Second Son

When Noah was born, it was like the sun and the moon and the stars came to live in my house, in my arms. It was shocking and brilliant and blinding and I wanted to tell everyone -- everyone! -- about the celestial little being I'd birthed, and about everything little thing he did as if he was the first baby to ever do any of it, because as far I knew, he was.

Writing about Ezra has been harder -- yes, yes, I remember the helicoptering arms and legs and how they're constantly smiling at some point in the distance while you try to figure out whether it's the curtain rod or the beige wall paint that has them so excited, and yes, there's no need to freak out when they start pooping less or coo something that sounds just like "mama" -- but not because he is any less wondrous to me. I revel in every moment with him -- I never, ever put him down so I can greedily suck up those moments, even if it means typing blog posts with my arm awkwardly bent and raised and aching while his little hand curls around my wrist as he sleeps and snores beside me. The gentle heft of his growing body feels so good, his smiles are so fantastic, the wonderful Gerber Baby-ness of his beautiful face is so indescribable I don't even see the point in trying. I just want to enjoy him.

Having him is like discovering that there is, in fact, a second sun and moon and galaxy of stars. They may be a lot like the ones you've seen before, but are still completely unique and amazing. And you sit and you stare and you smile, as your heart bends and expands to fit this new universe.

Night at the Roxbury

All right, enough talk of near-smothered babies. It is once again time to DANCE!

Here is Ezra, possibly rocking out to the beats of the 30-Day Shred DVD menu.

Night at the Roxbury from amalah on Vimeo.

Hey, if we're going to believe in guardian angels and all that stuff, I don't think it's too far-fetched to believe in a 12-week-old who has already mastered the White Man's Overbite.

(PS: the break in the video isn't really a break in the action, but a sloppy attempt to edit out the part where I said, "You wanna get in shape, Noa-- uh, Ezra?")

(PPS: the 30-Day Shred is everything you've heard it to be. If you hate gyms, hate working out, have absolutely zero patience and demand instant gratification, this is the workout for you. It will kick your ass up and down the block, but by day three you're no longer panting and gasping quite so much, and you can at least scream back at the TV to shut the fuck up about more jumping jacks. Progress, baby!)

Angel On Your Shoulder

Last night things returned to their usual clusterfuck: Ezra woke up at 2:30, and less than an hour later Noah appeared at my bedside in near tears over a dream about plane, Grandma and Ceiba -- something so vivid, apparently, that he still runs to my side for a reassuring hug every time a plane flies overhead. We attempted to return the boys to their respective beds around 4:30, which lasted for about an hour for Noah ("My tummy hurrrrrts. And the plane! The plaaaane!") and about five minutes for Ezra.

I grumpily and blindly reswaddled Ezra's arms in total darkness and tried to put him in his swing (look, the 30-Day Shred is making my muscles sore enough -- I am now officially cherishing every inch of my personal space at night), but that didn't work either. Defeated, I brought him back to bed, carefully flipped down the loose sheets and blankets, curled around him protectively with my back to Jason and Noah, and fell sound asleep.

At some point I felt a hand on my shoulder. It squeezed and shook me a little, the way Jason does when he's trying to wake me up or make sure that I know it's time to wake up, wordlessly, lest I roll over and slug him. (I'm...not nice, first thing.) My eyes opened and I slowly realized it was still pitch black out -- what the FUCK was he waking me up for? After the night we had? Seriously, DUUUUUDE.

I groggily glanced down at the baby...

...who was completely still, his face covered by the swaddling blanket.

I frantically yanked the layers off. I'd wrapped him too loosely and sloppily, and exactly like Ashley mentioned in the comments yesterday, he'd raised his arms and pulled everything over his head.

He was fine. Warm and breathing. I sat there staring at him, panting in the wake of those 15 seconds or so of panic.

I turned around, already wondering how Jason could have known to wake me up...but he was sound asleep, his arms fully engaged around Noah, who was curled into a sleeping little ball with his hands under his chin. I put my own hand on my shoulder, where I swear I could still feel the sensation of that life-saving squeeze.

I know most parents have had those moments -- those terrible what-if moments that leave you totally shaken long after you know everything is fine, that you still replay over and over to chastise yourself for that moment of carelessness, stupidity, of oh my god you know better! what were you thinking?  And then you gulp and whisper thanks to Someone and mark one down in the Never Doing That Again column, but still. All day you're sort of unsettled, like a toddler trying to sort through a dream about his dog, his Grandma and a plane falling from the sky.

I keep telling him that it's okay, that it wasn't real.  

The baby is okay, although the danger was pretty real. The hand on my shoulder, though. That. I don't know. I just don't know.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One

AREA MOTHER MISSES OBVIOUS SOLUTION TO ALL OF LIFE'S PROBLEMS

So a few days ago I randomly decided that Ezra was Over Swaddling. I'd wrap him up and he'd kick and fight and make his little frowny-face and go PEH PEH RA RA WAAAAAH and I'd hastily start yanking on all the flaps and dig him out lest he get REALLY good an pissed off, although it was usually too late.

So I stopped trying. And guess what! He stopped sleeping! At all! Ever! No naps, no nice stretch of a few hours at night, just hour after hour with a high-maintenance, demanding infant (I KNOW, RIGHT?) who would not let me put him down for a minute without ramping up into ear-splitting screams.

Things cratered on Monday. Ezra was obviously exhausted and would not go to sleep. I tried swings and bouncies and cribs and mobiles and toys and slings and carriers and pacifiers. Scream scream scream. He nursed non-stop, not really to eat, but to fall asleep after a few sucks, but if I tried to move him, scream scream scream. Scream. Unearthly, unholy screams. I got so baffled I mixed up a bottle of formula and fed him that, hoping that a nice, easy, steady influx of milk would finally get him to sleep.

It didn't. I paced around the house, bouncing him in my freaking. aching. arms. for hours, hushing, singing, asking him ever-so-politely just what the FUCK his problem was. Jason had barely made it through the front door when I shoved the baby at him and fled to go do something more blissful, like laundry. I heard Jason moving towards the swing, clearly still oblivious to what I'd been sending him increasingly non-sensical emails about all day, and I cackled maniacly, counted to three and I swear, the basement ceiling insulation shook with the force of that child's screams. I heard Jason say something like, "Whoa. Dude."

And he just never really went to sleep. He fussed and fretted all night, waking up every hour or so to nurse, and seemed to have more trouble than usual soothing himself back to sleep. I started making out a will in my head, because oh my God, I am going to die. I think I might want to die.

Tuesday morning it all started again, and that's when I saw a discarded Miracle Blanket on the floor and grabbed it. As I started to wrap him up I realized that...hmmm...his legs are getting a little long for the foot pouch, I wonder what would happen if I just swaddle his arms?

(I know y'all are on the edge of seats right now. I JUST KNOW IT.)

He smiled, sighed, and BAM. Sound asleep. For hours. Last night he slept straight through the night. He took another nap this morning. Awake does not equal screaming! He's smiling again! All because...oh Jesus, it's all too dumb and obvious to even sum up in a pithy little manner.

Dudes, I don't know what she's going on about. Like, ME? What?

Look at me. LOOK AT ME. Do I look like I could ever morph into a screaming hellmonster? I do not think so.



NOM NOM DELICIOUS FIREFLY SOUL NOM

***
In a totally unrelated note, Ezra is 12 weeks old today. Which means in another life, I'd be headed back to an office today. (Maybe. If I still even had a job, since OH HI STOCK MARKET. WHAT'S UP? NOT YOU!)
(Financial editor joke! I've got dozens of 'em!)

In another life, I would have read today's post on another blog and thanked my lucky stars that I was not stuck at home day after day with a screaming baby and a high-maintenance three-year-old, that there were not diapers and burp rags in my Coach bag and that I did not have to ever deal with so much poop and penis and snot or write about putting panty liners in my bra or pregnancy double chins.

And now I thank my lucky stars that I do.

Singsong

When Noah hears a song on the radio -- even one he's never heard before -- he still hums along, in near perfect pitch. And not the melody, either. He hums the harmony, complete with key changes and everything.

At night, though, he keeps things simple, and hums Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to himself -- the first lullaby I ever sang to him, because it was the only one I knew all the words to, and later because it was one of the only songs Noah would allow me and my amateurish voice to inflict on him. He sings it over and over again until he drops off to sleep.

Every night for a good two weeks now, I've heard his door open in the middle of the night, his padded pajama feet creeping down the hall as he silently crawls into our bed, spooning up next to Jason the way he's realized Ezra spoons with me, and then quietly -- oh so quietly, like he's afraid we'll send him back to his room if we hear him -- hums himself back to sleep.

Jason sighs, I groan and inch closer to the edge of the bed, we roll our eyes and mime complaints about sore necks and cramped legs -- we sleep in a double, for crissakes -- and mutter promises to get both of them in their own beds as soon as possible.

And then we wrap our arms around our babies and fall asleep to the sound of Noah's sweet and lovely voice.

Resolutionary

My official list of New Year's Resolutions, all carefully thought through and not at all made up off the top of my head as I type this:

30 Day Shred, three times a day in order to achieve day 30 shreddiness in time to wear sleeveless short cocktail dress to husband's holiday party in 10 days.

Fold laundry, put laundry away.

Put laundry away.

Cross resolutions off list in order to gain satisfying feeling of accomplishment.

Accept the truth that you just can't Googlestalk people effectively anymore without a Facebook account.

Stop Googlestalking high school boyfriend just to laugh at his photo.

Grow as a person, and stuff.

Call family members on the phone instead of assuming they've read the blog.

Get over the Thing with the phone.

Read at least one book that is not about vampires.

Mail birth announcements.

Write a fucking thank-you note or 20 already, Jesus Christ, WTF, you whore.

Go an entire year without peeing on a pregnancy test or even THINKING about peeing on a pregnancy test.

Spend year whipping my shirt open whenever a certain small portly gentleman demands it instead. 

Stop pinching Ezra's cheeks so much. Pinch his butt more.

Stop worrying about Noah so much. Chill, cool out, relax, embrace the positives, like how it's really easy to make people think he's actually saying "BUCKET." In public. At the top of his lungs. Over and over.

Write fewer blog posts while in the thick of worrying about Noah, and more during the many, many moments of pride and wonder at just how awesome and amazing that kid is.

Compost.