartpooper who’s being passive-aggressive because our priority has been our child, well, that makes it easier.
I don’t think I’m going to make it to the end of the month without snapping at someone for being a jerk.
Look what wonderful gift popped out Friday morning at 5:16am! Charlotte Frances!
Among other pre-labor signs! They’re still enough apart that we’re at home, saving our energy and watching a movie. But Baby’s coming soon!
Okay, so the whole, “You smoke; you can’t hold Baby,” thing might be over. I think. Not sure. But it’s up to Mama. It’s not up to anyone who feels entitled to hold someone else’s kid. My brother, for instance, smokes outside only and not often. Unless he just came in from smoking, he gets to hold Baby, according to Mama and I. If you smoke in your house or car (especially both), Mama’s foot is still down. Feel free to try to fight with her if you are crazy enough to try. I’m not.
I’m still reserving some patience for people who suggest meat for an infant. Because, well, if someone thinks a six-month old should eat a steak, well, that’s so stupid that I’m not going to lose my patience. Same with suggesting that meat-based diets are miraculously healthier than non-meat-based diets. Sure, I know some meat-eaters (many, in fact) who eat healthier than some vegetarians I’ve known. But that had more to do with dumbass vegetarians than meat being inherently good for you.
I shouldn’t say it, but people have been quiet about the no car thing. Good. Now that I’ve said it, this silence is going to stop, and we’ll have to start citing statistics to show that putting a kid into a car is what’s dangerous, if you wanna, you know, get scientific and factual about it and all.
We also picked a bouncy chair in very pink pink pink. But, in our defense, the others were ugly. The rest of her room could pretty much work for any human being, regardless of gender. It’s that awesome.
But, maybe we’re not softening up as much as I think. I think resoluteness feels more natural now, and I don’t feel like we’re being stern unnecessarily.
Fatherhood
