Arrived.

I spent a lot of time mentally preparing myself for the rigors of having a new baby at home. By watching other bloggers navigate the rocky terrain of motherhood, I gleaned a few salient points: there would be little sleep, and copious excretions. There would be no time for showers, or writing, or meals that require preparation, and probably I needn’t bother wearing a shirt. In the days before Simone came home, I steeled myself for how overwhelming it would be, and resolved not to expect too much of myself. I stockpiled antidepressants and episodes of Absolutely Fabulous, just in case.

And some of my expectations were fulfilled. There has been little sleep. There has been spit up, and bright yellow excrement that must be scoured from the umpteen mineshaft-deep crevices between rolls of baby thigh (um, DESIGN FLAW). I have not showered since Tuesday, nor managed to return a single email, and yesterday all I consumed before five o’ clock was a snack-size bag of kettle chips and four cups of tea.

What I had not expected, what took me entirely by surprise, was how much I love this, peculiarly hued feces and all. I expected to be happy, of course, but I am so much happier than I hoped I might be.

The first two nights, Simone was perfectly content to sleep while someone was holding her, but put the child in her crib and she made her displeasure known. Our solution was for someone to remain awake at all times. Scott took most of the night shift, and I relieved him at 4:30 the next morning. In theory, this should have resulted in us each getting at least a solid five-hour block of sleep, but somehow it didn’t work out that way. As a result, most of our conversations went something like this:

ALEXA:
Hey, can you hand me the…thing? The…you know, the thing in front of you, on the table?
SCOTT:
ALEXA: (rubs face, exhausted) The eating thing, you know.
SCOTT: (stares blankly at table, where BOTTLE stands)

At 4:30, Scott would bring the baby to me and I would nurse her lying down until she fell asleep. I wanted, badly, to just leave her there, but we had been enjoined against such practices, and so I would transfer her to her crib next to our bed, at which point she would wake up all frisky-like, until I turned the apnea monitor back on (for her reflux) and lay down, at which point her mood would take a turn for the worse. Loudly.

Part of the problem was that Simone had become drunk with power. Now that she was home, she expected 24-hour mammary access. Off to take a nap? Not so fast, Milk Lady! Scott tried to give her a bottle and she pulled away, waggling her tongue at me suggestively. Bottle, schmottle! Come to me, nice Milk Lady! Come to me or I WILL RAIN HELL UPON YOU AND YOUR KIN.

And then yesterday we had our first weight check and visit from a home health nurse, who I am pretty sure was a gypsy. I am sure because she took a swaddling blanket and used it to tranquilize our baby, and it seems like a gypsy-ish skill, probably useful to keep babies quiet while you are replacing them with changelings. We had tried several traditional swaddles and the Miracle Blanket, with limited success, but this? As soon as Simone was swaddled in this manner she went silent, and now we can set her anywhere: in her crib, in her bouncy chair, as a doorstop while we carry in the groceries, and she remains calm. And I know what you’re thinking, but the blanket the gypsy used was one of our own, so I am certain it hadn’t been rubbed in Ketamine.

Anyway, I am typing this with Simone in her sling and she is starting to rub her face in my cleavage (which is a little degrading, baby—MILK LADY IS NOT A PIECE OF MEAT) so I had better go before the yowling starts.

Until next time, here are some pictures:

Simone’s room (no art on the walls yet, but otherwise finished):
Nursery 1Nursery 2

What grateful exhaustion looks like:
Half AsleepHome