Years from now, when Jack is reading Monthly Letters to Baby A, and looking at 4 thousand pictures of his siblings, will he think that we loved him less based on the lack of evidence that he existed as a baby? I just can’t get it together. I like to think I’m Too Busy Living. No time for the internet or the camera, what with the family Fun that we cram into every day, all day long.
But I’ll do a quick update:
Jack’s mouth is still broken. Remind me to write about the mysteries of let-down, in my next Post About My Boobies. I’m being milked like a moocow still 10 or 12 times a day. Step Up, please, Jack. I can’t do this forever.
TeenHer’s hair is fierce; my sister in law took the scissors to it this afternoon. She looks about 25. Dammit.
ToddlerA is Back in Bed. With us. “mommy’s bed!”, she shrieks every time we make a move toward her bedroom after 10 PM. It’s easier just to park her in there and suffer with our 6 inches of bed space. Plus it’s cute. We’re all four in the bed! Awww. TeenHer has respectfully declined to be included in the Family Bed, but on occassion she’ll take one for the team and bunk up with ToddlerA.
ToddlerA is going through a Daddy phase and I think my husband may go insane soon. Only Daddy can wipe her ass, pick her clothes out, buckle her seat belt, prepare her juice, fix her breakfast or change the channel on her TV. Baby Jack is public enemy #1 in her mind right now, especially when Daddy makes the grave mistake of holding him, ever.
For my part, it hasn’t totally sunk in yet that I don’t get to go to bed at night and sleep. That when I go to bed in an hour, I have maybe 3 hours to catch a rest before it starts all over again. Sometimes M will hand me the baby, and I just..don’t know what to do with him. I find myself volunteering for jobs I would never, ever do, so that I can avoid Baby Duty. I have scrubbed baseboards and walls; I have washed (and folded!) a truckload of laundry. I cleaned out the fridge; mopped the floors.
When the baby cries because we put him down, there’s a race-only it’s more of a reverse race; a competition to see who can take the longest route over to the swing. I groan as I unfold myself from the couch; M shuffles toward the swing like he’s a hundred years old. Sometimes I pretend I hear the phone ringing just as I stand up, and detour to the kitchen.