Ha ha, posting every week. Sure.
It’s not like I ever doubted that full-time parents have a lot to do. But like, surely you can find time to write a stinkin’ blog post every week, right? I mean laundry and breastfeeding can’t take THAT much time, can they?
Um, no, but here’s the thing: as my friend Annie put it in her excellent post about how to travel internationally with a nine-week-old (which, whoa, I am impressed), ” our baby, like most babies, would like to be held all the time forever.” Meaning I have learned to cook (ok, eat crackers), clean (throw burp cloths into a pile across the room) and type (one-sentence efficiency emails) with one hand. All while bouncing on an exercise ball. Because our baby wants to be bounced all the time forever. But writing a blog post using one hand would take approximately seven hours and I’d have to feed him five times within that time period so I must wait until that magical window where he actually submits to being put down to sleep. And then faced with uncertainty (will he wake up in five minutes? Is he down for an hour and a half?) I prioritize the following depending on which is more pressing: 1. use the bathroom, 2. eat an actual meal that doesn’t come out of a bag, 3. practice yoga 4. sleep.
Just kidding. “Sleep when the baby sleeps” is actually the worst piece of advice ever given. Why? It’s a cruel joke. You think “Hey! He’s completely asleep and swaddled and in a safe place and I can totally bang out a 45 minute nap right now.” You lie down, get comfy, start to drift off to sleep in about three and a half minutes when he starts to cry bloody murder. It’s much better to not even try to sleep at all.
But the smiles I’m getting these days? They are the reward for all of this. They are better than eating a sandwich with two hands. They are better than sleeping longer than 3 hours at a stretch. He’s now making eye contact, which — how do they even learn to do that? — is the most intense eye contact I’ve ever experienced. His eyes are so clear, blue, open, innocent– he’s a sponge, soaking everything up. And being the pile of hormones that I am, sometimes when he looks at me I get all teary, and he’s all, “Mother, you were about to change my diaper…?” And I’m all, “Oh yeah. Diaper change. Whoops, sorry.”